May 9, 2019: Fur

Today it was the turn of the Conservatives to tell me who I should vote for in the European elections.

Apparently, they are the only clear choice.

Which is what Nigel Farage told me yesterday.

The Conservatives, the leaflet said, we going to deliver Brexit. Because they’ve excelled at that, so far. They also helpfully provided me with a list of parties who would rather we had a second referendum than the crushing misery of having to trade in bottle caps and shiny pebbles if we want to buy anything.

And yes, I have been playing Fallout in preparation.

This shredder, that we bought on a whim is really paying for itself this week.

And after today, it can just shred the rest of the political things without me even needing to look at them as my postal vote arrived today and I am all set to post it back tomorrow. So yaay for democracy and getting shit done.

I did a lot of getting shit done yesterday – like, a lot. I made a list. It was long. There was all sorts of nonsense on it – washing, ironing, cleaning, tidying, filling out forms, booking things, transferring money… as a special bonus though, because the list wasn’t long enough on its own, I also got to clear up cat sick.

Which is always fun.

Warm, fresh cat sick.

Then slightly colder cat sick that you’d missed the first time.

Sadly, though, I missed the claggy furball which had been deposited on the duvet of the spare bedroom/Carole’s office. She found that yesterday.

She was in awe of all the things I had done and then my entire day’s work was undone because I was unaware that there was enough cat hair to make a suit hacked up on the spare bed.

And it’s soaked through into the duvet itself. All green and biley, or grassy, or whatever cat juices are involved in the evacuation of internalised fur.

Which is nice.

Not sure what we do about that from here. Do people still go to laundrettes with their bedding these days? I know the places still exist but… really, do people still use them. Am I going to have to pack the duvet into a bin bag, take a book and spend several hours sitting on a wooden bench like I’m a character in EastEnders?

Apart from I’d be reading and not calling everyone a slag.