My (slightly crazy) view of the world

Posts tagged ‘humour’

I’ll have a Double Mocha-Choca-Flopa-Tocha-Locha-Boca-Knocka-Socka-Rocka, Please!

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I have recently discovered the joy of coffee, having been a self-confessed tea addict for about eighteen years. And do you know why?

Because I just LOVE the fancy names!

I love saying them and hearing them, and (now this is a seriously lame-ass confession) I really do think I sound SUPER cool and sophisticated when I order them! (Please don’t judge me – I already know I am beyond lame..).
Have you ever seen one of those American films where a person goes to the counter and orders a coffee? A stream of words come out their mouths, at a speed on par with a racehorse, and the assistant just nods and gets the drink. I’m sat there, oblivious to the film carrying on while I am still, ten minutes later, trying to work out what the hell they just ordered!

Now I know you could say it’s just a film, both the ‘customer’ and ‘assistant’ have rehearsed their lines, they don’t need to understand it.
But!
I’ve been to America, and I’ve witnessed it! It’s real!!

So I have decided all Americans are born with a natural ability to order complex coffees. It’s a gene developed as they grow in the womb, and while our English kiddies are at school learning their ABC’s and simple sums, American kiddies are refining their ability to order a coffee; “Now then Tommy, let’s hear you recite your coffee order.”
“I’d like a Flappa-Flipa-Mika-Tricka-Licka-Bipa-Loca-Nocka-Choca, please..”
“Very good, Tommy. You may sit back down.” (this is by no means an insult to American children or America’s education system, I realise they too learn ABCs and simple sums…)

Genius!

So anyway, I decided I wanted to be a part of this seemingly exclusive club of coffee drinkers – my ultimate goal: to order a Starbucks!
So I thought I’d nip into the supermarket and get started…..

BLEURGH!

It’s was f@&*ing disgusting!
I had never tasted anything so bitter and foul-tasting in my life, making me want to vom on the spot! Gross!

BUT. I reeeeally wanted to be able to go into a Starbucks and order a coffee! So, I did what any sane person would do who knew anymore of that foul liquid would make them vom on the toes of their shoes….

…I kept drinking it.

You know, like they say you can train your taste buds to enjoy something, well, I was in training! (much like cigarettes – I’m pretty sure when I tried my first cigarette all those years ago that the coughing up of my lung wasn’t particularly enjoyable, but, you get passed these things, don’t you) Everyone else seems able to enjoy this disgusting drink, I’m sure I will eventually.

So, the training of the taste buds commenced, and I tried an assortment of things to assist the process: 7 sugars – White then brown; gallons of milk instead of water; minimal coffee and loads of water… But nothing seemed to work.

UNTIL….

I discovered a Cappuccino sachet!!
Brilliant! It sounded cool, it tasted better (marginally), and I got to sprinkle chocolate powder on the top!!
Horrah!!!! (the angels sing).

So, I started drinking these, and I was able to go to a small coffee shop here in sunny Brighton and order myself a Cappuccino.
Fabulous.

Except…

It still wasn’t the really cool order I wanted. “A cappuccino, please,” didn’t really have that same ring to it. And besides, if I’m totally honest, I really didn’t like it all that much.

So I continued my supermarket search, assuming there must be SOME variation of coffee i’d enjoy.
Then, as I was perusing the coffee aisle, I saw it: an amazingly named coffee sachet by Necafe.
The DOUBLE CHOCA MOCHA!!!
(angels singing pretty loudly at this point – aaaAAAAaaAAAAAAhhh!)

How fricking AMAZING did that one sound! I HAD to have it.

So I bought them, got home, and VOILA! I loved it!

Awesome. By now I feel I have the confidence to enter a Starbucks – my ultimate goal – and order a coffee. I rehearsed my line all the way to work on the train. I knew what I had to say, I knew the drink I wanted, and I knew I would no longer feel like an outcast in this exclusive coffee club of people.
I was ready.

I stepped into the darkly lit room, the smell of various coffees filling my nostrils. Bliss. I am SO ready to do this.
There is a queue of around four people at the counter, so I take the time to look at the board on the back wall, where all the types of coffee are listed.

And my heart stopped.

On said board, was not just the coffee I wanted, but THREE variations of it!

SHIT!

A Cafe Mocha
A Choca Mocha
And a White Mocha!

WTF?!

(I realise, NOW, that the above options are really rather simple to decipher: cafe (normal), choca (extra chocolate) and White (White chocolate), but you need to understand I felt WAAAAY out of my depth here, surrounded by coffee graduates (yeah, I just made that qualification up), and I felt so intimidated that my mind just froze! I couldn’t suss out what the hell it meant!)

So I stood in line, awaiting my turn like a lemon. I wanted to bolt – screw this coffee lark; I want my tea – but the queue had extended behind me, and I’d look like a right douche if I legged it now. So with that option out the widow, I had no other choice than to try and revise the line of my order….”a mocha please/a NORMAL mocha please/er, a tea please..”
My hands had began to get clammy as I nervously awaited my turn. And then, BAM, I was next.

“Erm, I’d like a Mocha, please.”
“What type of Mocha would you like?”
FUCK!
So, of course, I totally embarrassed myself.
I stood as tall as I could, cleared my throat, and went for it:
“Oh look, I’m not really au fait with this coffee thing-” nervous chuckle as the large queue behind me watch my increasingly reddening face, “I just know I like Mocha’s.”

I’m a Dickhead.

Stunned silence behind the counter and in the queue, and practically in the entire shop followed my lame-ass comment.
AN INTRUDER! This girl knows NOTHING of our coffee world – off with her head!!

I kid you not, I felt like I was five-years-old and the size of Thumbelina.

Fortunately, the Italian guy serving me took pity on this painfully uneducated woman standing before him, and lowered his voice.
“The White Mocha is great – White chocolate – I’d recommend it.”

MY HERO!

“Yes, yes, I’ll have that please.” Relief washed over me instantly. Until..

“Okay. Tall? Cream?”

AAARGHHH!

“Yes.”
“Yes? To which?”
Flustered beyond belief, “YES, yes to both. Yes please.” GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!!!!!!
He smiled. Then leaned forward and -joy of joys! – whispered, “next time you come in, order: a tall White mocha with cream.”

Woo-fucking-ha! That’s my super-dooper order! How cool did that sound?!!!

So I left, unharmed, with my coffee in hand and my objective met!

Life is great!!

And then my brother in-law – genius that he is – texted me this little beauty:
Double ristretto venti half soy nonfat decaf organic chocolate brownie iced vanilla double shot gingerbread frappuccino extra hot with whipped cream upside down double blended one sweet’n low and one nutrasweet and ice.

Ah crap!

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‘Belleism’

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The weathers been fabulous this bank holiday weekend, and…I have a tan!!

A bloody good job, too, as I accidentally bought the wrong hair dye, and now have BLACK hair! Yes, Morticia lives. So without the tan, I would have looked rather washed out.

These little accidents often happen to me. My family affectionately refer to them as, ‘Belleisms’. And believe me, there have been quite a few Belleisms over the 28-year stretch of my life.

To name a few:

The Morticia Hair:
I was hot. I was irritable. And I was in the worst place in the world on a hot day: the supermarket.
Hoards of people flock to these places the minute the sun decides to peek around from the clouds. We English, we love a bit of sun, which is apparent the moment it appears – regardless of whether the sunshine is actually HOT, we strip to our shorts and t-shirts, push down the roof of the convertible (not that I own one. Not that I own ANY type of vehicle for that matter), and stampede the supermarkets for BBQ food while our lilly-white skin turns a rather unattractive shade of red.
So of course, with my patience getting thinner and thinner as I am pushed around, cut in front of, and my ears are abused by the wailing sound of spoilt brats begging for an ice-cream they are told will not be bought today, I rush to the appropriate aisle, grab the usual box of dye, and head for the checkout.
I get home, make a cuppa, try to find the energy to die my hair, and then discover I have bought the wrong colour in my haste to leave the shop.
Damn. I have to die it anyway, so I figure ‘what the hell’, and voila, I look like a character from the ‘Adams Family’.

The Eyebrow Incident:
This one is also quite recent.
I have an obsession with eyebrows. I was unfortunately born with both my parents eyebrows – thick, bushy, and apparently trying to take over my entire face. Not attractive.
My younger sister, however, did not inherit such eyebrows, and grew up with naturally beautifully formed eyebrows. I was insane with jealously. You see, my younger sister was apparently born with ALL the good genes: great legs, height, natural popularity, and AMAZING eyebrows. And as we were not too far apart in age, we shared a room. So I spent my entire youth having to look at these perfect features while my own fuzzy brows grew into an untameable mess; I never grew taller, and my legs remained skinner than a couple of cocktail sticks. Sickening.
So the eyebrow obsession grew, and as I got older, I learned to pluck. But I still find myself fascinated by other womens eyebrows.
And so…..
I was sat on my sofa the other day, watching a U-tube video on ‘smoky eye’ makeup application, when I stumbled across one for eyebrows! Imagine my elation!! So I watched, watched again, and then took myself upstairs to get my tweezers and little nails scissors, and went to work at creating perfectly formed eyebrows.
Later that evening, I had a bath, and as I got out I caught a reflection of myself in the bathroom mirror.
“What the..?!” went through my mind. I stared hard at the reflection of my face in the mirror: WHERE THE F*!@ING HELL ARE MY EYEBROWS?!
It was only then, as the realisation dawned that I no longer had any eyebrows (save for a few stay hairs), that I had plucked my eyebrows earlier while wearing EYEBROW PENCIL! I had completely forgotten that it had been applied earlier that morning, and had plucked and trimmed assuming the dark line was hair!
Douchbag doesn’t even cover it.

The Supermarket Trolly (Cart):
This one goes back a few years, when I was about eighteen.
I worked in a building very close to the supermarket my mum works at, and so after work I decided to nip in, grab some bits for my dinner, and say hi to my mum before I went back to my flat.
I’d chosen a short skirt suit that day, and in my eighteen-year-old mind, thought I looked fabulous (I was young and a tad self-obsessed). I grabbed a trolly (cart) and strutted my way around the shop, pretty chuffed with the looks people were giving me (even if they did seem a little odd…) I lapped up the attention, and filled my trolly with dinner.
This particular trolly was weird though; it seemed to have a metal flap I needed to lift in order to place my items in. Strange. Must be a new trolly, I though to myself. Though couldn’t understand the purpose – to save goods being stolen from your trolly prior to purchase? Pretty dumb, if you ask me.
However, I continued. I found my mum on a checkout with quite a large queue of people. Still, I wanted to see her, so remained in the queue. After a while, following a few more looks from people (DAMN I must look hot today!), it eventually became my turn – a huge queue of people had now formed behind me.
I lifted the ‘lid’ of my trolly, and began to place the items on the conveyor belt, and causally mentioned to my mum that I didn’t think much of these new trollies.
“What new trollies?”
Everyone in the queue behind looked at me.
“These ones, with the stupid lid,” I replied for all to hear.
Mum looked over the counter to look at said new trolly.
After a moment of laughter, she said (again, for all to hear), “that’s not a new trolly; you have two stuck together!”
Perfect.
Not as hot as I thought, after all. Just bloody stupid!

And the last Belleism I will divulge…

The Indoor Barbecue:
I had moved into my new flat with my boyfriend. I was SUPER excited, as it was the first flat I had ever owned, and as we unpacked our belongings, I was overwhelmed by excitement; everything was BRILLIANT in my eyes.
We moved to the kitchen, and started to find homes for things, when I looked at the little electric cooker (which came with the flat).
I soon discovered the ‘lid’ lifted, taking the rings up with it, leaving a bare, flat surface.
“AN INDOOR BARBECUE!” I squealed in delight, again SUPER excited! What an amazing thing to have!
My boyfriend at the time fell to the floor in fits of laughter.
“Thats just so you can clean underneath, you Berk! There’s no such thing as an indoor barbecue!!”
Ah. Belleism strikes again.

Wrong Number Etiquette – How NOT To Do It…

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I had a call today from someone unknown. It was a man, apparently looking for somebody named Heather.

Wrong number. Obviously. Not usually a big deal. In a situation like this I am normally quick and polite, informing the caller I am not who they are looking for, that they have unfortunately dialled the wrong mobile (cell) number, and that would be the end of that.

However!

Today’s call didn’t quite go that way.

It’s always difficult taking a call when on a busy train station platform, awaiting the imminent arrival of the train; it is packed with people desperate to get to the edge of the platform first, ensuring they are one of the first to board the train and bag themselves one of the few available seats (I’ve often wondered whether people just board a train and ride it all day long, with no other purpose than to fill seats – why else are there NEVER enough seats for everyone?! Ever! Is the whole world really going to the exact same place I am?!). As today was one of my ‘fazed return’ workdays, this was the situation I found myself in.

I, too, surreptitiously elbowed my fellow commuters in the sides while I positioned myself on the platform where, I thought, the doors of the train might open once the train had stopped.
I was wedged between an (abnormally large) woman, with what can only be described as a dead cat on her head, posing as a hair do, and an extremely tall and skinny man in a suit – but don’t be fooled readers, he may have weighed no more than a Mars bar, however, he had a look in his eye that suggested sudden death for anyone foolish enough to push in front of him.

I was not that foolish.

Commuting is pretty stressful (they say, apparently, commuters collectively have the highest blood pressure of any other group of people in England…apparently. I’m not too sure who ‘they’ are, but whatever; it works for this post anyway), and you have to be on your guard most of the time.

But I digress…

So today was the usual bustle and fight, and I, standing my ground, refused to be intimidated, wedged between the two aforementioned, preparing myself to board the now visible train. However, just as it pulled in – yep, you’ve guessed it! – my mobile phone trilled it’s happy, tinny tune.

Frustrated, I delved into my bag, while keeping my eye on the train as it moved slowly into position on the platform.
I dug around the tissues (used), make-up (a must), book (of course!), purse, pens (lid-less. Damn it), perfume, loose change, the sock (?!), and other crap, until I found it, buried right down at the bottom.

I whipped it out without checking caller ID (very rare!) and answered with what can only be described as a vague but frustrated “hello?!”

Caller: Hello.
Me: Erm, hello (again).
C: How are you?
M: Um, fine.
(The doors of the train are about to open, and the pushing from the mass of commuters behind me begins)
C: Good. That’s great.
M: Sorry, who did you say was calling?
C: I didn’t (cue amused chuckle. WTF?!) Its me. Don’t you recognise me voice, Heather?
(realisation dawns)
M: Ahh. Sorry, you appear to have dialled the wrong number. I’m not Heather. Sorry about th-
(interrupts my explanation – the cheek!)
C: Oh! Sorry about that!
(The pushing has intensified and I am literally being swept onto the train with the rest of the commuters)
M: That’s okay. Sorry. By-
(Again, interrupted!)
C: No, no, my fault.
(I expect him to disconnect the call now, and turn my attention to finding an available seat. My hawk eye spots one at the back of the carriage, and I begin to make my way there before it is scooped up by someone else – phone still to my ear.)
C: So..?
M: Err, sorry. Wrong number. I have to-
(interrupts, AGAIN!)
(I am now sliding myself into position onto the available seat. The train has turned silent now that everyone is settled, and I still seem to have this random caller on my phone)
C: Yes, yes, I know. I apologise for that. Maybe we could talk though?
(great. A crazy person on my phone. I am just about to disconnect the call, when he says..)
C: So tell me, what are you wearing?
WFT?!!!
M: I’m terribly sorry, (still trying to maintain the politeness, but can feel it begin to slip away) but you have the wrong number, I’ve no no intention of telling you (lower voice to ensure minimal commuters can hear) what I am wearing, and I am about to disconnect this call. Goodb-
C: Okay. I’m sorry. I was only joking. I’ll go now.
M: okay, bye
C: oh wait! One more thing…
M: (sighs) Yes?
C: what position do you liked to be f***ked in?!
WHAAAAAAAT?!?!?!?!?!?
I immediately hang up the phone, and spend the entire duration of my journey home with a face matching the colour of a beetroot!

Who the HELL does that?!!

I will never answer my phone without checking caller ID again. Let this be a lesson to all you non-ID-checkers out there! You never know, you could get weird-talker-sex pest-man next time!

There’s A Chance I Just Lost All Viewers…

As most bloggers know, finding inspiration to write a post is pretty hard. I often sit and think “hmm, what shall I blog about today?” and as most of my regular ‘Blogitors’ (you know, ‘Blog’ + ‘visitors’ = Blogitors. Yeah okay, I made it up and it’s lame, but it’s MY blog, so I don’t care!) will know, I’m kinda crazy, so most of my chosen ‘rants’ are a little random. But I sat today, curled on the sofa, wondering again what to write. And I drew a blank. Nothing. Nada. Zilch. No inspiration whatsoever. 

So, instead, I’m going to write a blogoem (blog + poem = Blogoem. Again, lame, but I care not!). So, here goes nothing….

I curl up on my sofa,
Trying to think up my next blog; 
Should it be about today’s events, 
Or cats, or dogs, or frogs?
I sometimes find my inspiration,
While watching crap TV,
but often subjects come to me,
When I’m alone – just little ol’ me.

If you promise to subscribe right now,
Another ‘Blogoem’ you will not suffer,
But if you leave right now, I swear to you,
The next one will be dumber!

So come on, sign up to my blog,
And read my pointless posts,
And I’ll make a vow, 
To you right now,
I’ll visit your site the most!

Ta daaaaaaaar!

Okay, it’s shit. Reeeeeally shit.
I’m shit. 
What a dumb-ass idea. 
 
Crap. Nice going, Brain. 

Whoops! I Didn’t Mean To Give Your Child Nightmares – Honestly!

Image of terrified child from the Internet

I was playing around with my friends one-year-old the other day – you know, peek-a-boo, tickling her feet, pulling silly faces… the usual. 
After a moment, the peek-a-boo thing got a little tedious for me (she was loving it, but I suspected she would still have been loving it three hours later, and there’s only so much I can hide behind my hands, remove them to show an insanely smiling face, make a stupid noise that is supposed to sound like ‘peek-a-boo’ but just sounds like a ridiculous loud noise, then start all over again, until I want to kill myself), so I switched to a different game: ‘I’ve got your nose’.

At first she didn’t really understand what the hell I was going on about, and looked at me in a way that suggested she thought I was a crazy woman, talking in a language she didn’t understand, and that she hoped I’d hurry up and leave her alone soon (ouch).
After a while though, the realisation of what I was doing seemed to dawn on her. However, instead of being met with gurgling noises of happiness, as I had expected – or at least hoped for – she looked positively terrified!

Now you’d have thought following this reaction I’d have stopped, right? Any normal person would be mortified with such a response, and abruptly change the game to one a little less scary. Well, it would seem I am not normal, as I literally couldn’t stop. I found the fear written all over her tiny, scared little face absolutely hilarious! I kept doing it, over and over again, trying to coax a little smile from her, but instead receiving the same, fearful look at having ‘stolen’ her nose, while I had tears streaming down my cheeks from laughing so hard.

I’m happy to inform you that after a few minutes of entertaining myself – and before she also burst into tears – I did stop. But it got me thinking – and I am about to share these thoughts with you lucky little so-and-so’s. 

You’re welcome 🙂

It occurred to me, we – adults – do this often. We invent games that actually scare children, but act them out in such a playful way that we convince ourselves this is acceptable. 

Case at hand: my Dad. 

When I was a child, my dad would playfully pick me up and advise me he was going to throw me away in the bin (or ‘trash’, for my American chums). I would squawk and giggle, crying “No! No!” until he put me back down again. 
To my dad, that was the end of the game. For me, it was the start of something else…

Unfortunately, I got it into my head that one day he WOULD actually throw me away into the bin. And this thought terrified me. So, in my warped, innocent and small child-mind, I decided the best way to avoid being ‘thrown away’ into the bin/trash was, well… to be nice to ‘it’. 

(oh dear lord, here comes the crazy…)

“Be nice to the bin?” I hear you ask, “How exactly would you do that?!”

Well, whenever I had to throw away any paper – envelopes, scrap, post-it’s, etc – I would, erm… well, I would write a note to it (the bin), with offerings of rubbish/trash.

Okay, hold on! Don’t go running off just yet! Hear me out!

I genuinely believed that any day now my dad would be THROWING ME AWAY! I had to do something, right?! So I decided to get ‘Bin’ on my side. If I managed that, it wouldn’t ‘eat’ me. You see?

C’mon, I was young. This logic worked in my tiny mind.

The notes generally consisted of:

Dear Bin,
I hope you enjoy this present.
Love, Belle. 

And of course, once the paper was folded a couple of times, I addressed the ‘note’ to the bin:
To Bin, Love Belle xx

This went on for AGES! It got to the stage where if – heaven forbid – I forgot to address the rubbish to the bin, I was sure ‘it’ would never forgive me, and the very next time the (apparently) funny game of ‘Put Belle In The Bin’ ensued, I was bound to be eaten alive. 

Now I realise you will all be thinking, “Who the hell IS this girl?! She’s actually insane!” and frankly, I wouldn’t blame you. But if it wasn’t for the (terrifying) ‘game’ of throwing me away, this fear would never have emerged, and the subsequent ‘notes’ would never have existed!
So really, it wasn’t actually my fault. 

Thankfully, the older I got (which was still pretty young), the more I realised this was ridiculous and abruptly stopped addressing my rubbish/trash to the Bin (it also has a little to do with the fact my younger sister ‘discovered’ (aka spied on me to find out why I was always behaving rather strangely whenever I had to throw anything away) this note-to-bin thing, and let’s just say it become her bribery tool for many, many, maaaaaaany years…).
But it makes me wonder how many other ‘games’ were invented by our parents/aunts/uncles, etc, that entertained them to the point they almost threw-up with laughter, but terrified us as children, and maybe even then led to fears/phobias in adulthood that we haven’t even made the connection with yet…

So I ask you to consider this, big, scary adults: if you find it roll-on-the-floor-and-wet-yourself-funny, the chances are it’s scaring your poor child shitless!

I will not be ‘stealing’ any noses for the foreseeable future. 

Urgh! Get ‘Em Off Me!!

I read a blog not too long ago that got me thinking – and thinking and thinking…
I can’t seem to get it out of my head, and frankly, it’s annoying me. So, given the sharing kinda person I am, I’ve decided to pass this thought onto all of you, my loyal blog visitors 🙂

Germs. 
This is what has been in my head, bouncing around until I can’t seem to think of anything else (I’d like to highlight here, it is the THOUGHT of germs bouncing around, not ACTUAL germs in my head – that would just be weird).

The comment I read that sparked this new ‘obsession’ was about public toilets (public bathrooms, for my American visitors), and the certain ‘do’s and don’ts’ that are regularly broken by the grubbier members of our society. 

Now, I know what you’re thinking: she’s referring to those who don’t wash their hands following their visit to the public toilet/bathroom. 
Well, yes, and no. 
Yes, that IS disgusting, and I regularly find myself watching those dirty little wotsits in the reflection of the (grime covered) mirrors as I wash my hands, while they walk straight from the cubicle and right passed the sinks to the exit (gross!), but no, this act is not the act that has been playing on my mind recently.  

It is the floors of these places, and, oddly enough, our handbags. 

Now, picture this, ladies: we walk into the public toilets and do what we need to do. The less grubbier of us then go to the sink, wash our hands with soap and water, straighten ourselves in the mirror, then leave the bathroom with little more thought of our visit. 
We washed our hands, right? We’re clean and germ free. 
Right?

Well, hang on a second. Think back to when you were in the cubicle. What did you do with your handbag?

Sometimes (though in my experience, rarely) there is a hook on the inside of the door, so naturally, we place our handbag and coat on this until we are ready to leave. 
But what about the times when there isn’t a hook provided?

That’s right: we place our handbags ON THE DIRTY, GERM INFESTED, DRIED-PEE COVERED (I often wonder how this happens in a ladies toilet/bathroom – I mean, really girls?!) FLOOR!
We pick up our bags, do what we need to at the sink, then leave. 

What do we then do with our handbag? Well, if we head to a bar or restaurant, we put our bags on the table next to us; if we’re shopping and go into a changing room, we again put it on the floor; if we head home, we put our handbags on the table. 
We are basically shifting the toilet floor germs stuck to the bottom of our handbags onto every surface we encounter! We then touch these surfaces, fooled into a false sense of safety (they look clean, right? It’s a restaurant/bar/our home – we know they’ve been wiped clean with the appropriate cleaning agents) and transport the germs to everything we touch – like our face and mouths!

How often do you actually wipe the bottom of your hangbag clean?

Myself? NEVER! The thought of wiping the bottom of my handbag has never, ever, occurred to me (unless of course it has touched something I can actually see, like it’s got wet or something).

And this thought has now led me onto other things. Like, when you buy something in a shop and place your hands on the counter, waiting for the assistant to ring up your purchase, whose handbag has previously been there, and what did it last touch? When was it last wiped clean?!

I have become completely obsessed with this. Seriously. Obsessed!
How many peoples’ dried wee has inadvertently ended up on my lips?! How many toilet-floor germs have I put into my mouth?!
Oh and it gets worse, ladies: how many of our boyfriends/husbands have used a public toilet, thrown their coat on the floor, picked it up with their hands, put those same hands to their mouths, then KISSED US?!

Eurgh! It’s disgusting! 

So I now fear I have an OCD developing – and with good reason! 
Am I ever going to be able to revert back to the time handbag germs didn’t control my life? Will I ever be able to touch another flat surface again without being dominated by the thought of whose toilet ‘stuff’ I am accidentally smothering over my lips?

So I leave this OCD thought with you, and ask you to consider how many surfaces your handbags have touched, how many times you have cleaned it after, and how many germs have been spread to your home, and how many of these you have spread all over your mouth…!

Welcome to the dark side…