Just 'ouch' is all I can say.

[Firstly, I apologise.  I typed this up on Microsoft Word a few days ago whilst I was internetless, and a few things have changed since then, but try to keep up]

Well finally, I am now connected to the internet.  All I need now is a working oven and some lights and I’ll be well away to making my new house acceptable . . . inviting almost.

In my absence from the virtual world which I like to absorb myself in, I’ve been spending a great deal of time with m’dear Melissa . . . . not entirely sure why, as I get non-stop abuse hurled at both me and my face.  As yet, she hasn’t twigged that I’m particularly sensitive about my distinct lack of facial hair, but t’will only be a matter of time until I am found hanging by one of my not functioning light-fittings as I could no longer take her brutish bantering.

But rest assured folks, I know the truth.

Edited: March 1^st – Awkward! Turns out I didn’t know the truth after all.  Oh well, I suppose it’s not the first time I’ve been wrong . . . in fact, ignore that; yes it is!  Yep, mine and Melissa’s relationship has unfortunately ended on 29th February.  Give her credit though, she lasted a full 37 days before she realised that I’m distinctly unlikeable in pretty much every sense, but it was 37 of the happiest days I can remember.  So alas, there will be no more of this type of shenanigans . . .

Whilst on the subject, it is no exaggeration to say that Melissa is perhaps the most muscle-bound individual I know.  Oh yeah, don’t be fooled by the sweet voice and the cute smile, she is a beast.  Giving her a cuddle is like . . . is like . . . y’know when you have two strong magnets and you turn them so the negative ends are facing each other, and no matter how much you force them together there is a ridiculous amount of resistance, well that is pretty much like giving Melissa a cuddle.

As such, I have taken the drastic step of giving up cheese for Lent, for I feel most bulbous when compared to her.  Now those who know me well will be wondering just what it is I now eat, as a life without cheese is a very grey place.  After 8 days of Lent, I have made a precarious alliance with oranges, the very same fruit that tormented me throughout my youth-dom (firstly, trying to peel an orange with no fingernails is quite a challenge, and then once inside all the acid would scorch my eczema-ridden hands . . . t’was a grim time . . . especially as I was also ridiculously fat and even more ridiculously ugly; see the  picture below of thirteen year-old Michael)

I . . . I can't even defend myself . . . or my face . . . or why my glasses are that wonky.

The most noticeable plusses so far are that I no longer feel as constantly tired (even though that baby next door does not help proceedings; I’m fairly certain it isn’t normal that you can hear a baby cough through the wall of next-doors terrace house) and that the obscure dreams I am constantly plagued with don’t seem quite as frequent.  When I first moved, I had four consecutive terrifying dreams, and by far the most hideous was the one of dreaming of happily cuddling up to Tim . . . which is actually a lot less disconcerting than the time I woke up next to him to find him naked and thinly wrapped in my favourite blanket.

 I have been consoled that said blanket has been vigorously washed and is now safe for use.

Along with the changes to my food intake, it is with a heavy heart that I have bid a reluctant farewell to my vegetarian safety blanket, and ventured into the world of eating meat under Melissa’s mentoring.  This change came about due to an unfortunate episode where I committed the ultimate of rookie mistakes and bought cans of baked beans without a ring-pull, and so I donned my coat and off to Wilkinson’s I ventured, only to have my can-opening adventure furtively quashed by me suddenly going hotter than a solar flare amongst the home D.I.Y section, and waking up ten minutes later in the back of an ambulance with an angrily buzzing BlackBerry and a flock of people querying whether I knew what day it was. 

 I did. It was a Tuesday.

Apparently I had had some form of fit or seizure amongst the D.I.Y equipment, and turned completely blue, and whilst the paramedics insist that it is due to an obscenely low blood pressure and blood sugar levels, I wholeheartedly blame it on being in close proximity to an aisle dedicated to a macho pursuit.  So whilst the prospect of suddenly blacking out in the bath or walking down the stairs can be considered a negative point of me living alone nowhere near anyone I know, the positives of being foreveralone.jpeg is that I am immune to judgement of others when I gaily vacuum and mop in a vest and undercrackers loudly listening to Blondie.

Oh look, even Picard is on my side for a change.

. . . maybe not.

As much as I am enjoying chicken, it is no cheese . . . . I mean there is only one thing in this world that is better than cheese, and that is Jesus, and the only thing that could be better than both of them is if they somehow reproduced (a fictional character and some mouldy milk, t’would be a beautiful baby) and named it ‘Cheesus’.

And so, I have managed to ramble my way onto the main stocking-filler of this blog, which is my first - and imaginably . . . hopefully - encounter with Judaism (it’s a ropey link, I know), which just so happened to be the first and last time I shall be so easily influenced by my peers.  T’was a few years ago now (it is a relief that most of my buffoonery happened some years ago) and . . .

December, 2007.  I was a politically-charged nineteen year-old university student sat idly in my lecture, when the lecturer in question began to pair his students off into research groups which would later give a presentation.  I was paired off with Kayleigh, a glamorous blonde American exchange student who I had never spoken to, or had the inclination to do so.  Our topic was . . . well, something irrelevant, but between us we concocted a plan that I would go and find the books we would need in the library while she heads home to tidy up and introduce me to a 'cup-o-pasta', and then I would go ‘round and we’d share pasta of questionable quality over library books and have as much a historical discussion one can have with a glamorous blonde American girl. 

However, with it being a December late evening, I had donned my dark brown, skin-tight leather gloves.  I had seen a similar pair worn by my good friend Richard whilst he was driving just a few days before, and I innocently enquired whether they were his driving gloves.  “No,” he replied, “these are my Jew-throttling gloves.”

I’ll save that quip up.

I arrived at her house in my dark coat and skin-tight brown leather gloves with a bag-full of leather books, she let me in with an all-too-perfect American smile and a breeze rippled her golden ringlets.  I stepped inside and was merrily untying my shoe-laces, and once I stood back up I could she was eying me.  No, not me, my attire.  A particular part of my attire, no less.  Yep, t’was the skin-tight brown leather gloves that had fixated her attention.

 “Are those your driving gloves?” she chimed delightfully.

“No, these are my Jew-throttling gloves,” I retorted.

The slight ripple of controversial laughter I was hoping for did not come.  Only a long silence and a blank stare greeted my plagiarised jest.  Finally, she uttered two words which will haunt me for the rest of my days.

 “I’m Jewish.”