There are a number of things that annoy me.
People who are rude, and stampede over me at tube stations annoy me, especially when they're females with stilettos, mincing along with a barbie-pink suitcase on wheels behind them, which usually hits me a micro-second after afore-mentioned stiletto. (Why pink? Why, for the love of sanity, does anyone want to gallop around the bloody London underground looking like they're waiting for Ken? Answers on a post-card.)
The couple that having sucking face every time I step outside the office building annoy me. It's not so much the kissy, but the kissy noises, which do nothing for anyone's appetite. If you insist on PDA's to the point of looking like you're auditioning for a low-budget porn, please keep the noise level down. It's like listening to an octopus being flung violently against a washing machine window. It's really, really annoying. (Also, I keep wondering how the hell they breathe. There are professional free-divers who can't hold their breath for that long.)
Having a variation of the spawn of satan trundling around my bedroom annoys and terrifies me in equal measure. The last thing any arachnaphobe needs is to see part of the floor moving gently towards her bed, her wardrobe, or her giant bunny slippers. It's cruel and incites violence.
Over and above all of these, what really gets my goat, dear reader, is being sick. I've been migraine-free for weeks now (pause for happy dance), and I've loved it. And today, I've got a lovely dose of the latest flu bug. (End happy music.)
I hate feeling weak and shaky. I hate feeling like my bones have been hollowed out and filled with broken glass, and that every part of my body feels like it's been systematically pounded on by a crazed goblin with a nail-studded club. I detest the coughing, the head-ache, and looking like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer's second removed cousin.
I sulk over the cost of medication that I know damn well won't do a thing to cure me, and at most will hopefully move the bugs out of my system faster, and I loathe being house-bound for illness. I've quite happy to curl up at home of my own accord. Take away the free-will aspect of that, and I feel like rolling on the floor and biting the carpet.
So I'm stuck in bed, feeling miserable, and entertaining the ultimate revenge fantasy: one day, I will find a way to enlarge a flu virus large enough to infect the evil thing with a human. Let's see how it likes the feeling.
People who are rude, and stampede over me at tube stations annoy me, especially when they're females with stilettos, mincing along with a barbie-pink suitcase on wheels behind them, which usually hits me a micro-second after afore-mentioned stiletto. (Why pink? Why, for the love of sanity, does anyone want to gallop around the bloody London underground looking like they're waiting for Ken? Answers on a post-card.)
The couple that having sucking face every time I step outside the office building annoy me. It's not so much the kissy, but the kissy noises, which do nothing for anyone's appetite. If you insist on PDA's to the point of looking like you're auditioning for a low-budget porn, please keep the noise level down. It's like listening to an octopus being flung violently against a washing machine window. It's really, really annoying. (Also, I keep wondering how the hell they breathe. There are professional free-divers who can't hold their breath for that long.)
Having a variation of the spawn of satan trundling around my bedroom annoys and terrifies me in equal measure. The last thing any arachnaphobe needs is to see part of the floor moving gently towards her bed, her wardrobe, or her giant bunny slippers. It's cruel and incites violence.
Over and above all of these, what really gets my goat, dear reader, is being sick. I've been migraine-free for weeks now (pause for happy dance), and I've loved it. And today, I've got a lovely dose of the latest flu bug. (End happy music.)
I hate feeling weak and shaky. I hate feeling like my bones have been hollowed out and filled with broken glass, and that every part of my body feels like it's been systematically pounded on by a crazed goblin with a nail-studded club. I detest the coughing, the head-ache, and looking like Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer's second removed cousin.
I sulk over the cost of medication that I know damn well won't do a thing to cure me, and at most will hopefully move the bugs out of my system faster, and I loathe being house-bound for illness. I've quite happy to curl up at home of my own accord. Take away the free-will aspect of that, and I feel like rolling on the floor and biting the carpet.
So I'm stuck in bed, feeling miserable, and entertaining the ultimate revenge fantasy: one day, I will find a way to enlarge a flu virus large enough to infect the evil thing with a human. Let's see how it likes the feeling.
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