Oh my friggin’ God, it’s still January!

How the fuck can it still be January?

Despite still having cupboards full of Christmas biscuits, panettone and chocolate, Christmas feels like a hundred years ago.

(I feel I should apologise for still having Christmas chocolate in the house, I know I’ve let you all down. I’ve let myself down. I will do better. For the greater good, I will keep ploughing through it.)

How can it still be January?

Have we all entered into some weird time/ space continuum thingy? Is it a conspiracy theory to trap us into believing we can still stick to those ridiculous New Year resolutions we didn’t make?

Hurry up February so we can kick back, still embracing our comfies, and with Valentines’ looming, (more chocolate,) we can look forward to the spring.

It doesn’t help that weather’s been shite. Days and days of rain, soaked through to my undies, even with a waterproof. Then all of a sudden, layered up like Michelin Woman, unable to bend my arms, the weather changes to unseasonable warm and I end up soaked to the skin, sweating like a pig.

(There is no dignity in this blog, I will do anything for the cheap laughs. Pay me in Chocolate and there isn’t much I won’t reveal.)

Where was I? Oh yeah, mochyn bach!

What else can I moan about?

Let me see.

There’s people who think it’s ok to comment on and correct my spelling on social media.

What’s that about?

It’s well, documented, that, I don’t, know what, to, do, with, a, comma. Or how to spell it!

As a dyslexic writer this blog goes through at least three bits of software before it sees the light of day – don’t get me started on the dilemma of who to believe when they don’t all agree!

But I can’t be arsed to spellcheck my social media, even with the little shame-spiral that comes with someone’s laughing comments that they, ‘think what I really mean is…’

Whatever!

You can understand it enough to know what it says.  Scroll on sister, this is not a crime scene, no grammar police required.

Oof, I’m getting it all off my chest now.

How about fucking cyclists on the path who expect a woman in a wheelchair, soaked to the skin, mind, looking like her Puffa jacket is puffed with marshmallows, a mad dog, wet beside her wheels, expecting said woman to stop and get out of the way so they can get past.

Er, Fuck off!

I’ve taken to playing chicken with them. Steely-eyed, or I would be if my hat wasn’t dripping into my face, I refuse to neither stop nor budge.

And it’s always bloody middle-aged men.

I don’t mind sharing the path, especially if the path is wide enough, but if it’s too narrow then jog on and get off the path.

The same goes for packs of bloody runners, traipsing past, forcing me to stop because they need to run side by side. And don’t even get me started on Park Run!

And it’s not like I begrudge them the space. I avoid the park on a Saturday morning so men in way too much Lycra can stretch and puff and pant. When the cycling is in town, I stay home.

But on a Wednesday afternoon, when it’s pissing down with rain, you can ride your damn bike in the cycle lane and have some bloody manners.

And another thing while we’re at it – Pick up your damn dog shit.

(Not the cyclists or the runners but they should too, if they have a dog.)

I literally use a wheelchair and I can pick up my dog’s crap, why the fuck can’t you? I chased after some bloke, politely offering him a poo bag, smiling sweetly through rain running down my face.

          ‘It’s a nightmare when you run out of poo bags,’ I smiled, offering him a bag, ‘Do you need help doing it?’ My smile now more sharp teeth.

Fuckwit! Pick up your shite. You’re a grown-ass man, you can sort this out for yourself.

Phew! I am feeling loads better.

Positively Spring-like!

What next?

Oh, I’ve run out of words. Just when I was on a roll.

Dear God, is it still fucking January?

Only one more day to go.