Day 67: I Complain About Cereal

It's the end of the world. I am spending actual and real time a) looking for cereal; and b) writing letters of complaint to manufacturers when I can't find their cereal in the shops. (Further proof, if I needed it, that I really must find something to fill the time I so obviously have too much of.)

Anyway, here's an extract* from a letter I wasted twenty minutes of my life writing this afternoon. It went via some e-mail thing to Consumer Relations at Weetabix Food Co of Kettering, Northamptonshire. (I hope they write back. They may not. But they may.)

Hello

I have a question. Can you help? Here it is:

"Why are you spending all your lovely money on advertising if Oatibix aren't available in the shops?".

...

Usually, I only respond to ads for cleaning products. (Not Cillit Bang though. I don't like the shouting man.) But I watched your ad, and thought: my breakfast prayers are answered. Weetabix! A smashing cereal product that I cannot eat because it is made of wheat ... now made of OATS! Which I CAN eat! Which GENIUS thought of this product? I salute them!

Granted, I'm not doing much at the moment. "Resting" is what it's called if you're an actor. "Not working" is what it's called if you used to do marketing and advertising and stuff, like I used to. So I've got time to go looking for Oatibix.

And I think that's why I'm so sad. I've been to eight ENORMOUS supermarkets looking for them, and my corner shop, and another shop that I thought was a corner shop, but turned out to be a Post Office that smelt of wee and sold string. No Oatibix.

I've been dropping it in to conversation with friends who live in the North (of London), and Scotland, and in the country. "Have you, you know, seen those OATIBIX things? In the shops?". They ask me what they are, and I tell them, and they say "No, but they sound good. Can you get them in London?". "No", I say, and we all fall silent, and feel sad.

...

Will you send me some Oatibix? I don't believe they're real, you see, and that makes me sad because Weetabix would NEVER lie, like John Lewis, M&S, Marmite and Fairy Liquid would never lie.

Help me keep the faith.

With brand-loyal love,

NWM


Have you seen Oatibix anywhere? If you have, my friend the successful published author Dave (read his book, it's good), wants some.

* Yes. It really was that long. The bits I left out contained dark, bad things.

Day 67: I Have Bought Some Inhumane Rodent Traps

And still the squirrels come despite exorcism, local authority pest control and voodoo. They don't actually do much, as it goes, except kill the pretty red squirrels, qwack, spread the bubonic plague and get on my tits, so maybe I should let it go. Still, this morning was Typical:

Fig. 1: Seen out of front window whilst checking electronic mail. Sits still; is joined by Squirrel Friends; runs away qwacking like a duck.















Fig. 2: I move from the front window to the back window (a journey of seconds; this is a one bedroom flat in Brixton, not a 3-bed Barratt Home in Northampton), and see this little fucker nonchalantly scratching his ear.












Coming Soon: EPISODE ONE: I awake to find my flat carpeted with squirrels that have found their way in via the chimney pot. EPISODE TWO: I invite friends and family round for luncheon. Opening the oven to remove the hearty stew I have prepared from seasonal vegetables and cheap cuts of meat, I find a nesting Squirrel Family, including Mama, Papa and five Baby Squirrels. My luncheon is delayed; the RSPCA arrive; I am arrested on a charge of animal cruelty.

Day 67: I Am STILL waiting for Curschmann's Spirals

No tobacco of any kind for twenty-four hours, despite the dirty, glorious temptation of a packet of small cigarillos in the public bar this evening.

On a sadder note, still no sign of Curschmann's Spirals. I want to cough and produce* some of the "thick, tenacious mucous plugs", but nothing's happening. Instead, I shall just have to look at another photograph of one of the little beauties, and hope that mine will be as pretty.

Right. That's enough about non-smoking until the spirals come up, at which point I will take photographs and post them on here. Are you as excited as I am? I bet you are, you little tinkers.



* "Produce" is an extremely bad word, particularly when almost next to the words "mucous" and "plugs".

Day 66: I Am Waiting For Curschmann's Spirals

I am not going to re-name this blog "Non-Smokingmonkey" as we shall all die of boredom (if the fags and sherry don't get us first), but EXTRAORDINARY news reaches me via my imaginary friend Johnnyboy, the French Canadian vet.

Apparently (and he has two Imaginary MScs, so he must be right), the grey spiral things in the shape of lung-y bits that (according to my brother), come flying out of your gob like phlegm-encased missiles when you give up smoking are called Curschmann's Spirals. Don't look it up on Google*; you'll be sick on your hands - it's a bit grim, to be frank. (You may have to read words like mucous and plugs next to each other, making mucous plugs**.)

Anyroad up, here's a picture of them/it/one of them. Pretty, isn't it/aren't they? (Imaginary Vet Friend, please clarify). Must say I can't wait. Apparently horses get them when they have heaves. Whatever they are.

Cough.

* I refuse to say "Google it"; I'm sure Google isn't a verb. Come to think of it, I don't think "e-mail" is either. And it's 10 items or fewer, not ten items or less. Honestly.

** Once we start down this route, we are Lost. Moist, moistened lips, moist gusset, soiled linen, thinly sliced, damp - you know where I'm going. Down Bad Word Avenue, that's where.

Day 65: I Am Giving Up Smoking

In three minutes.

Enough already. It never suited me, like being fat didn't (doesn't) suit me. And I smell, and cough, and may die, and all the other stuff you see on the ads on the telly.

I suppose it's like being fat, or drinking too much, or filling your face with coke every day, or sleeping with people you don't like much because you're lonely; common sense doesn't work. You only stop when you think to yourself, as you are doing whatever thing it is you do that may kill you or make you mad, "you fucking twat".

And anyway, my brother says that after you've stopped smoking for a few weeks weird shit comes out of your lungs, like grey spirals in the shape of your lung-y bits. And I'm not missing that for all the fags in China.

Cough.