Half way through January and statistics show that we’ve probably forgotten all about our resolutions. Queen D doesn’t do resolutions anyway – other than chucking a whole lot of things she doesn’t like into a big black hole!
Christmas at Queen D castle was, as planned, a non-event. No tree, no turkey, no presents. Bliss. The belching toxic runaway train of Christmas, with carriages packed with tat and mad-eyed children, has ground to a halt. Exhausted glittery garbage is being squirrelled away into attics for another year.
But wait! Every supermarket shelf is now stuffed with giant yellow chicks and monstrous chocolate eggs in colossal packets “in response to public demand”.
For “public”, think frenzied toddlers dressed up as adults, chanting, “No more rules! No more rules!” They’ve been so busy murdering Nanny State with all her irritating decrees about manners, restraint and not showing off, Doctor Death has slipped through the back door with his IwantIget designer bag and bottles full of Stupid pills.
The madness doesn’t stop. Once Jesus has hopped on the Easter Bunny and ascended into Cloud Cuckoo Land, we’ll pretend it’s summer for a couple of months and wear one-legged shorts and see-through bikinis in the rain. Then, before we know it, it’ll be time for giant plastic spiders and glaring pumpkins, and that dinky autumn orange and black look tinted with gore and rotting flesh. By the time the last toxic trick or treat has been hoovered up by a gang of monstrously fat child ghosties, round the corner comes the roaring train of Christmas lunacy again.
If I ruled the world, I’d divert the Christmas train and all the other loco locomotives to a giant volcanic hell hole, and any child caught wearing pink, horns or wings would be chopped up and added to my bunny casserole or Halloween hotpot.
As I don’t do resolutions – giving up anything is not Queen D’s style – the delicious idea of mad trains disappearing into giant holes of my own making got me thinking. What else could be hurled into the hole to clear the coming year?
Nude lipstick’s in already. Nature put colour on my lips when I was still in my mother’s womb. Why it’s now cool to pout mush the same colour as 99.9% of the rest of my body is quite beyond me. What next? Nude hair? Nude eyeballs?
Trump. In he goes.
Periods. In they go. Period.
Anyone who doesn’t answer invitations until the last minute, if at all. It’s so rude. Push turns to shove on the edge of the hole.
Sentences with “is the new” in them, as in “green is the new pink,” “sixty is the new forty” and “that fuckwit who ran sales is the new managing director.”
Bald frou frous. What the hell? Men are made to fight through jungles. Let ‘em work for it.
(Talking of hair, I found a treasure in a salon near me. She gave me coffee in a bucket, ruffled my mess atop, snapped her scissors and said, “This needs something strategic.” Respect.)
Drivers on motorways who overtake at 120mph and swerve over to the inside lane, gesticulating at middle lane cruisers to make some point or other. Middle finger, mate. Please, nice Mr Policeman, for once, be there. And then direct him this way, would you… to The Big Hole.
Children. I love my own. Most of the time. Especially when they’re somewhere else. I like other people’s when they play at the far end of the park/garden/house/wood and only come to the sound of a bell. Perhaps a big hole is too extreme. I’ll hire a skip with a lid and let them out now and again. But children too glued to ipads and mobiles to look up or speak go to the hole, attached to their stupid parents with giant cable ties.
Talking of which, television remote controls, cables, plugs and chargers. Toolkits of the devil, all hole-bound. If wireless is king, why does a pile of spaghetti sit behind my television? And why two remotes?
There’s a secret place where I place vital objects. It stores keys for suitcases and bicycle locks, a favourite bracelet with a broken clasp, the little piece of metal that opens the antique clock, at least one driving license and the scrap of paper table napkin with the phone number of the guy who borrowed £50. Once I place anything in the secret place, I never see it again. That secret place would be tossed in the hole right now, if only I could find it.
Slack, Yammer, Blogin, Google Hangouts, Hipchat, Asana…all in the hole. What’s the matter with email? Nothing, NOTHING is wrong with email. It works. I don’t want minimalist thought on a micro screen. I’m not a bloody pixie. Anyway, I can’t text more than a sentence because my eyeballs dry up. Email is tops.
All sugar and all plastic, in that hole. Except dark chocolate and cling film.
Any conversation about house prices, sleep and school fees. So boring. So predictable. So in they go.
Guilt. Pack it up and bung it in. Guilt about children, parents, friends. About not being good enough, doing too much and not doing enough, usually all at the same time. In in in.
While I’m at it, I’ll just add a sprinkling of unscrewable tops, unwrappable wrappers and impenetrable packaging around toothbrushes and foreign plugs.
The hole is deep and black. There’s a fire burning brightly at the bottom. There’s plenty more to go in, but perhaps, for now, I’ll take my reusable cup to the sustainable fair trade coffee machine, snap open the Tupperware to grab my organic spinach and lentil wrap, and send a few emails.
Happy new year to all you Shinies out there. May you shine brighter than ever in 2018.