Now We Are 2

Hooray, lazypuffhead is two years old today! Perhaps it has become a misnomer, as, frankly, I’m not as lazy as I once thought I was. Yes, I puff but that is not what defines me. Yes, I make errors but so does everyone else and they don’t even have an excuse! So perhaps I am easing up on myself a bit and realising that I’m only human and not such a terrible one at that. I feel the ‘lazy’, ‘bored’ period has now, at long last, started drifting away and a better me, still the same me, still the puffing me, is emerging. Whilst I was away in Spain last week, I visualised a better job waiting for me when I came home and another client or two – the day after I came home, I got a job offer from one of my clients, one that entails them actually wanting ‘another pair of eyes’ on their projects, something I’ve never been asked for in all these years of transcribing. That same day I got another new client, work should be arriving this week. At the same time I have been pre booked for work throughout the summer and things are better than they’ve been since before the country went broke. In terms of the ’emotional guidance scale’, I am now above ‘boredom’, which is the realm of excitement and expectation and there are no lions on my path, only angels.


Earth Angels

My friend Sonal had a nightmare this week; as she was pulling up to the house in her car, she lost concentration and smacked her rear into a parked car. On inspection the damage was fairly minor, but fearing her husband’s reaction, she completely flipped out. She went to get the car cleaned and asked the guy if he could get the scratches off, not realising that the car was actually dented too. Knowing that her old colleague’s son is a panel beater, she rang her and was told to go to his workshop immediately. When she arrived she was told that he had 12 cars to get through, so therefore had no time to do the work there and then – which, as it happened was not an option for her anyway. However, he did offer, for the mate’s rate of two hundred quid, to come and collect the car from outside her house at midnight and return it by around 4 a.m. She left the spare key and the cash in the glove box and went to bed. The plan was executed and when she woke up the following morning and looked out of her window, it was as though the panel beater angels had been in the night and a miracle had occured. Heart warming.

** SORTED **

** SORTED **


Dicing with Death

There has been little to no chaos in recent weeks, which I think has been due to the fact that I’ve done fuck all of any note. Last week I received a call from Mrs Gloop, a ‘mother’ from Son’s school, asking if I could take her kid to a party (which was today). ‘Of course’, I said, ‘I  can do both ways, so don’t worry.’ Needless to say, she was delighted. This afternoon I took a look at the invitation and to my dismay, found it to be in Hertford, which for a dual-carriageway/motorway phobic driver/passenger, is a complete nightmare. The mother duly dropped her kid, Augustus, over around 4.00, by which time my route was planned and I was feeling confident. As I was driving along and darkness was descending, I felt nauseous, my heart was pounding, I couldn’t breathe, I was hot, my hands were gripping the wheel and my head was saying, ‘Stay calm, you can do this, everything is okay.’ I managed to find the venue (which was actually a very long way down a country lane) and then I began my journey home. I recognised where I should have taken a right but was uncertain if it was actually a one way and so I kept driving and driving and driving … and driving. I eventually started to follow Hertford (which seemed sensible given the options) and some time later started following Hatfied and found my way home. But of course now I’ve got to go back again in the next two hours – although Honey has agreed to risk his life and accompany me, so I feel a bit better – and all because I was too fucking stoned to look at the invitation and make a sensible arrangement in the first place.



Happy 13th, Son

Son is 13 today. How time flies! During Son’s first few months we thought he was deaf; we would shout his name and clap but his face would remain dead-pan, then one day he started laughing and we realised he had just been cocking a deaf ‘un. Once he started talking, he put the letter ‘b’ at the beginning of every word and used words like ‘bitch’, ‘bastard’ and ‘bollocks’ liberally – concerned, I googled, ‘What age does Tourettes start?’ and was relieved that it was not in infancy. Son was the friendliest little kid, wherever he went people would know his name by the time he left. By the end of primary school he had lost a lot of his confidence, as the system ground him down. He’s not a school person but secondary is definitely an improvement. He is an excellent musician, he plays piano, guitar, bass and drums and also composes beautiful piano pieces and edgy guitar riffs. During his primary years he would hide himself behind a fat kid or place himself halfway out the door – in next month’s school production he will be forced front of stage to do a guitar solo – my birthday wish for my son is to have the confidence and enthusiasm to do the things he loves and to let his light shine because he’s shinier than he knows.

Time Waster

I’ve told you about my hand problems but I haven’t told you about the chaos that has ensued as a result of my visit to the GP. On presentation, she told me that I had a specific disease and that it was in no way related to my use of neat bleach on my hands when doing the cleaning. The day after my visit to see her, all my ‘symptoms’ miraculously disappeared. However, I got on to my private health people and got a claim form, found a consultant (who I chose because he looked like Barry Gibb circa 1970, complete with brown beard), got the referral filled in by the GP (yet to be collected and fee paid) and then found out that my excess is £250 – ah, maybe that’s why my premiums are so low!? I decided to put the whole sorry business on the back-burner, during which time I have used bleach again and lo and behold, I have had what I would have called a ‘severe attack.’ So obviously this is good news because it means I’m not sick (except perhaps in the head) but it is also potentially bad news because insurance companies being as they are, something has now gone down on my records and there’s nothing even wrong with me. When stoned goes bad.

** NO, REALLY **


Mucking About

In the interests of saving a bit of the money, I have undertaken an experiment.

However, mid way through week two have deemed it an abject failure.

I buy three bags of weed a week, so I thought I would try and cut it down to two.

In week one, doubtful of my success, I bought three and stashed one in a jar.

I score on a Friday and by last Thursday I was clean out, so I smoked from the stash.

Last week, I bought three, stashed one and now, Wednesday afternoon, my hand is back in the pot.

Conclusion; fuck it.



Colin the Cat Flap Fitter

The time had come to get a cat flap, Ted’s nocturnal behaviour finally wore us down. I googled a few local glaziers to get some quotes and I presented them to Honey, who did his own search and came up with Colin, ‘What’s wrong with Colin?’, he said, ‘Absolutely nothing?’, said I and I gave him a call. By the time I arrived home, Colin had turned up in his old orange van. He looked like Captain Caveman, with no front teeth, he looked 64 but was actually 52. He convinced us to go for a PVC panel, which was great because it meant he could do it on the spot – deal. He attacked the back door and fitted the flap and we chatted about life and as I had just been to the GP’s with my hand problem, I told Colin that my hands were freezing all the time. He told me that he had the opposite thing, that he had two hot spots on the palms of his hands and he approached me to place them on my face – it was true, they were burning! He went on to tell me that the linseed putty he uses makes his hands soft and likewise his lips, when he casually brushes his hand over them … okay … after he left, he text me to say how easy I was to talk to, how he wished he’d had a toke of my spliff ‘so I could see what it’s like inside your head’ and the following morning he text me to say that his hands were hot, ‘Stop me if I say too much’ … ‘Colin, you say too much.’



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