Floaters and Wasps don’t mix.

I hate wasps.  Come to think of it I’m not that great with all things that buzz
And I have ‘floaters’ in my eye – caused by age related ruddy changes.
The two do not mix.

Eye floaters are spots in your vision. They may look to you like black or gray specks, strings, or cobwebs that drift about when you move your eyes and appear to dart away when you try to look at them directly

Picture this.  I’m walking down Bell Street and in the corner of my eye suddenly see a black thing, assuming I have a wasp on my shoulder I start to flap a bit. I turn to the left, and turn to the right, I look up and down.  There is no wasp.  People are watching me. I continue my walk. I suck hard on my mint and I feel a ruddy fool.

But this does not end.  In the supermarket the black ‘thing’ appears again and I flap about like a flipping flapping flapper much to the amusement of my fellow shoppers. No I am not having a fit I say to a small podgy girl laughing at me.  Her Mother gives me evils, I am able to mouth Fuck Off as I have my mask on.  She does not see nor hear.

Here at home whilst typing it happens again, my scream is loud, the F word comes, I dribble a bit and nearly swallow my extra strong mint.  The children rush in to see me with a rolled up Henley Standard, my keyboard swimming in what was once my glass of water, and me, fighting imaginary wasps.

Since lockdown this has been the norm for me.

And so today whilst humming a song I was interrupted by Carolyn screaming from her bath.  Her instructions were to go collect the girls from Nettlebed.  To leave now. FFS I huffed as I swatted another imaginary buzzing thing and headed to the car.

The sun shone. The sky blue.  I opened my windows, turned on the music and sped through Henley.  The volume was high, and Leo ruddy Sayer came blaring through the speakers.  I quickly turned it down and put on something more to my liking, turned it up and hit the Fairmile to Nettlebed.

As Bix approached I felt good. With the window open and my hair blowing in the wind I sang along to Pappa Was a Rollin Stone as if in a Cinzano ad.

And then it happened, the black floater in my eye, trying to deceive me, making me think it was a wasp or hornet.  Not this time you fucking bastard, I know your game.  There aint nothing there but a floater. I have nothing to fear.

The sting hurt.  I yelled, spat out my extra strong mint, trickled, and noticed something drop into my crotch.  I yelled again.  You fucking bastard fucking wasp.  I pulled into Bix manor as I jumped out of my car screaming at the little bastard, still clutching my bits.  I managed to flick the wasp out of the car seat and watched as my arm started to change colour, my crotch began to itch.  I felt hot all over and it wasn’t the kind of hotness I wanted.

I collected the girls. Drove home. Ran into the house scratching urgently between my legs as if I had the worst girly yeast infection possible.  My arm and front bottom were on fire.  I had a rash down my arm.  The top of my legs reminded me of something I thought I had forgotten; it was so disgusting I had put it in the back of my mind.  Today it returned.  Her name was Helga. She was a large Lezza from Germany.  That is all I can say.

And so now as I sit, covered in cream, feeling a little sleepy due to overdosing on piriteze, I shall, as Celine would say, think twice and not assume those ruddy floaters are NOT fecking wasps.

I’m off to the opticians next week.

Isle of Wight – meeting Lord Miller (part 1)

It was raining. Cloudy. But there was a glimmer – we were off to collect Jolyon and Cath from Yarmouth, a mere 25 minute journey, and bring them back to Seaview for a fish lunch and plenty of chat and wine. Carolyn had many uses, her most used being the fact she is tee total and when I am a little giddy with alcohol consumption, she can drive.  Today she would drive Jolyon and Cath back to Yarmouth after our fish lunch.  A flutter of giddiness took me over.

I set the post code into my phone and grabbed a bottle of water.  The girls were excited. I was not. Carolyn’s driving was not to my liking. It was vomit inducing.  But I should not complain.  She tapped the post code into her phone and stuck it on the windscreen. I also tapped in the code to my own phone to ensure we were going in the right direction. And off we went.

10 minutes into the journey I was alarmed. My sat nav said we should turn left. Carolyn’s said straight on. What is this fuckery I hissed. Carolyn applied the brakes and with a look that could kill pulled into a side road. We agreed to follow her directions. I sat in silence. I had run out of mints and was sucking on a Halls Extra Strong Mentho-Lyptus sweet. My tongue was tingling. I liked it. For a brief moment I was back in Germany with a butch lezza called Helga.  And then I was back.

Rather than the sea route to Yarmouth, the road swung away from the coast and took us right into the armpit of the IOW. The roads became thinner, the bushes high, the people odd and the level of car sickness rose. After 15 minutes we were still nowhere near Yarmouth. Vivien and Ruby were now whimpering. I needed a snifter.  I turned up My Jamaican Guy and listened to Grace Jones until the girls announced they hated her.

40 minutes and there was a glimmer of hope on the horizon. Yes it was cloudy, it was raining, it was windy, I wanted to vomit, the girls were crying, and Carolyn was not talking to me.  But we were 6 miles from Yarmouth.  I sent a text to Jolyon and Cath announcing our arrival imminent.

Jolyon, my eccentric younger brother. Jolyon who has a title of Lord Miller. Jolyon who once shared a house in Spain with 25 feral cats. Jolyon who jested loudly on my arrival to our Spanish villa with new boyfriend that he had warts on his knob and could I go and purchase some Wart cream.  Jolyon who assumes the posture of a sergeant major, marches like Captain Mannering, drinks like Oliver Reed, cooks like Keith Floyd, smokes like a ruddy chimney and only dresses in Royal Blue.

We drove into Yarmouth and headed to the George Hotel. Jolyon likes the simple things in life, ie, not having to travel far. The Ferry terminal was literally attached to the George hotel, offering a mere 25ft walk from terminal to hotel bar.

I saw the smoke before I saw Jolyon. He marched in a semi-circle, looking a little flustered, and a tad hungover.

I needed to vacate the car before I vommed. I told Carolyn to pull over. I told her again. And then I shouted. I jumped out of the car and walked towards Jolyon and Cath greedily gulping  water and breathing deeply.  As the car sickness began to wear off  I went to kiss Jolyon  – he marched past me, blowing clouds of smoke in the air, to the boot of the car and announced we were to take his antiques back to Henley as they were too heavy for him to carry.  He handed the large plastic bags to me and sniggered as the weight dragged my arms down.  He sucked hard at his cigarette – his wheeze was crackly and loud.   I noticed he was attired from head to toe in royal blue Lazy Jacks sailing clothes, even down to a rather splendid pair of deck shoes. My snigger caused a bogey to drop.  I quickly wiped in the hope nobody saw. He marched over to the girls and bent down to kiss them. The subtle waft of stale cigarette and fresh wine hit my nostrils. The girls pulled away, Uncle Jolyon was smelly and his whiskers scratched their skin.

We all piled into the car to head back to Seaview, a journey I was not looking forward to.  We drove around Yarmouth for 10 minutes, and then parked. We had decided not to drive back to Seaview but instead to dine at Jolyon’s favourite establishment. A reservation was made and we made our merry way to Salty’s.

Jolyon marched ahead, fag in hand, telling us how he had spent most of yesterday ‘ferry spotting’ from the bar in the garden of his hotel.  And that we will also partake in ferry spotting this afternoon. What ruddy joy I hissed.  The girls were still wiping away the smell of wine and fags from their faces as we strolled into the rustic restaurant.

There was a strong fish stench as we walked in. I started to tell my lesbian brothel joke but Carolyn told me no. Our table was ready. Jolyon ordered the wine. I ordered the girls drinks. Cath went to the balcony for a fag. Jolyon went out for a fag. And then we began.

 

 

 

Isle of Wight – day 3

Wednesday 26^th July – am

I was awoken by Vivien at 6am. I felt hot; my skin was red, and my forehead on fire. My left eye stuck shut, so I dipped my fingers in to my water and flicked the cool liquid onto my eyelid. I lay for a second wondering why we age. Why do we have this menopause? Why does my eye never open, what is the meaning of life and why the ruddy fuck is Vivien on a skateboard at 6am.

She whizzed into the bedroom and quickly scuttled out as I sat up and belted out a deep Noooooo from the depth of my stomach.  Carolyn shot up from her doze and looked left and right in a speedy movement I had not seen since Pans People danced on TOTP. Alas there was no sexy look upon her face – she was angry.  I pretended I was dozy and slowly lay my head upon the pillow and closed my eyes.  I heard her swear a little as she headed to the kitchen.  I coughed and asked in my ever so nice voice if she would make me a cup of hot water and lemon. She told me to bugger off.

I could hear the rustling of things in the kitchen and the faint noise coming from the sitting room TV.  I lay back and slipped into my mindfulness state.  Breathing deeply through my nose and out through my mouth. I tried to mentally ignore the noises from the kitchen, and instead focussed on my breathing. Boredom overtook me, I felt a bit light headed, giddy and panicky. I tried to control my breathing, visualising how our day would be today, sun, sea, snifter with Jolyon + Cath, I grinned a little until Vivien came whizzing up the corridor and into the bedroom  again crashing into the bedside table and spilling my water.  My one good eye opened wide as the left eye stung like fuck.  It was time to get up.

The girls were eating breakfast; their shoulders and faces were bright red after a day in the sun. We had not expected it to be so hot. Carolyn’s face was shiny red with little white circles where her glasses had sat. I ran into the bathroom and stared at my own face.  It was florid and patchy. My face resembled a baboon’s ass.

We decided to spend the day chillaxing. A word I hate but I thought I would throw it in.  The sky was grey. It was raining. The forecast for the week was no different.  To make matters worse I had only packed summer stuff.

I smothered the girls with more Hemp body cream as they watched some animated rubbish and thought about lunch today.  My eccentric brother Jolyon (Lord Miller to his family) and his g/f Cath were in Yarmouth for a few days.  The plan was to go collect them and bring them back to Seaview as we had booked a table at a rather nice restaurant.

We were all excited to go and see them.  The journey was no more than 25 minutes.

What could possibly go wrong?

 

Isle of Wight – shopping

 

Monday 24^th July

Is it still only Monday I thought as we headed straight to the supermarket. The trip arduous. The roads thin, bendy, and vomit enducing. I should have driven myself as Carolyn took a corner like a blind man racing. I hung onto the rail above my head, silently spitting venom. The girls swayed from left to right, Ruby felt sick. Vivien just squeaked. We were all hungry and tired. The girls were demanding music, so I put on an old Bob Dylan number and got lost in Maggie’s Farm until Carolyn rudely swapped Bob for Bruno Mars. I was outruddynumbered. I sat back, closed my eyes, and reminisced the good old days when I had no responsibilities. The emergency stop shook me to the core, my body lurched forward and the water I was sipping travelled up my nose as I snorted in anger, and into my eyes. Carolyn was swearing at the woman in front and I was swearing just because I could.  We had arrived at the supermarket.

My gusset was damp. The girls were red faced and crying with hunger and tiredness. Carolyn just hungry.  I walked in, ordered Carolyn to take the trolley and I would grab the food. The girls shivered and turned blue down the refridgated isle. People stared. I stared back. The whole ruddy experience was a nightmare. I broke away and found myself in the wine isle where I caressed a bottle of Margaux and dribbled at the Bollinger.  Alas we had a budget, so I came away with poor man’s champagne and a bottle of Rose.  Oh how the good old days have gone.

The house was fabulous, as always. Plenty of space, and spitting distance to the beach. The sun was out and the sky blue. Let’s hit it I said and off we went.  Surely it must be time for a snifter?

Isle of Wight 2017 – a short break

Monday 24th July

Our lovely friends had offered us their holiday home for a week in the IOW.  We love Seaview and took up their kind offer without hesitation.  After what seems a long term for the kids a whole week with no work, no school drop off and pick up, no council meetings was just what we needed. The kids were beside themselves  – their excitement was becoming too much for me, I had to sit down and stroke Misty my faithful yet crusty cat. Her purr was deep and then it stopped. She looked at me in a way that sent shivers down my spine. I fear she knew we were going away, and she was fucked about it. I continued stroking, sucking at my extra strong mint and fingering her crustations that had gathered around her ear.

The hallway was packed. 2 suitcases, bags of food, bags of crap that the kids wanted to take. How the fuck is it possible that we will need all this ‘stuff’ for one week in England. I had nevertheless packed very conservatively. I had it on good authority the weather was to be good for the entire week; I had therefore packed my summer garments, and a cardi just in case.

Misty stared at me from the bedroom window as we packed the Landy. I felt a little sad for a second and then pulled myself together.  The furry fucker would be fine, my old mate Lou Lou was in charge of my pussy whilst I was away.

As Carolyn sat in the car, I could see her anger building as I was doing the last minute check of the house, my OCD kicking in once again. I grabbed my extra strong mints, my phone and bag and jumped into the car.  At last we were off.

The journey was horrid. Carolyn’s stop start driving made me feel quite sick. I sat in silence humming Jerusalem and praying our arrival imminent. Hurrah! We’ve arrived.

I watched the family in the car next door stuffing their florid faces with cheese sarnies and crisps as a slither of dribble took a journey down my newly hairy chin. Clearly a menopausal development. I wipe quickly, aware they have noticed me staring. I suck hard on my extra strong mint and hope to myself that the family to my left, right and in front are not staying anywhere near us. They are not my sort.

A sudden jolt and we’re boarding the ferry. Goodbye. For now.

 

 

Only 2 sleeps to go

Industrial toe nail clippers are ready.  Veet hair removal cream stands staring at me, ready to attack the forest of doom and those little crevices that is home to the nest of curliness.  Misty my faithful yet crusty cat senses we are going away.  Her deep stench morning purr has been accompanied by a 360 degree turn unto which she places her ass on my torso and rubs.  I feel abused and brush her off roughly.  Carolyn snores rhythmically, deeply, and wetly.  – I have no witness.

On Tuesday she (Misty) vomits on my duvet, on my pillow and on the carpet.

On Wednesday the girls are over excited, each day they ask the same question. How many sleeps to go.  I tell them. They don’t fecking understand, so they ask again, and again.  For Fucks Sake – we go on ruddy Sunday.  Today it is ruddy Wednesday. Hold out your ruddy fingers and ruddy count.  (I say this coldly in my head).

On Thursday evening I discover the lice.  Crawling in their hair. The screams could be heard in Reading as I run the metal lice comb through their red locks trying to comb out the little feckers.  Glass in one hand, comb in the other, I ran the metal combs down every strand. Sweat pouring down my cheeks, Misty rubbing her ass along my ankles, and the girls sobbing.

At around 9pm I start to itch. Holy Fuck, I have an appointment with Marc Antoni hairdressers at 09.30am on Friday – surely not?

At 10pm I was pouring the left over lice shampoo into my hair. It stunk.  I cursed the metal comb and groaned as I pulled it through my thick hair, in the hope it would reveal dead lice.  It revealed hair, lots of it.  I combed and combed until my scalp hurt. Please God don’t let me have lice.

I turned in at 11pm. Misty my faithful yet crusty cat was already curled up next to Carolyn’s head. I purposely jumped in and slammed my head on my pillow – Misty flew up and meowed angrily. Carolyn grunted and then nothing.

I could feel a pointy finger on my head at 6am, followed by the sound of slurping and children’s television. Hurrah – my day has fecking started! My head hurt, my hair stunk, and my stomach felt odd. Misty trotted in and jumped on the bed, with a glint in her eye she jumped onto my shoulder and meow purred into my face. The smell of Gourmet Duck in Jelly hit my nostrils like a hammer and I retched as I pushed her away.

As I sat in Marc Antoni my stomach was not good.  It was one of those, do I need a number two or a good fart moment.  I did not risk either.  My head still hurt and my scalp itched.  Please Please don’t let ‘skinny Nikki with the dodgy eyebrows’ find lice. My head thumped, as did my bottom,.

The coffee sent my stomach into spasms and as I had a long wait for my colour I asked where the toilets were. They’ve had work done to the salon and I assumed they had new toilets built.  Alas not, it was the same small windowless toilet situated smack bang in the middle of the ruddy salon.

As we call it in our family, I POP POPPED for England. No window. No matchsticks. No air freshener. I jumped from leg to leg – what to do, how I can camouflage this most disgusting smell.  Somebody tried the door and I gasped. I did what I’ve not one since I was a kid in school – I began to waft the smell away – I looked like Kate Bush dancing to Wuthering ruddy Heights.  In desperation I covered my hands in liquid soap and then put on the hand dryer in the hope the dryer would waft the smell of soap around this small room.  I legged it. Head held down. Florid. To my seat and did not look up until I was done.

Job done. And no nits (to my knowledge).

So we leave on Sunday – our annual trip to sunny Spain where I sip my cool beer and swim in the pool of piss.  The POP as I call it is the children’s pool – where I have to stand idly and make small talk to Mothers  about their kids.   I hate the Pool of Piss, I have no time for  small talk, and I rarely like other children apart from those I know.  And to top it all, I hate having to see my own belly protruding over my antique bikini bottom.   But on the bright side, the POP is very close to the beach bar, when one can get a chilled beer.

Only 2 sleeps to go

Adios.

 

Olive oil ears

You have a build up of hard wax in your ears said the nurse at the surgery. You need an irrigation! To prepare myself for this intrusion I purchased a dropper as I was informed by the rather florid nurse with the broken capillaries in her cheek that I was to soften the wax by dropping olive oil into my ears night and day for a week before my irrigation. Last night I carefully poured oil into my dropper. And onto the floor. Misty my faithful yet crusty cat appeared from nowhere and sniffed the oil. She had a cobweb on her ass and I could smell something odd. I ignored her and took my dropper and instruction sheet upstairs. I placed a towel over my pillow and asked Carolyn to carefully drop the oil into my left ear. I felt it trickle down my cheek as my hearing left me and was replaced by a squelchy muffled feeling. Misty shoved her wet nose into my ear and I could just hear the purr and sniff from her foul smelling breath! I had to lie on my side for ten ruddy minutes! I lay motionless. Staring at carolyn reading. Wondering what drink to have on Sunday when my dry January ends. I could feel misty behind my head. I could still smell something odd. I farted. I turned around and Carolyn dropped the oil into my other ear. I felt the oil enter my hole and then my hearing became fuzzy. Again I lay motionless. Watching the wall. Misty tried to sniff my ear again. I slowly lifted my arm and swiped her away. I could feel oil on my cheek. I hate this!!

This morning I have awoken to find oil in my hair. I am deaf in one ear. My head is pounding. I stink of extra ruddy Virgin olive oil. Misty my faithful yet crusty cat left me a small frozen turd that had stuck to her tail last night. It was found near to my pillow.

One ruddy week of this! Nooooooooooooo!!!

How Ruddy Dare You.

As misty my faithful yet crusty cat purrs deeply upon my thigh, her nose dribble gently lengthens until it finally falls onto my clean duvet like a raindrop of snot! Slippery and wet I clean her mess and sip my tea. My girls are overcome with excitement. They sing jingle bells loudly. Today we are off to the Oxford Wildlife Park. We shall spend the day outside in the cold looking at animals. I’m beside myself with delight. Ofcourse I don’t want to be in a warm pub, drinking wine with friends. How ruddy dare you for suggesting such a thing. How ruddy dare you. Goodbye.

That Shrew Smells like Pooh!

The stench in my bedroom had gradually worsened. I flicked a pair of Carolyn’s socks onto the bed, they landed on misty my faithful yet crusty cat. She did not move. The socks were safe. The girls walked in for their story and with cupped hands over their florid faces, they ran out in tears. Our bedroom stunk. With windows wide open I pulled open drawers, slid under the bed and checked our panty drawer. Still no clue. On all fours with my nostril to the carpet I covered every inch of the floor, sniffing nuggets of shit from Misty and sneezing so loudly my lady trickle nearly became a tsunami. And then as I neared Carolyn’s side of the bed the stench heightened. With quivering nostrils and a damp gusset I moved to her pillow and to her bed side cabinet. I pulled it out and to my surprise found a dead shrew! As I turned slowly towards Misty mouthing obscenities she cantered out of our room and downstairs. Ruddy cat.

On the Buses – the 800 to be precise

I had no car today. And so at 4.10pm I decided to close shop and hitch a ride on a bus. I’ve not been on a bus for some time now and felt an urge of excitement in my lower regions as I headed towards a bus stop. According to my in depth research, to reach Henley upon Thames one should hail a bus to Friar Street where one dismounts and awaits the number 800 to High Wycombe, via Henley upon Thames. What fun this would be I chuckled as I headed to the bus stop. How wrong was I?

The bus stop was outside the Royal Berkshire hospital off London Road. I approached with caution as I noticed a couple of elderly men with sticks arguing with each other. Further down the pavement a young girl with a brace of kids, a bun perched on her head, tattoos across her cleavage and a stud so big in her tongue she sounded deaf, was screaming obscenities at her children. A woman in her dressing gown and a mobile drip was lighting a fag. An Indian man sat in the bus stop. He had unfortunate long goofy teeth and reminded me of a bottle opener. Whilst he talked he dribbled. It was fascinating to watch but I realised it was not Victorian times, and I was not in an asylum. I sat down and played solitaire waiting for my bus. Moments later the bus arrived. I paid my £1.20 and made my way to a seat by the window.

I walked to my seat and could feel a bus full of beady eyes upon me. I sucked my extra strong mint and sat down. As I breathed in, relieved I was on the bus, the stench of body odour hit me like a sledge hammer. I could not work out where it came from but it was strong, it was putrid, and it was making its way up my nostrils. I placed my hand over my nose but the smell infiltrated my nostrils and before long I felt the urge to vomit on the head of the woman seated in front of me. I found her hair rather upsetting. But that aside I managed to contain my vomit and people watch. My people watching was abruptly stopped when a woman sat beside me and opened a packet of cheese and onion crisps. I looked at her for a second and we caught each other’s eye. I smiled sickly. As did she. I could see the damp crisps stuck to the front of her teeth and the subtle smell of onions on her breath and felt the urge to throw again. I turned away quickly and stared out of the window.

The bus stops were lined up near the back of M&S and there was hundreds of them. I had no idea which bus stop was mine, and the buses that did stop all went to ruddy Calcot! Ruddy Calcot, where the feck is ruddy Calcot? There was no number 800 to be seen. I was told I should walk to the Apex Plaza which is where the 800 bus stops. I power walked around the corner and as I tried to find my phone in my deep bag I tripped and landed on my hands and knees. Fuck I hissed. I did an Exorcist 360 of the head, made sure nobody saw me fall, wiped myself down and continued my journey.

I found the bus stop outside the Plaza. I sat upon a wall away from the bus stop and prayed for a number 800 to take me home. Or for somebody I may know to drive past and see me, and stop, and take me home. Alas none of the above happened. I thought about grabbing a taxi, but decided to give it another few minutes. Just in case the bus arrived.
Opposite where I sat was the Corn Exchange. Two drunken men were seated outside staring at us waiting for our buses and shouting abuse. I tried not to stare and instead thought about my recent trip to Athens with my friends Lou, Sue and Rachel. I was brought back to reality when a young man arrived and stood to my right. I was just thinking to myself how nice he looked in his suit when he started to make the most disgusting gurgling noises as he tried to clear his throat. He cared not for me perched beside him on the wall but continued to gurgle and spit green phlegm onto the pavement in front of me. I felt a gag but held it back. Bus after ruddy fecking bus stopped and moved on. Not one number 800 bus to be seen. By now it was gone 5.20 and I was seriously pissed off. A non-English woman had appeared to my left and kept catching my eye and grinning at me. A bus would stop and go and she would still be standing there, looking at me. I was beginning to feel a little worried when all of a sudden I saw the bus – on the other side of the ruddy road! I cursed and quickly grabbed my bag and legged it over the road. But I was too late, the bus moved on. The two drunken men sitting outside of the Corn Exchange were laughing. And the strange woman across the road was waving at me. I felt the urge to deck her. I decided this was no adventure, I was going to grab a taxi. But then the bus pulled up on the other side of the road, where I had been waiting! I sprinted over the road, passed the weirdo woman and onto the bus. Full of excitement a lady dribble popped out and caught me by surprise.

I had no change. I had no idea how much the journey would cost and I had no idea the driver was deaf and dumb. But he was. I tapped on his window and said I wanted a single to Henley on Thames. He said something back that I could not decipher. I said again I would like a single ticket to HENLEY ON THAMES. He answered something I could not decipher. I started to ask again but he pointed to a price and I understood this to be £4.70. I paid and sat as close to the door as possible.

I felt her eyes upon me as I walked to my seat. She had short red hair and bulbous eyes that did not move from me. The bus started to move and still she stared at me. Clearly she was a nutter. And she was on my ruddy bus. This was not a good start to my journey. I noticed whenever somebody got on or off the bus she would say hello or goodbye. But would then return to stare at me in a very sinister way. I slowed pulled out my packet of mints and placed one in my mouth. I could not outstare her so instead started to play candy crush.

The bus pulled out and I had hoped for a quick sprint down the Henley Road and then home. But no, it turned towards Caversham and stopped every 5 minutes. That woman was still looking at me and the stop start motion of the bus was beginning to make me queasy again. It reminded me a little of Carolyn’s driving. As the bus drove through Caversham and past the Standard Tandoori I stared out of my window and was amazed to see me old mate Sarah Caffrey in a car just driving out of her road. I slapped my hand on the window of the bus hoping she would see me and mouthed GET ME OFF!! But she did not see me. I thought about jumping off at the next stop in the hope she would be behind us and she could drive me home, but I didn’t risk it. I continued candy crush. The nutter had moved her gaze elsewhere and I began to relax a little. Near Binfield Heath she got off. As she walked passed my window I gave her my most horrid glare and then urged the driver to legit!

A short haired man in a track suit and stinking of Joop sat next door to me. My nostrils moved as I tried not to sneeze. I held it in, but then suddenly the sneeze appeared and I lost my mint onto the floor. The man next to me grinned as I kicked the mint under the seat in front of me. I returned to my phone and ignored him.

This journey was taking forever. We eventually drove through Shiplake and finally the Reading Road. As we approached the Tesco roundabout I heard a little buzzer and then a sign to say the bus was stopping. And the bus did stop. I stood up and asked the driver if the bus stopped further along the reading road. He grunted in a deaf kind of way. I sat again and an old man asked me if he should press the buzzer. Having no idea what he was talking about I said yes. The bus travelled another 100 yards and then stopped. All eyes were upon me. I had no choice but to get off the bus even though it was a good walk back to my house. I thanked the driver. And the old man. I disembarked.

It was 6.15pm. I had been on buses for over 2 hours. I’d eaten a whole packet of extra strong mints. My head ached and I the smell of cheese and onion was embedded in my nostrils. I tried hard not to grab my front bottom as the urge to pee my pants was strong.
At 6.28 I put the key in the keyhole. Misty my faithful yet crusty cat came to greet me. With her tail in the air she rubbed her bottom along my ankles and purred loudly. I kicked her off and found the girls in the kitchen. They were high on chocolate and dancing on chairs. I fell onto the sofa and thanked the almighty I had made it home. In one piece.

As I sipped my claret I relayed my traumatic journey home to Carolyn. She scoffed at my dilemma and suggested I was a ponce. Misty once again found me and jumped onto my belly. My stroking her helped me to unwind a little and before long I was on my second glass having forgotten my journey.

After an evening of stroking my pussy and drinking wine I decided to hit the deck. I was shattered. I was traumatised. I felt violated and a little cruel about giggling at the Indian bottle opener. I felt the need to sneeze and itched my nostril. It was then I realised I had cat shit on my hands.

Misty you little fucker!!