Proof that women are definitely funny

I see what happens. Yes, I thought as much. A blog is the same sort of thing as a yogurt maker or a Remington Fuzzaway; you get all excited about it for a while and write frenziedly for a few days but then your brain gets all caught up with buying train tickets, thinking about mayonnaise and whether to hoover the hairs off the sofa or just wear clothes the same colour as the cat, and you forget all about blogging. Your blog ends up in the dusty bit between your chest of drawers and your bed, or left unused in a kitchen cupboard with a bit of food residue welded to it.

Either that or you have a crisis of confidence after watching Grayson Perry’s analysis of middle class taste and realise that you are just as boring as everyone else in the entire world so why should anyone want to read anything you have to say anyway? You may just as well post pictures of otters and cats with annoyingly spelled words added to spoil the cute.

So I need a kind of testcard thing to use while I am thinking about domestic appliances and filling in forms and not doing blogging. Remember the testcard? It was a picture of a wholesome girl with Alice in Wonderland hair grasping a piece of chalk in a decisive sort of way and playing noughts and crosses with a spooky toy. At least that’s how I remember it. She used to appear in all her menacing innocence on the TV at night and her purpose seems to have been to prove your TV wasn’t broken when you turned it on and there weren’t any programmes. I need one of those. Some sort of testcard thing to prove your Internet isn’t broken when I haven’t posted any blogs.

Instead of a picture, I think I might just post conversations that have amused me in real life or on Facebook. Testcard banter. Yes. I will. Here’s one that happened a while back. I liked it:

T to H: Who is Eva Mendes?

L:  Was she in Dad’s army, or is that the one that did the thing. The thing with the other one?

H: The one that used to be married to that woman that owned the hairdressers, y’know, the one that was married to thingy’s brother down the road. That one.

L: The one that ran off with the sailor, or the one with the prosthetic head?

T: The one with the prosthetic head, I think. And the gran with the doughnut shop.

H: The one with the limp. And the Labrador.

L: Yeah her. I snogged her once.

L: Before she had the scooter.

H: She used to do the Avon.

T: I heard she died. Of the aids.

L: I heard she had a fancy man in Haverfordwest, but that he won £250 on the lottery and took up with a cult.

T: I heard her sister used to pick bilberries and ram them down her cleavage .

H: She used to wash her hair with fairy liquid.

H: My gran used to call the Avon lady ‘Titsolina Bumsqueek’.

L: She used to water down her orange juice when visitors came.

L:  There isn’t a like comment big enough to say “I want to marry you”.

T: You can’t marry people because of their grans.

L: On the contrary, if they have rich and solvent grans who might die intestate, you most definitely can.

T: They might die of intestate cancer.

L: My gran died of plague and of watching the horse racing.

T: My gran died of deciding England is shit because it has no snow. And weaving.

H: The orange juice wasn’t her, it was her mother. Don’t get me started on her mother.

L: Her mother had very cheap knickers. I saw her emptying a machine at the laundry once.

L: You know, her mother, that lived in the flat near that other flat?

H: My gran died of sellotaping her toes together to fit in her sandles. And having buttery hands.

L: I had a hamster that died of too much giggling.

T: I had a wasp that died of disappointment.

L: I had a disappointment that died when I discovered Youtube videos of 1970s children’s TV.

H: I had a turnip that died of anxiety.

L: I had a bath that emptied all of its own accord.

T: I had a neighbour who leaked sap.

H: I had a shelf that hated me.

L: I once wrote a poem that contained an allegory about J Edgar Hoover going vegan.

L: I had a sock that sighed.

T: I knew a woman who kept her hair in a box.

H: I watched a film once. It was OK.

L: I once cycled somewhere I didn’t need to go and had a sit down.

T: I once stroked a weeping hippopotamus.

H: My great uncle invented drinks.

L: I once consoled an elf whose political career had ended in infamy.

T: Before I was born my mum participated in a minor revolution in Warwick.

H: I have a bag for sale: £8.

L: I had a breadmaker that went feral.

T: The man next door collects slug halves.

L: I bought a gourd that looked exactly like a career.

T: My aunt was a wart charmer who believed tambourines were the percussion instrument of the devil.

L: My last dream was televised.

T: Twelve people came in my room last night and carried off my cotton buds one by one.

L: My epitaph will be the face of a bemused child.

H: I once broke a fall by (accidentally) placing my hand on Cilla Black’s tit.

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About throbbingsofnoontide

Bewildered human. Female. Looking for the next entertaining thing. I write a blog to share the bewilderment. It's here: https://throbbingsofnoontide.wordpress.com/
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