Smellmycheese's Blog

Posts Tagged ‘bagpuss

This weekend I came to the realisation that walking five minutes to and from work every day does not constitute proper ‘exercise’ and that sweating because your email’s down again, the internet has decided to have a little sleep or you’re faced with the fail whale (one for all you twitter lovers out there) for the 50th time in as many minutes, does not mean you’re doing a ‘work out’.

I came to this realisation because I attended the wedding of two old school friends – the ideal breeding ground for many a Bridget Jones-esque blog post on the joys of being two years off 30 and having NOTHING. [That's not true, I don't have nothing, I've got a Bagpuss hot water bottle cover that acts as a fairly good substitute for human affection on those cold, lonely nights.]

But those posts are for another time (something to look forward to, sure you’ll agree), back to the original ‘point’: I came to the realisation that I need to start moving my arse further than the front door, five minutes down the road to work and then back again (with the occasional added foray to the supermarket in-between the two) when I managed to break* both my calves during a spot of Kaylee dancing.


For those unaccustomed to this particular genre of dance, Kaylee is also spelt Ceilidh and is basically like a massive version of the Hokey Cokey, but with a load more dance moves thrown in and a man with a beard who talks you through the moves at the beginning of each dance only for everyone to instantly forget them and revert to running round in circles in pairs and lolloping into the middle of the room like disabled, geriatric cows, trying not to bump into one another.

By ‘everyone’, I mainly mean me. Also the man with the beard probably isn’t compulsory; a lady with or without a beard could do the job just as well, I’m sure. Facial hair and/or genital persuasion didn’t appear to be essential for the role.

Anyhoo… five minutes into the first of these dances, various nerves twinged and snapped (probably) in both my calves. Obviously I couldn’t stop dancing and go and sit down, thus admitting I’d strained my leg muscles because I never fucking use them. I’M 28 FOR GOD’S SAKE. So on I carried, like the trooper I am. At this stage, my mouth had decided to run out of saliva and my lips were stuck to my gums, so it was a pretty attractive package all round for the poor sod lumbered with me as his dancing partner (and here, we can read ‘ dancing’ as ‘limping, gummy, sweaty mess’).

As a result of which, for the past two days I’ve been walking as though I’ve shat myself.

And no one wants that.

Thus the moral of this tale is: you don’t have to be obese to be a sweaty, unfit mess, you just have to be lazy as hell.

*break/strain… whatever.

I’m supposed to be doing a workout DVD right now in order to get ‘beach fit’ for sunnier climes in about four weeks’ time. However, it seemed pointless. What with it definitely being the beginning of the end of the world and all.

Even if the Armageddon were not upon us (which it obviously is), chances are we won’t be able to fly anywhere any time soon anyway, thanks to some dust.

Which brings me seamlessly on to my first piece of iron-clad evidence for the impending apocalypse: volcanic ash.

Bit of a bummer really, but perhaps not enough evidence of our inevitable slide toward the end on its own. Coupled with the recent plague of greenfly that appears to have descended just this morning, however, and you can start to see why we’re definitely all going to perish.

This is Old Testament stuff, people: plagues, storms, other stuff that badly fits my ill-thought-out theory…

Such as the fact that the Tory overlords have seized power (of sorts) and we have a man with the cold, dead eyes of a killer running our finances.

The Chancellor of the Exchequer; he whose name we dare not speak.


(Cover his mouth with your hand: dead inside)


Proof, if further proof be needed, that the world’s going to shit and we’re all just bits of soiled toilet paper being swept down the shitter with it.  

Maybe it’s time to pick a religion, just in case.  I’m not keen on Islam; the virgins bit doesn’t really appeal. Christianity’s soo 11th century, and orange and red clash terribly, so that particular branch of Hinduism’s out for me.

Might give Kabbalah a go. You get a free bracelet with it. Or maybe Scientology - seems like a pretty reasonable one. And I’ll probably meet Madonna and Tom Cruise. Maybe they’ll adopt me!

Enjoy the last few days of civilisation everybody. I’m off to make the most of one of my last nights on earth-as-we-know-it, in the same way every red-blooded female should, by getting into bed with my Bagpuss hot water bottle and listening to Radio 4.


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