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Thursday, 21 May 2009

I got told a lovely thing the other night. A friend who has the patience to allow me to vent spleen at the cost of their own life, told me that I was dignified. It was a really, really lovely thing to be told.

However, in the last 48 hours I have decided that dignity is overrated and I feel a spate of undignified behaviour would benefit my karma.

I have decided to visit the cul-de-sac of the polyester clad shag with my voice activated recorder and announce that I am a journalist researching a piece of marital infidelity and the damage it does to the children involved. On asking her for a quote, she will be flustered and admit that frankly, she does not give a flying fig because like her co-defendent - the children are not her concern. I will then have to inform her that she is as deluded and given that she is uncannily like his mother - she is in fact sleeping with her son. Since he is behaving like a parody of a teenager, this is almost true.

O course, I will not do this. Dignified is not something of choice and in truth it is becoming a little more than irritating. I know I am better than this and knowing that I am gives me the firm believe that when I lie gasping on my death bed that any happiness I gain in life will be justly earned. If there is a thing such as reincarnation I am happy with my Karma. When I come back I will have two legs. When 'It' and PCS come back they will both have eight legs and scuttle.

Of course dignified does not mean saintly. 'It' will reap what he sows and I will make sure of it. I just haven't figured out how. I am a very patient woman.

The other thing I have decided is that I am no longer going to eat chicken and avocado panini's at the Neston Park Farm shop. Call me old fashioned but 6.00 seems a lot for a bit of chicken slapped in the midst of a posh role. It used to be something like 4.25 but since they have attracted more posh peopl that are happy top pay 30.00 per sausage, prices have hiked.

The teenager is now on study leave. Seems a little odd to give it after most of the GCSEs are taken. I struggle less with this than the concept that my sweet little baby has facial hair and has effectively left school.

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