Taffiness Takes You Places

Oi oi clarts! I gorra do this yer blog in Taff Speak today fer a very speshal reason. You see, I've only gone and bin given a bluddy award, like innit? Itz the Strange Blog Award, which is like totally bangin', and woz given to me by the Watery Tart, like innit. Now, Tami gave me the award, like, and she gorrit from this clart called Steve (who I don't know at all, like, but thort it waz only decent to menshun him, like innit, speshally coz I iz using the award piccy, which I stole from Tami, who in turn stole it from this Steve clart, who I fink actually stole it from the clit wot started the whole shebang). Anywayz, parrently this award makez you eligable fer entry to a compatishun like (you can find the goss on it yer like, innit), and this compatishun is run by this clit called Cate Gardner, who iz the orfur ov this book ov short stories called Strange Men In Pinstripe Suits.

Anywayz, all you ave to do to enter this compatishun is, well, notalot really, ifyouknowzwhatimean.  The main fing iz that you ave to be strange. Well, thatz like, obvious, right, coz itz the Strange Blog Award.  Parrenty I qualified coz of me Taffing, but I'm not so shore. I mean, what's so odd about Taff Speak, it's like, perfectly normal - youknowzitmakezsense! Anyway, apart for the being strange fingy, there's a cupple of ovver fings you ave to do to enter this compatishun. Like, first ov all you ave to be given the Strange Blog Award - which is wicked like, coz one, itz a really bangin' award to get like, and two, you iz like half way to being entered into a compatishun already like, and you aint done nuffin yet! Anywayz, when you gets the award, like, you needs to like pass it alon to a few ovver strange clarts (or clits az the case may be like, innit - youknowzitmakezsense!), and let the clit called Cate know that you've done it like. Simple, easy peasy annallat.

Only the trubble iz, all ov the clarts and clits that I would ave passed itonto ave already ad it like (and the award too, parrently), so I iz gonna have to cheat alirrlebi, and just sort ov accept the award for now, and p'raps try and find sum ovver worvy clarts and clits atalater date like, innit? Itz a sad state of fairs like, that I dunt know alotov strange peeps. Well, actually I do, itz just that all ov them are so strange (and well wicked too, in the non-evil wicked way, ifyouknowzwhatimean) that they've bin reconized already. Obviously I needs to like widen my circle of clarts and clits, like innit. So anywayz, no compatishun entry for me at the moment, but thatz cool, coz I is more than chuffed at the Strange Blog Award anwayz.

Anywayz, thatsabouri fer now, partly becoz my power has gone like free times tonight (which is a right ducking nightmare) and I iz a lirrlebi scared that I'll lose the entire post, but mostly itz becoz my brain is more spongey than normal owing to the fact that itz now midnight and I've been awake since four o-ducking clock, so I can't fink of anyfink else to type like.

Fanks again to Tami, who gave me the award like, she's like the best clit evah!

Manic Mumbles. Or Mumbles About Being Manic. Or Something.

Manic-ness, that's what it is. Complete and utter manic-ness. For those of you without those pesky things we parents call 'ankle-biters', I'm talking about the summer holidays. Those almost-seven weeks of stress-inducing, hair-pulling, voice-going-because-we're-constantly-yelling-at-our-kids, school-free days. I can never understand why Britain keeps the overly-long summer break going. I mean, it's not as if we have lovely weather between the end of July and the beginning of September. Sure, we have a few odd days of sunshine here and there. but mostly it's just so-much-rain-we-can't-leave-the-house-without-an-emergency-boat-and-a-flare-gun (I seem to be having a hyphen day today, don't mind me). Unless you have a car (which I don't) and/or lots of money (which I most definitely don't), then you're basically screwed.

The kids are either bored or almost killing each other. That's when they're not avoiding being strangled by their mum. *shifty* I swear, if I hear 'Mum, can we go somewhere today, pleeeeeeease?' one more time I will definitely be up on a murder charge.

Then there's the other kids. In other words, my kitties. Since joining the household around a month ago, little kitty Angel has ruined my curtains, bullied the other kitty (*lights candle for Belle*), given me countless heart attacks when she decides to disappear for a few hours, only to turn up in the sock drawer, behind the freezer, in the (closed) crisps box, or the tumble dryer, and is probably costing me more to feed that the two of my (real) kids put together.

And then we have The Job. If the lottery machine is going to die, it will be on my shift. If the milk delivery is going to turn up with ten leaking bottles of milk which subsequently leave a series of puddles all over the floor AND cover the rest of the delivered stock in milky messiness, it will be on my shift. If the newspapers are delivered late causing a bunch of Angry Old Men to shake their fists at you and bend your ear about What A Sad State of Affairs It Is When You Can't Even Get A Paper At 6:01am, then it. Will. Be. On. My. Shift.

*screams*

On a happier note,  I am now fitting into a size twelve in the trouser department, the tax people have finally sorted out my tax credits (so that I actually have some money now, imagine that!), and I've found two people who are willing to babysit for me (I almost fainted with shock at that one - honestly, two people who are willing to watch over my monst- er, kids? Wow!), and because of this I now have a social life. Who'd have thunk, eh?

Now, if I could just get to blogging a bit more often, and finish editing that novel that's knocking around on my hard drive, then I could maybe call 2010 The Year of Yayness. Or maybe The-Year-That-Started-Off-Lamely-Then-Gradually-Improved-Around-Midway-Then-Really-Got-Better-By-The-End. But's that's not nearly so catchy....

Moxing my wards is fin!

It's boon a finny ald doy. I've boon rishing aroind loke a nonny fer the list twolve hoars, bit nithong sooms ti hive getton dine! I dribbled a lottle, and moneged ti funush the dribble thot wis soppised ti hove boon dine a faw doys agu. Elwoys funushong thongs list munute, thot's mu. *rells ayas*

Thon I cloaned the hoase, whoch in itsilf wis a bot of a noghtmure, whit wath the pissy cots gittong endor my fuut all the tome. I swair, yuo wint ti try cloanung the hoase woth a pear of pissy cots ronnung aboat, it's ni pocnoc!

I pisted my blig pist on my wrotor's blig - thaegh ti be fear, I'd wrotten it yosterdoy, so I dodn't actailly DE anythong tidoy. Stoll, it's a blig, roght?

Anywoy, I'm only pisting thos on thus blig tidoy becoise I hevant dine si fer a whule. I primose to pist semothong half docint seen, but on the moantome, I'm geong to sut bick and wendir whothir anyune woll andirstund anythong thot I hive typud, or if thay woll gevu op bifere thoy gut ti the und if thus pist.

Byu byu!