Monday, 27 May 2013

If I don't make it back...

... I bequeath Fatman to Mickey Rose Insley and apologise in advance for the increase in her monthly food bill.

I go under the knife the day after tomorrow and I'm now starting to properly brick it. Although, after their last minute cancellation last time, perhaps I shouldn't waste the energy. Fact is though, I am terrified of general anaesthetic. And that's despite the fact that this is my seventh operation, and I really should be well used to it by now.

It's not the pain I'm scared of, or what they'll find. I can handle that. Pain is endurable. And it tends to keep you conscious. In my experience with chronic and agonising pain - from appendicitis  gall bladder disease and endometriosis - is that there's something about pain that eventually crystallises all of your worries, fears, experiences and day to day blah. Everything comes down to one single thing: that moment when the pain will stop. That's it. Nothing else matters. Your world becomes very small and very focused. And you breathe in and out because you have to. And you wait. For me, eventually, with the first two illnesses, it stopped. I now have to deal with it every couple of weeks but it's not for a long time each time, not when it's compared to the horror some people endure.

So pain, I can do. I've had a lot of practise.

It's the lack of control I have a problem with. The moment when they fit the cannula and then pump unknown substances into my arm. That's the moment I hate. Because I don't know who these people are. I don't know how good they are at their job. I don't know whether they're distracted or not on the case today. I don't know what they're pumping into me and I don't know, basically, whether I'll wake up.

I know the chances are extremely high that I will. But weird stuff does happen and I don't know that this won't be the last moment I'm ever aware of. Counting down from 10 with that stuff rushing into my veins, turning them cold.

This is why I'm scared.

Thursday, 23 May 2013

From one sexy-as-fuck former carpenter to another...

When you're down and troubled... when you've had a bad day and it feels like the world is against you... when you've had a quiet weep and can't shoot the black dog... what do you do? You get on Google and you look up pictures like this:


That's what you do. And while contemplating that face you realise how many of your sexual fantasies this guy was an integral part of. He was ever present during my childhood. I grew up on a diet of Star Wars, Indiana Jones and Blade Runner.

His face and voice and the way he wears clothes and the way he runs and the scar on his chin and the whole sexy package. Harrison Ford is the definitive sex symbol of the whole expanse of time ever. He even managed to make the Amish seem hot. Always a man and never a whiny boy he kept his sex appeal going way longer than should be possible. Basically I only decided it was a definite no after the last Indiana Jones film. And, to be fair, I could probably be persuaded even though he's got to be at least 70.

A while ago I wrote a post about the sexiness of Jesus. Who used to be a carpenter. And now I'm positing about the sexiness of Ford. Who USED TO BE A CARPENTER. Coincidence?

I think not.

Here are some more pictures that cheered me up immensely.

This one. That uniform fits him so well. SO well. His thighs are magnificent.


And then he pulls this face and is beyond sex. 


And then he does this. 


And this. I mean. LOOK at him. *licks screen*


And then he runs a lot and gets sweaty and is all heroic while still being an aloof asshole to the women in his life and his shirt falls off. *swoon*


Somewhere along the way - around the same time but I can't be bothered to check - he made Witness, which I think was a good film. I can't really remember. I tell you what I do remember though. Him dressed like this building a bloody barn. Manly, manly, MANLY. 


And then I found one with a beard. And my life is complete. Harrison Ford, I salute you. 



Tuesday, 21 May 2013

One does not just write stuff like this...

But fuck it. My blog, my rules.

Truth is, recently - very recently, mind - I have become aware of a feeling that I haven't had for a while. I actually want to meet someone. I want that thing that almost everyone I know appears to have. It's a weird thing when you're a single woman of 37. You're not meant to say that you really, really would like a partner because, obviously, that's desperate. And when you cover your loneliness with snarky humour you're labelled bitter. You're aware that people think you're at least a bit weird, or high maintenance, or that there must be something wrong with you to be left on the shelf, but as this is 2013 no one actually ever says that. But it's funny, I hear people crack jokes about single older women and it's assumed they're desperate and lonely. It just is. It's a stereotype that just won't die. So if they think that about other single women of around my age then they must be thinking it about me, right?

People ask me with alarming regularity whether I've considered becoming a lesbian. Which I know is meant to be an amusing bon mot about my single status. But increasingly I'm finding it just deeply, deeply offensive. If I fancied women I'd be a single lesbian. My sexuality is not the 'problem', it's the fact that I either can't find anyone or I won't allow anyone to find me. I don't know which it is and I don't know which is worse.

Moaning about your single status is boring, talking about it is desperate, crying about it is pathetic... so what are you meant to do? What if you spent most of last decade in a relationship and just haven't been able to meet anyone that's right? What if you try pretty hard to be OK with it in the face of your friends moving on, moving in, getting hitched and having babies? What if you've bought more wedding and new baby cards than you can even remember and you spend Christmas ligging on to someone else's family because you don't have one?

But at all times you must remain positive. It's important that you realise that your very wish to meet someone could be preventing you from doing so. After all, no-one likes a desperate middle aged woman. They can smell this desperation, you know. So you have to be totally OK all the time and never ever show any kind of envy of anyone else's lifestyle or relationship.

And sometimes, just very occasionally, this pisses me off. I've done both you see. I've lived with a boyfriend and I've lived alone. And it's a lot harder on your own in just practical ways. There is no one to help with bills. Or with rent. Or when you lose your keys. Or when you get home scared because you're pretty sure some nutter was stalking you down Walmgate most of the way home. Or when you're sick and you haven't even got the energy to go to the shop to get some teabags. It's harder on your own. You never have a plus one to any event ever, you go to weddings, funerals and parties on your own, you go to hospital appointments on your own. If you want to go on holiday you either find that rarest of rare beasts - an attached friend who's happy to go away without their other half - or the even lesser spotted also single friend who has time and money to go with you - or you go on your own.

Mostly you just do stuff on your own. It most definitely becomes a recurring theme. And it can be difficult to enjoy the delights of, say, a summer's day when you're always on your own. You start to feel conspicuous. I'm not even sure that I haven't already become that crazy cat lady who never has a boyfriend. It's possible the youngsters in this neighbourhood already point and stare. How would I know? They're doing it behind my back because I am CRAZY CAT LADY.

And it's definitely the case that true love doesn't happen for everyone. Some people never find The One. Some people have trouble locating any possibles. Or probables. Or even would touch with a bargepoles.

And I don't get this view that you must never, ever bemoan said single status because, gasp, that puts men off. And you can't afford to do that, if you're a single middle aged woman. As someone who is actually incapable of damping down her awkward and bolshy personality, it's probably no particular surprise that it's increasingly looking like emotional connections with male people aren't on the cards. I don't have the knack. I don't know how to compromise enough. I don't like people touching my stuff. I don't like being told what to do. I don't like feeling like I can't breathe. I don't like feeling guilty. And to me, that's what a relationship is.

But I don't want to be alone.

And I am.

For now, anyway.




Thursday, 16 May 2013

But I like these words

I have written two posts about words I hate. And, disturbingly perhaps, I have another one ready to go. But in the midst of all this hate, sometimes it's good to smell the roses, take a moment, chillax (that's another one - HATE that word) and talk about words we like.

So that's what I'm doing. I have compiled a list. And it is thus.

Succulent. That's it. Take a moment and roll that baby around your tongue. Suck-you-lent. It feels succulent. It sounds succulent. It makes me think of sinking my teeth into something delightful. It makes me think of gorgeously opulent tastes and textures. It is a word that pleases me. Enormously.

Schadenfreude. Glorious. I find German to be a gloriously onomatopoeiac language. I used to love speaking it at school. I still love speaking it now. Sadly I only remember about three phrases. One of which is "Wie komme ich am besten zum Bahnhoff bitte?" It's a fabulously satisfying language to speak and to listen to. And, of course, they have the word schadenfreude. Just in case you're truly stupid and you don't know what it means, it means this: "Enjoyment in the misfortunes of others." As we're English people and emotional honesty is difficult for us to find behind our stiff upper lips, we obviously don't have a word for this in our own language and have been forced to use the German. Which is completely fine with me.

Crunch. Crunnnnnnnch. Crunch. CRUnch. So good to say. See also, munch, scrunch and, to a lesser extent, brunch.

Bender. Because it just makes me laugh. Quite a lot. You bender.

Abhorrent. I like this word because it sums up how I feel many things, stuff and people are in this world. Completely and utterly abhorrent in fact. It conveys equal measures disgust and contempt, which are two of my favourite emotions. All in all, it's extremely pleasing.

Fap. See also spaff. I didn't want to fill this list with amusing words for spunk and wanking but they are just such enjoyable, usable words. Fap is an excellent descriptive word to use in place of the more usual toss or wank. And I find myself using spaff on many and varied occasions, most memorably in the office recently. It just works for me.

Spasibo. This is Russian for thank you. I bloody love Russian. I studied it as an extra subject at degree level. Sadly, I was so ensconced in my new found love for Es and whizz (yes, it was the early 90s, why d'you ask?) I only made it to about two classes. But I really like them. It's a language I would dearly love to be able to speak. Not dearly enough to actually apply myself to the totally achievable with hard work goal of actually learning it. But dearly enough to occasionally lament the fact that I can only remember two words. And I'm not at all sure about the pronunciation of either of those.

Turd. Because it's the word turd. And it's funny.

Chichen Itza - a large Mayan city in Mexico, it's just an unutterably pleasing sound when it's spoken. It's also home to loads of temples where heads used to literally roll. So I like it from that point of view as well. Because severed heads are cool.


And then we move onto all the obvious: fuck-knuckle, shitballs, shitwit, fucktard, knobhead etc etc, which don't need an explanation.

Monday, 13 May 2013

I also hate these words

Since I wrote yesterday's involving my irrational hatred of certain words, people have sent in their own. Yes, really. People have asked me to include other words into an updated post. Marvellous isn't it?

But also I remembered loads of other words that make the hackles rise on the back of my miserable neck and make me want to punch the person who uses them.

And they are these:

1. 'gotten'
I cannot adequately convey how much I hate this word. I loathe it. And I don't even know why. I think it might be something to do with the pointlessness of the added syllable. Or the fact that it's an Americanism. I did read somewhere that actually it's grammatically correct in a similar way that the American pronunciation of aluminum is correct (it was us Brits who added in an unnecessary syllable to make it sound more English. I know. Mind blowing isn't it? Ours just sounds right. Al-um-in-um sounds so thick). Gotten is just terrible. Don't use it.

2. 'stuffs'
This is pretty unusual in that I have only heard one person ever use it. The context was thus: "You can just get on with your stuffs and then I can do something else." or "Are you busy doing stuffs now?". I think it was meant to be cutesy but it genuinely made me grind my teeth after the first few usages. Like grind my teeth so much that I couldn't actually hear what else he was saying.

3. 'luv'
It's spelled 'love'. There is no other way to spell it. LOVE. Luv is not a word. And you're only saving one letter, so why not just write 'love'. Why? WHY?

4. 'cum'
I just hate it. Why is it spelled like that? Surely it's all about the context it's used in? In my experience, even if it had been spelled 'come' I would have still understood what they meant. I mean, it was pretty obvious.

5. 'tits', 'boobs', 'breasts'
There just isn't a good word for mammary glands. If anyone says 'tits', it just makes me laugh and think of Benny Hill type sexism. 'Boobs' is too teenage-boyish and 'breasts' sounds, well, rather formal. It's something that's always vaguely bothered me. I suppose if I had to, I'd choose 'breasts'. But only if I had to. I tend to just point at them if they need to be referenced.

6. 'pacifically'
I'm veering off no into words that I often hear mispronounced. It makes me clench every bit of my anatomy, so embarrassed for them am I. Even though I'm fully aware that anyone who says pacifically instead of specifically is fairly unlikely to give a shit. But, for posterity, I've added it to my list.

7. 'defiantly'
What's wrong with defiantly, I hear you ask. It's a good, solid word that pleasingly conveys its meaning, surely? Well, yes, yes it is. It's a great word. A really, really good word, in fact. I admire anyone who is defiant. I think defiance is, generally, a trait to be applauded. But when people - and oh so many people do this - use it instead of the word they actually want to use, which is DEFINITELY, I want to stick a sharp needle in their eye. Yes, that's a COMPLETELY DIFFERENT WORD. When people use it instead of that then they should just be lined up against the wall and shot. Seriously. There's just no point in their continued existence. They're only going to pass it on to their inevitable mass of children, and then where will we be? Couple of generations' time and people will just be substituting random words for the one they actually mean. We need to take a stand now, people. NOW!

Onto the requests...

1. 'retarded'
I'm not allowing this on to the list because I actually like this word and use it often. And it's my list.

2. 'irregardless'
YES. Yes. And thrice yes. This can most definitely go on my list. Because it is a non word. If you're using it you're an idiot. What you mean to say is 'regardless'. You dick.

3. 'literally'
This is overused these days. Along with 'awesome', 'amazing' and 'fabulous', it has almost entirely lost its original meaning and is now commonly used by people who are usually attempting to make their story sound more interesting. So that's most people, then. "I literally died" is a common one to explain their huge embarrassment at some inane incident. But they didn't, did they? They didn't literally die because they're still writing shitty, annoying Facebook statuses. They literally didn't die, in fact.

I read somewhere how someone said that it's fine to use it in these kinds of contexts. I can't remember who said it or how they could even begin to back it up and I literally can't be arsed to look it up. On the whole, I think this should be on my list, although I don't hate the word, I just hate it when it's used incorrectly. So perhaps it should be filed next to 'defiantly' in a whole separate list.

Oh shit, this is never going to end, is it?


Sunday, 12 May 2013

I hate these words

I thought if I wrote them down it might exorcise their hold over me and then maybe I won't instantly judge people for using them.

Yes, I am very intolerant aren't I? Glad you noticed .

1. 'hun'
I've mentioned this before. And I should add that if you're using it in the context of a discussion about German soldiers in the Great War then go right on ahead, just make sure you capitalise it. If you're using it in the context of talking to a friend or lover then just stop. It's horrible. And it doesn't even make any sense. Unless you spell 'honey' in the same way as Winnie the Pooh, it's not even a correct contraction of the word. And the thing to remember about Winnie the Pooh is that he was a retard. He got his head stuck in a tree and made friends with the most boring boy on earth. You should definitely not look to him for spelling advice.

2. 'teamie'
If you run a company and want to encourage a team-based atmosphere, here's a little tip. Don't call grown adults 'teamies' as it will make anyone with more than one brain cell and a tiny bit of free will immediately hate you and everything you stand for. It doesn't give off a friendly, inclusive vibe, it makes you sound like a psychotic moron.

3. 'feels'
If you read the internet much, you may have come across a phrase that is over used by the yoof. It goes: "That got me right in the feels" or some version thereof. It makes me convulsively heave.

4. 'pop in'
I have no idea why this grates the way it does but it just does, OK? When someone says "I'll just pop in and whatever blah blah bullshit" it makes me think of posh old women braying at each other. I'm aware this is ridiculous and it must have something to do with a long forgotten childhood memory but there we are. You can't rationalise irrational and pointless hatred.

5. 'perfect' - when on the phone and in a work context
I picked this up from an old client. Whenever I agreed to any of her mental, incessant demands, which would often involve me having to undo all the work I'd done up to that point, or make something that was creative, intelligent and workable into a big pile of shit, she would say "perfecttttttttt." She said it a lot because I was her bitch and she knew it. "So, can you just rewrite that excellent 2,000 word feature on a completely different subject and have it back to me by 3? Perfeccccccccccccccccct" or "We can't use that excellently composed shot that I approved not half an hour ago because I've arbitrarily decided I don't like the subject's hair colour. Can you redo the shoot? For free? Perrrrrrrrrrfect". Etc. All of this was only compounded by the fact that once she said to me "I have no idea what I'm doing, I've never worked with magazines before, but I can just tell people to do stuff and they do it!" before laughing maniacally. She was on a graduate scheme and I predict a long and fruitful career for her. As a middle manager who everyone secretly hates.

6. 'lol'. This includes all of its permutations but for brevity I'll just leave it at lol.
Fuck you if you're over the age of 15 and say lol.

7. 'yolo'
I only found out what this meant the other day. I have seen many usages of it on the internet since I discovered the addictive but depressing Reddit. It apparently means: "you only live once" and it seems to have been hijacked by the youngsters to rationalise any of their dickish and often cuntish behaviour. Tattooed a misspelled abortion of a tattoo on your forehead? YOLO, lulz. Fucked your best friend's girlfriend? YOLO, lulz. Refused to learn to spell, write, think, analyse or otherwise use your innate intelligence? YOLO, right? I'm sure there are many teenagers who aren't retarded but the internet doesn't seem to highlight their presence very often.

8. 'hubby'
"I love my hubby so much, he's the BESTEST #blessed" See also, hubster, The Boy, My Boy, The Husband. Just. Stop. Really, I'm glad you're living out the Hallmark dream and apparently your life is like a romantic comedy but just. stop.

I could do this all day but I have to go and make some money by writing something else. So I'll just leave it there. YOLO, right? LMAO.


I think it might actually be happening...

Like, for real.

Ever since I can remember I've wanted to write a book. A novel or a history book maybe. Possibly based on fact and most likely including Henry VIII. Ideas have been varied, ambition has been constant, procrastination and fear of failure have been ubiquitous.

Over the last decade I have had tens of thousands of words published all over the place. In magazines, on websites, on my blog, on other blogs... usually completely unremarked upon as it was generally ghostwritten copy (and also deeply, deeply dull for the most part, unless you particularly like to read about how the major supermarkets like to run their internal communication seminars and I'm going to assume you're normal and think that sounds like the seventh circle of a deadly tedious hell). Tens of thousands of my words crafted for their purpose and then set free to sink into the ether, never to be read or seen again.

And because a girl (and her fat cat) have to eat and keep themselves in nice houses and tobacco, this kind of writing has taken precedence over creating something for me. Something that I'm genuinely proud of. Something I am scared to let anyone else read for fear that they might diss my baby. I rarely even register people reading most of my day to day writing any more, after all that's what I do. I write copy on behalf of other people and they put their name to it, or a company puts its name to it, or another blogger puts their name to it and I immediately forget about it. I don't take criticism to heart when I do get it because I'm pretty confident in my writing. My writing for cash that is.

I know how to write to a certain audience for a certain reason. I know how to make people who can't string written sentences together sound erudite and charming. I know how to write a fancy email to get someone to do something. That's all by the by. But I have always doubted my ability to write something I could legitimately be proud of.

There have been many abortive attempts at writing 'properly', many ideas jotted down and then left to die. But it keeps coming back to the same refrain in my head. I want to write a book. Even if no one else ever reads it. Even if the person who does read it hates it. I want to write it and I want to make it as good as I can and I want to finish it. I want to be that kind of writer.

And, thanks to a rather marvellous evening class, it looks like I'm taking actual baby steps towards doing this. So far, I have an idea. A solid idea. I have a narrative voice. I have at least five characters. I have a vague idea of a plot. And today I bought myself everything I need to formulate the Grand Plan for my book. A whiteboard, some pens and some post its. I'm going to plan the shit out of this. And I'm going to finish it.

(It's about death, by the way. I know, I know, you thought it would be some happy go lucky love story didn't you? Well, I'm nothing if not predictable...)

Sunday, 5 May 2013

When did I become such a 'joiner'?

I don't do joining in. I dislike participating in team sports. I don't like big gatherings of people. I feel uncomfortable when a large group are doing something together and it's clear you're meant to be all one with your thoughts. Like when I went to watch this local band once years ago and everyone was pretty much wetting themselves at how good they were and it was this massive hipster circle jerk and I quietly thought they were all tits and teeth. And also like whenever I go to a church for a wedding and the vicar prays and everyone bows their head and I keep mine up because I it feels wrong and then I look around and everyone, but everyone, has their head bowed down and I look like an atheist meerkat.

The collective consciousness makes me feel all itchy and like I should run far, far away. I don't like team building events or being called 'teamies'. That is actually something that happened at a previous place of employment. It was bestowed on the worker bee scum by the queen bee bitch to, presumably, makes us feel 'part of it'. It made me vomit in my mouth a small amount every single time.

Anyway, my point is, I don't join in. It's the same reason I hate exercise classes or communal gyms. When I'm getting sweaty I just want to me alone with my thoughts and my painful lungs. I don't want to have to do fake smiles at randoms and clean the exercise bike with dettol before I use it.

But something just occurred to me earlier. I was on the way back from the shops and I noticed that Fishergate bar is open to the public today. It's one of the five gates of the City Walls and is basically an ancient look out post. Like the history goon I am I got all excited (my heart started to actually go faster - abnormal) and pretty much ran inside, knocked all the tourists out of the way and nosed around. It's utterly fabulous inside, all garderobes onto the street, original stonework and clues to its usage over the centuries.

It's got that musty, ancient, castle smell that I adore and the stairs are so windy and unsafe that the volunteers who opened it up for the day warn you that if you die it's totally not your fault. Marvellously, you have to use a torch to get up there.

After it fell out of use as a look out, it's been home to various reprobates and randoms and, it appears, there is evidence that in Georgian times bawdy dancing occurred. It is, in short, fabulous and you can see my house from one of its windows.

Ten minutes later, I've joined 'The Friends of York Walls', sponsored a part of the restoration work, decided to write an article on it, got the guy's card and went home. So that can join my membership of 'The Friends of York Cemetery', my volunteering (hopefully) at the York Museum Library, my use of the York University library, not to mention my joining of not one, but two classes at York University, the writing I do for York-based entrepreneurs One&Other, and the Indiegogo fund I contributed to for some awesomely talented York-based film makers to take their film to Cannes.

I have been here just over a year and have joined more things than I did in 12 YEARS in Leamington. That could be because Leamington just isn't as historically interesting (sorry Leam, but you're just a gorgeous Georgian town, you can't compete with 800 year old ramparts) or it could be because I feel more at home here, even after a much shorter time.

I need to be careful lest I unwittingly join the group of Morris dancers who frequent the town centre, or end up holding my own Ghost Walk through The Shambles.

Thursday, 2 May 2013

Who's afraid of the Killer Weed?


Yesterday I woke up late. I was off work and as I didn’t have to go to the hospital and get my womb burned off I thought I’d treat myself to a little sleep in. So I got up, yawned and stretched and looked outside my bedroom window.



A woman was in my garden. 

She appeared to be poking around, walking up and down and, um, trimming the hedge with scissors. I should explain, although I call it a garden, it’s more like a tiny bit of paved wasteland. It clearly hasn't seen any love for many a year and has the remnants of an ancient compost heap against the back wall - you know that kind that has ceased to be compost and has just become another bit of the garden? That kind. It also has a falling down fence and a table upon which reside my recycling boxes. I then have a wheely bin. This excites me quite a lot. I have never ever EVER had a wheely bin before. Turns out I shouldn’t have had this one. I actually stole it. Anyway. It’s fine now.

I didn't really enjoy the fact that someone was in my garden, without telling me first. Or even at all in fact. I'm a private person, perhaps more guarded of said privacy than most, and I would just like to live in peace. I already had the estate agent visit to contend with yesterday, why now was someone in the garden?

So I go outside. I feign surprise.

"Hiiii, I'm your landlady, lovely to meet you"

"Er, hi... so what are you doing here exactly?"

"Oh, I just pop by every now and again when you're not here. I like to do the garden."

I have to say I looked askance at this. There is no garden. There literally is no gardening to do. Not even if you tried really really hard.

"Oh" I said, pointedly looking around at the cracked paving stones and feeble fuzz of plantgrowth through the slats of the fence.

"So, how often do you come?"

"Just once a fortnight"

ONCE A FORTNIGHT. What the living fuck? So my last landlord who lived in Thailand and was some kind of criminal fuckhead didn't give a shit about the flat and now I have a landlady who is apparently so obsessed with my house that she literally camps on my doorstep.

I send a strongly worded email to my estate agent. I am mere hours away from Operation Fatman. What if I had smuggled him out of my house on the way to the vet to hide him from the landlady and then ran slap bang into the fucking landlady because she apparently spends more time in my garden than I do?

She doesn't live next door, by the way. She doesn't even live in the same town. Yet somehow she finds time every two weeks to patrol my gated off back yard. Mere yards away from where a contraband kitty is snoozing?

Even if Fatman wasn't a constant round thorn in my side, I still don't feel comfortable being stalked by my landlady. It's weird. What if I go outside naked? I mean, I probably won't but I like to think I could. What about when I hang my knickers on the line to dry? Is she going to come and inspect them as well?

I mean maybe she'd like to have a root through my cupboards? Tell me I should be buying different toilet roll? Criticise my bed making technique? Check I'm flossing?

I have an overly attached landlady. After a day of Fatman transporting shenanigans - he stayed at the vets in the afternoon and the vet said that he is NOT FAT. Fatman is officially not fat. Anyway, that's not important right now. All went well. We're back home. Fatty is angry but otherwise unharmed.

And then today I get a reply from my estate agent. They tell my my landlady has said that she "only comes round because of The Weed". There is, apparently, some weed that is so vicious and triffid like that if it isn't dealt with every two weeks without fail will take over the side of the house.

Whut?

She wants to come over every two weeks and hang out in my garden because of a KILLER WEED?

Whut the fug?

She said that she will allow me to take care of THE KILLER WEED myself as long as I agree that if said KILLER WEED in any way ruins the house I am liable. I agreed to this in exchange for not bumping into her sitting on my doorstep staring at the broken remnants of the KILLER WEED.

My friend and I just went to find said weed. There is nothing there...