Fuck shit bugger.
I'm venting steam. Just one of those fucking occasions.
Some days you expect eight penises, but five vaginas turn up instead.
Originally, I wrote FOUR. On reflection, counting them, I realised I meant EIGHT.
This is a post about post. Things in the post. Parcels, and a letter. More specifically...a card.
A parcel arrived. I expected four double-penises, but I was sent five vaginas instead of four double-dicks. These are connectors. Male-male connectors with sticky-out bits. I was promised four of them. But I received five female connectors.
Not double-vaginas. Single vaginas with big slots around the back for screwing.
I'll leave you to make up your own jokes.
Obviously, I tried to return the bag of dicks. No good. They wouldn't take the bag of dicks. Well, no. I tried to return the bag of vaginas, but I had to call them a bag of dicks when I returned them.
In trying to return the double-dick/single-vaginas, I found I couldn't. What would I do? Ask for help. I asked for help. And I was told to keep the vaginas. I'd be refunded.
Yes, these people had money to burn. They were happy, just throwing those free vaginas out there. Could I make use of them, even though I hadn't ordered vaginas? Hell, yes. Vaginas are useful.
But...
If you order chocolate cake and you are handed ice cream...okay, ice cream is nice, but you were looking forward to that chocolate cake. Not that I was looking forward to a bag of double-dicks, I hasten to add. And not that I was disappointed when five vaginas clattered through the letterbox.
Moving on...
Let's talk about hair dye.
This is the card that arrived. An invitation to a birthday party. Important. Vital. Crucial. I knew that, as FIRST CLASS was placed on the envelope in emphasis.
Maybe it was an instruction to the person sent out for stamps. Make sure you put a top stamp on this message so that it gets there in time.
Otherwise, you never need to write FIRST CLASS on an envelope that carries a stamp reading 1st.
I'd chalk this up to thoroughness, but thoroughness must be, what's that word again...oh. Thorough.
Well, I opened this envelope to discover a card. I suspected it was a late birthday card for my mother, sent by a forgetful person. That would indeed be forgetful, considering the fucking lateness of the card. If you can't get the month right, and you are more than one month out, I'm surprised you managed to snag the right year.
No. This isn't a card for her. It's an invitation to her.
Whoop-fucking-pee.
It's an invitation to a birthday event. My mother's presence is requested. If she is to attend, the time is...no, that's been scored out and the proper time is on the reverse of the card...
And that is a 1 or possibly a 2. It might be a Z or a 7.
I am fucking guessing, now. Z for. Zorro?
But there's more. For catering purposes, we have to check in by the fifth. It's the sixth. So even in attending, for catering purposes, there's no cake.
Technically, I am expected to attend so that I can look after my mother. But the invitation is for...no, it doesn't say how many people it is for.
Maybe it's not for people. Could be for chairs, or rag-dolls, or Oompa-fucking-Loompas.
The detail in this invitation lacks detail.
I gloss over the fact that the birthday girl is a lady of advancing years whose natural hair-colour clearly falls short of the dictionary definition of natural.
She's glaring out at us, from the invitation's depths.
The more I stare at this misbegotten communication, the less inclined I am to care. Time for a last straw. The venue.
It is remote. After a few calculations, I realise the only way to get there is by taxi. The nearest bus deposits travellers half a mile from the place.
Might as well be the dark side of the fucking moon. The streets are tricky to negotiate if you are elderly. Depending on traffic, I'd trot along inside mere minutes...
But my mother's non-existent walking-speed transforms the journey into a half-hour ordeal the moment she steps from the bus. And the effort of walking that far in tricky conditions...
Well, that extends the time taken. She'd have to stop for breaks. And she'd grow slower and slower. I don't see the journey done in under 45 minutes. With a lot of swearing.
The venue was chosen for its remoteness, it seems. There is no nearer bus stop. I'm talking about a place that has bus stops every two minutes. Except for this black hole, devouring even light itself. Light, and all the bus routes.
So.
That must be a taxi. Except...
Why the fuck was my mother even invited to this at all? She has dementia, and other underlying health conditions. Already, she'd been given a night off from a very important wedding she should have attended.
Everyone agreed that there was no way for her to go. And that was fine. Word, though, it seems, hasn't penetrated a few brains. Some people, and I am not naming names, should've realised it was better not to send such an invitation.
Why not?
Well, I waved this invitation in front of my mother this morning and pointed out all the bullshit. Laughter. So much laughter that the morning routine of pill-taking was kicked back by half an hour.
Fifteen minutes of laughter and fifteen minutes of...I'll get to that bit.
The laughter was essential. Why? Luckily, the dementia clouded one important fact. The birthday girl. This woman of advancing years, with the improbable hair. Why not send an invitation out to my mother? Dementia clouds a fact.
My mother just can't stand the fucking cunt.
And so, to railway matters, rounding off a fantabulous fuckling day. Damn it, I can't even write fucking day without adding a hilarious typo. This has nothing to do with railways, but...
Bath rails.
Once more, unto the breach. Having once returned a bath rail that was clearly not even fucking close to the right measurements in the description, I make haste to that dry well a second time - that I might slurp more dust from its bucket.
And a dry well this is.
I lost fifteen minutes through laughter, trying to get my mother through the birthday invitation to an event all about a fucking arsehole my mother can't fucking stand.
Then I lost fifteen fucking minutes trying to attach a new bath rail that was just shy of right. Yes, only barely wrong.
The measurements online? Why Jeeves, they were simply topping, old boy.
But when the parcel arrived, the measurements inside the box told a different story. They were out by twelve millimetres. That's not a lot. But it is enough for the purposes of this sorry saga.
I measured the bath rail, set to its minimum clamping position. The smallest gap. Yes, bang-on. The measurements were right - for the piece of paper delivered with the item.
And that made the measurements wrong for the purposes of matching them to a bath when buying online.
Fuck this.
As a temporary measure, I braced the clamp on the bath with a chunk of wood. That worked. With my full force on the rail, it was difficult to shift it.
A woman with the strength of piss-water couldn't budge the rail. This was now a question of seeing how useful the rail was. She told me it wasn't that helpful.
We had a few sample runs at it, and I guessed that would be the case - based on the space to move around in, once she was standing in the bathroom.
Ah, well, I tried.
Back it goes. And the saga of the bath rail ends here. She doesn't really need one. It might be handy. But it's proving more trouble than it is worth.
I suspect companies who sell these things...they should measure these things. That's two companies in a row, sellers, putting out products from two other companies, manufacturers, so we are talking about four different companies who are not getting this right.
What does this have to do with railways? I think I found the idea easier...that I could fit a fucking railway in there with less fuss than I had when trying to fit a fucking bath rail.
Railways, from the olden times, take me back to the topic of steam.
Fuck shit bugger.
I'm venting steam. Just one of those fucking occasions.
I'm venting steam. Just one of those fucking occasions.
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