The other night, I took the initiative as my fella shuffled into bed. Pulling back the covers to find me wearing little more on my lap than a laptop, I demurely enquired if he fancied something for a sensitive bladder.
Granted, his response wasn’t exactly enthusiastic, but he gave it sufficient consideration to pause and ask what the catch was. Oh alright. It’s a free sample, I confessed, before proceeding with a cut ‘n’ paste diatribe on the consequences of the legal infringement of my privacy following a consultation with Dr. Google. The screen margins were festooned thereafter with ads offering character-building treatments for tearful organs.
How can they get away with this?, I Mary-Robinson-clawed, fully expecting a customary shrug of his shoulders. They were not forthcoming. Instead, I’d detonated a ‘good one’ about how a bloke he knows remarked on an official footy merchandise site he was unimpressed with the plethora of Thai Brides ads all over it. My bloke went on to have another chuckle to himself, insisting his bladder could withstand the pressure. Unlike my irrational levels of paranoia.
For reasons I don’t fully understand, I exported this blog to Twitter, and accepted an invitation from another parent at our one’s school to join their Facebook group the previous week. Which meant signing up to both. On The Same Day. All part of my new fuck-it attitude. One of those fleeting feelings I frequently mistake for will-power. Like giving over giving out about Bono, and exercising. In reality, I had committed the social media equivalent of turning up at the gym in a bathrobe wondering if I could leave my sunglasses on while taking a nap on the rowing machine without anybody noticing. It didn’t take long for the feeling to flee.
But there I was, hovering above the stab button on an offensively saccharine platitude, putting sensitive bladder treatments together with Sharon who went to St. Catherine’s but who I might like to be friends with anyway because she’s also friends with Julie who liked the aforementioned platitude, and getting an almighty Munch Scream. I legged it out of both with all the speed of someone about to wet themselves. It was the sensitive blatherer in me.
You like top 5s and German Asparagus Festivals?
So does your boss, and your mother-in-law, and your cousin Yvonne!