I had planned to devote a significant portion of today working on my bio and dedications for my upcoming novel 'Howling On A Concrete Moon'. I did not do this. I guess life got in the way, as it is wont to do.
What I did do was run errands and marvelled at the stupidity and gormlessness, and downright fuckwittery of some of the populace of my town, such as the lazy bint at Woolworths who got in her Kia and left the shopping trolley in the adjacent parking space, when the trolley bay was about ten metres away. This is a pet peeve of mine, and there is nothing like the aggravation you feel when you see what appears to be a parking space, so you indicate only to find some lazy twat-waffle has left a shopping trolley there! I can almost understand it at my local Woolworths car park - it is the lousiest car park in the Southern Hemisphere with a hilly and potholed surface that purports to be tarmacadam-treated, but is in reality less fraught than negotiating an Angolan land mine field. It is understandable that if you were parked in the furthest corner from the trolley bay you'd be inclined to just leave your trolley in a tiny nook in the park, thus not obstructing a parking space and not having to do the dance of the cacky-wheeled trolley as you wrestle the contraption back to the trolley bay. But not so much this lazy bag of dirt; no wonder her arse looked like two dogs fighting under a blanket if she couldn't be bothered walking ten metres.
I did see the men working on the drains in my street, thus giving credence to the adage the squeaky wheel gets the grease. The squeaky wheel is different to the cacky wheel mentioned in the preceding paragraph in this post. The squeaky wheel, in case you're a thicko like that woman in the Kia, is a metaphor for the person who makes a lot of noise about something with which they are disgruntled. Mr Bingells and I have been making some noise to our local council about the state of the drains in our street, and have had cause to ring complaining during two recent heavy downpours. It is indeed gratifying to see some work being carried out on those drains, and maybe they will be rendered USEFUL next time we get hit with the vicious intense deluge those shelf clouds like to dish out.
Right now I'm a tad tired, so won't bother writing my bio. It's too complex to think about at the moment. My dedications is a touch more easy; my late father will be at the top of the list, and of course my younger son must be mentioned as he named the novel for me. At the risk of making a passive-aggressive vague social media post, something that makes me squint like Forest Whitaker when I see someone else do it, the list of dedications/acknowledgements will be a tad shorter than it has in the past. This is not my fault, but if people want to stir up trouble and be toxic bags of bile about things they have no real business being toxic bags of bile about, then they can no longer expect to be on the dedications list. Believe it or not, I didn't type that with my tongue poking out in a gesture of petulance and pique.
Oh well, off to make kids' lunches for tomorrow, and play a few games of online Boggle on my iPad. I've become a bit addicted to is.
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