I have been sans voice all week. Something I am sure has brought annoyance and joy to people I know in equal numbers.
Many of my work colleagues, while sympathetic, took amusement in my ailment and questioned if my voice had broken again. Considering a delivery man called me “love” twice last weekend (he heard me, but didn’t see me), maybe I could do with dropping a few octaves.
I have been getting my words out by whispering or shouting; although when I do try and raise my voice, I am barely able to rise above the decibels of a sneezing gnat.
When I am not bellowing like an earthworm, I have discovered that another means of communication is to write down what I would like to say, using my mobile phone or a computer, should I find myself sat in front of one.
One of those text-to-speech contraptions would certainly be helpful right now. I am, however, aware that this would effectively turn me into Stephen Hawking. I already get around on wheels, I wear glasses and share his IQ score.
That said, there is one major difference – I don’t wish to sound morbid, but fear it will be impossible – I am not dead. While he was alive, I think Professor Hawking’s reasons for not talking, were a tad more complex than a bout of laryngitis.
I am doped up on cough pastilles and Strepsils. An Olbas Oil nasal stick has been giving me a major head rush, everytime I stick it up my snout. If they ever make a Trainspotting 3, the druggies should throw their heroin in the dustbin and move onto the harder stuff – Olbas Oil.
I have even been prescribed antibiotics, under strict instructions only to take if I become more unwell. Mercifully, the antibiotics remain unopened.
Normally I wouldn’t be too bothered about losing my voice for a few days. It’s rather nice to be a mute for a little bit and is a fabulous excuse to avoid talking to people, who I would rather not engage with.
This time, however, I would quite like to regain the use of my vocal chords. I have an important event to attend in the next few days – one I need my voice for. All will become clear soon, but I can confirm that despite the rumours, I am not auditioning for X Factor.
Last night, I had a bizarre dream. I am aware this is the second one in the space of a few weeks. Maybe I should lay off the BabyBel before bed.
This dream was totally different to the one from last month, which involved me attempting to configure Amazon Prime on a Smart TV.
Gabrielle may have once sung how “dreams can come true”, but in this instance, they definitely won’t.
I dreamt that I had discovered the football manager, David Moyes, had been responsible for the kidnapping of Madeleine McCann.
Now, before I write any further, I would like to get one thing straight.
I know that a lot of sick jokes have been made about the child’s disappearance in 2007.
I am also aware that David Moyes is often the victim of a lot of football “banter” (I hate that word).
Unlike the McCann jokes, which are always unacceptable, I have seen some very humorous material online, made at poor Dave’s expense.
This blog post is recounting a strange dream I had. It is not an attempt to, in any way, laugh at or upset David Moyes.
Dreams are not real. If they were, I would own Leeds United, keep thousands of bunnies and frequently crash canal boats.
Confused? Study this.
Understand now? Good.
David Moyes did not kidnap Madeleine McCann… although he did in my dream… but that wasn’t real.
You may be wondering who the slightly balding, bespectacled gentleman in the photo is.
This is the hero behind Leeds United’s rival – Marcelo Bielsa. I may have mentioned him on here once or twice… OK, maybe a bit more than that.
In my dream about David Moyes and Madeleine McCann (remember, a DREAM, not REAL), upon my discovery of the kidnapping, I ran to alert Bielsa, who, presumably was some sort of detective.
The fact I could run, just shows how unreal my dream was – not to mention the fact that Marcelo had somehow become some kind of Sherlock Holmes.
I cannot recall if or how David Moyes was apprehended, although I do know that I had to ride a zipwire.
Claire and I have spent two Sunday afternoons in front of the telly, watching cricket over the past two months – the World Cup Final and the end of the Third Ashes Test.
Today, we spent another Sunday watching the sport – this time, the final day of the Fourth Ashes Test.
The first two Sundays resulted in very impressive, but totally unexpected positive results for England.
This Sunday, along with every England cricket fan in the land, Claire and I hoped and prayed for another miracle. England needed to avoid defeat to Australia, to avoid losing that little Ashes urn.
Those who don’t follow cricket no doubt think it’s absolutely mad, how everyone is getting wound up by a tiny jar of burnt wood.
Things looked unlikely, but so did the previous two times, when somehow things went England’s way.
Unfortunately, things were third time unlucky for England, who were unable to perform a third miracle.
What a waste of a Sunday.
I was emailed this picture by a work colleague today.
Is it possible for something to be as cute as it is heinous?
Our new Simba mattress stinks! Some of you may ask what we expected, purchasing a mattress named after a wild animal.
We first noticed the smell upon unpacking the thing. It is certainly an unusual aroma – definitely manufactured. We even described it as nice at the time.
The smell lingered, but appeared to be dispersing. By early morning, I awoke stupidly early at 5am, feeling very sick.
My initial thoughts were “Great. A vomiting and shitting bug. That’s all I need”. As I slowly awoke, gaining realisation that the contents of my stomach and bowel were content to remain where they were, I discovered the chemical smell from Simba had become an overpowering stench!
We sleep with the bedroom door closed. Therefore, maybe rather naively, the room was not being ventilated while we slept. Coupled with the fact that yesterday evening was a bit on the chilly side, causing me to wrap myself up in the duvet, only to awake overheated, as if my bed was on fire.
This is thanks to this morning’s weather deciding it would give us another warm day, despite September well and truly being upon us. The hot weather is like a drunk girl at a party. All sensible people have had enough of her and wish she would just leave, so that they can chill with the cool new girl, Autumn; but Pisshead Summer won’t get the hint and go home…
Anyway, what I am trying to say is that this morning, I woke up too hot, which contributed to making me feel nauseous.
Luckily, all was fixed by opening the bedroom door for a bit and returning to sleep. I now feel my old self and should therefore really stop blogging, climb off of Simba and get ready for work!
About Me
So you stumbled across my blog. No doubt after searching for something bizarre on Google. Before you hit that 'Back Button', why not stay and have a read for a few minutes?
If you are after a website which gives advice on how to hack an iPhone X, download the latest Steven Seagal movie, or view nudy ladies, you've come to the wrong place and may now press 'Back'.
However, if you would like a lifestyle blog, written by a 30-something chap, living in Bath (England), feast your eyes on this.
You won't discover how to copy PlayStation 4 games. What you will find is a blog, covering life in the West Country, the highs and lows of supporting two unsuccessful football teams, while sharing a house with a wife and rabbit.
All written by a man, somewhere on the sanity-scale between normal and eccentric.
