Do The Maths

This heat is fraying my nerves like the raggedy edges of a pair of denim cut-offs.  I remember those.  I made those.  Not evenly, because I'm not gifted in that sense.  They weren't too short.  Unlike some of the shorts I see on the girls around town.  Never mind being brief enough to be mistaken for underpants, what perplexes me is that I've always been under the apprehension your shorts should be LONGER than your vulva.  When did this change?  Am I getting old?  I guess I am, and it beats the alternative.

Everyone in my household over the age of forty is irritable.  That just means me and Mr Bingells. The kids are fine, although Master Eleven has had to be just shy of being horse-whipped to complete his homework.  Mr Bingells is good at Maths, and explains it well.  I am pants at Maths, and just do my best.  Master Fourteen is a whiz at Maths, and COULD help, but chooses to tease in the process.  I finally ended up groaning that it is of little consequence that he hates Maths, because he has to finish it, and to just Get. Back. To. The. Table. And. Do. It. NOW!!!  I am bemoaning my impecuniosity; I cannot afford a tutor to help my son with this baneful subject.  Now... if everyone goes to the links in my bio, clicks, and purchases either paperback or downloads a copy of my novels, then maybe I will be able to engage a tutor, who might be better able to keep his or her shit intact whilst explaining to a recalcitrant eleven-year-old.

Sign I Might Be A Martian #1: I saw on television this morning David Beckham has been voted Sexiest Man Alive 2015, in some poll.  WTF?  I am assuming this poll was conducted among a  cross-section of vision- and hearing impaired. I really do not get this at all.  I have NEVER considered the man sexy.  He does nothing for me.  Anyone who knows me well would not be surprised because sports people excite me about as much as they would excite a Galapagos tortoise on Mogadon.  Seriously, what is the attraction of the Beckhams?  David kicks a ball around, and to this I say, 'Big fucken whoop!'  His wife was in one of the most loathsome bands of the Nineties, and her face is reminiscent of the north end of a south-bound cat.  While I'm on the subject, why do so many women gush over Benedict Cumberbatch?  He looks like he was scraped out of a field at Roswell.

What I Might Be A Masochist #1: I am about to watch The Verdict.  It's kind of a guilty pleasure hate watch thing for me.  However, tonight's panel features Anthony Mundine, and I think I am going to last about fifteen minutes into the show before giving up lest my head explode.  I already had to vacuum dog hair of the lounge this morning, and assuming I am still ambulatory after my head explosion, I don't want to be sponging brain, goo and skull off the lounge (which is reminding me of one of my favourite scenes in 'Pulp Fiction' - when Jules and Vincent had to clean 'little bitty bits of skull' out of the back seat of the car).

Oh well, let's see how long I last with 'The Verdict' tonight.