Satirical Snapshots Bringing You Whimsy On A Wednesday On A Thursday!
They say it takes three weeks to form or break a habit so I thought I’d better get back on here before I got lost in the ether and ruined your lives forever.
Thing is, I’ve had very little to tell you as adventures have been put on the back shelf whilst I get on with pressing responsibilities. Yawn.
As usual, I could keep you abreast of Kevin, a fallback for all great bloggers, but unfortunately, he’s having a meltdown. After a couple of incidents with him becoming impacted, I decided heat may be a factor. I spent a fortune on a new vivarium that housed a better lamp. Then there was the task of moving him downstairs because, being the excellent Mother of Dragon that I am, I bought a bigger unit. This also meant I had to find a suitable place with room, remove a beautiful, antique Victorian writing desk, not to mention getting involved in a road-rage incident where I nearly broke my toe, and visit every single furniture shop to find the appropriately sized table to put it on.
And what does Kevin do? He goes insane.
He spent a week on hunger strike and refused to use his house, preferring instead to bury himself like an ostrich in a corner. The lizard will not grace me with his presence and darts away every time I come within 6 feet of his viv. How dramatic.
The last year and a half of my efforts – hand feeding, singing to him, bathing him and teaching him how to be cool are all ruined. Kevin hates me.
Yet again, I had to spend more time reading up on the contrary Uromastyx only to find out that they don’t like change and you must wait it out.
Personally, I think Kevin is spoilt and ungrateful.
I’ve considered changing this blog to one concentrating on lizard husbandry since this is now my life. I could easily become the go-to person on the Moroccan Uro, probably get paid handsomely for this information, and get a job managing a reptile centre instead of taking pictures of farm animals, travelling to countries, or writing about flim-flam.
Don’t Be A Sheep
Had I been a prolific blogger, I could have delighted you with the recent pictures I took of lambs, because evidently, I have become one of those gushy people who put cute and fluffy animals on their social media accounts. Lambs are so delightful that I can’t even eat them. I’m not a massive fan of the meat to be fair, which helps, but give the thing a minute to live before you get it on the menu! I’ve got to stop looking at baby farm animals or I’m going to starve.
As you can see in the photo we have here a lamb sprayed with number 68. One of my friends asked where number 69 was. Naturally. I went back to have a look and couldn’t find it anywhere because clearly it was a sitting duck for the village deviant and had been snaffled away for nefarious purposes. Another reason not to eat lamb.
On Sunday I watched the TV show, Countryfile and they’ve gone and put me right off chicken because of the shite they eat and the toxins in their feed. That’s KFC up the spout. I’m on the verge of becoming a vegetarian, except I only like peas.
Sugar Coated Lies
Last night I watched the first episode of a series about what we eat and how we are all killing ourselves. My God, it was terrifying. There’s so much sugar in our food it’s obscene and basically, the supermarkets are deliberately trying to kill us.
Let’s take cereals. You may as well take the sugar caddy and tip it into your gob. Stressed by this, I paused the show and went to analyse my Bran Flakes. Yes, Bran Flakes. The breakfast dish that has recently become a healthy option in place of my much-loved bacon bagel.
Bran Flakes. There can’t be any sugar in those because it’s like eating cardboard. I know that there’s no sugar in them because I have to sprinkle a teaspoon on top in order to get through the ordeal without crying.
I read the packet. FOURTEEN grams of sugar per serving. You vicious, evil, lying, nasty, heart-attack inducing little cereal.
There are only eleven grams of sugar in a bloody margarita and I closed that avenue of pleasure off. It’s no wonder my personality has been sucked dry.
Based on the fact we should only have 30 grams of sugar a day, this inedible, falsifying flake takes up nearly half of my quota. I then decided to weigh a teaspoon of sugar to see what that was. SEVEN grams. I nearly had a sugar-induced stroke.
TWENTY-ONE grams of sugar consumed in the most unappetising breakfast bowl ever, and I believed eating it would make me look banging in my skinny jeans. Total lie.
Ten thirty at night, atrociously upset and ready to sue Bran Flakes, I went late night shopping to buy new cereal. The only one I could find with a trace of sugar was Shredded Wheat. Ian Botham was right all along.
I went to bed slightly comforted by the fact that the Bran Flakes were sweating in my pantry and I could feed them to the birds in the morning. But, I couldn’t get to sleep. Hours I lay in my bed worrying about the damage I’d done to myself over the years and what life would be like if I had to have my feet chopped off.
Ice cream or nice shoes? It’s a real dilemma.