January 2009 Archives

January, month of misery brought on by chronic poverty, lack of daylight, freezing temperatures and that general post-holiday blues feeling. Yuk hoik spit.

It's also the month I lost my fizz, my oomph, my yeeehaa feeling. Don't know what happened to it, it just disappeared without a trace. Bursts of enthusiasm took to reading the newspaper, and motivation has just gave up altogether and oozed across the living room carpet like an oil slick. The dog keeps growling at it.

Also, I can't be entirely sure that my fizz, my oomph, my yeehaa feeling didn't take a companion with it.

I suspect it's made off with my sanity.

DAY 4 without Oomph

I've conducted a thorough search for my oomph over the last few days. I've looked under the bed in case it fell out during the night. I've looked in the garden in case the dog took it outside and buried it. I've even searched the kitchen, even though I'm not in there much (except to create gas explosions and carbon-coloured food).

I've advertised locally: "REWARD FOR THE RETURN OF LOST OOMPH," but nobody's yet come forward. Maybe a fiver's not enough. I'm hoping one of the neighbours will come round holding it between finger and thumb, saying 'Is this yours?' in a really sneering fashion and telling me its been wrapped around their table leg for the past week.

I imagine it shivering under a bush somewhere, lost and a bit blue looking. I visualise it tramping the cold, dark streets trying to find its way home. I leave the hallway light on at night, just in case. I'm hoping it took the door key with it. I lay out a glass of milk and biscuits before I go to bed hoping maybe Father Christmas will bring it back if there's enough incentive (well he's got nothing else to do has he).

Its quite difficult surviving without it. I'm expected to do things, like work, possibly chores, some reading, a lot of computing, but I just sigh and flop around like a limp balloon, bereft of enthusiasm or energy.

I am an empty shell of oomphlessness.

DAY 8

The last few days have been a bit odd, a bit lacking in enthusiasm-type stuff. I had a sudden surge of work and was typing my little socks off - not that typing off socks helps in any way, it's a psychological thing - then it all suddenly stopped and I was a bit stunned and felt like an extra in Shaun of the Dead for a bit... looked like one too to be honest.

Tried giving myself a pep-talk in front of the bathroom mirror, but was distracted by Husband standing behind me asking, "Why do you look like an extra in Shaun of the Dead? And what's that stuff on the floor the dog keeps barking at? And are you going to be much longer only I need to shave?"

DAY 11

I've received some information about my Oomph. Apparently its been seen in a pub in Edgbaston, slumped against the bar and telling all and sundry what a terrible life its had... ungrateful little sod. It was gone by the time I turned up with a cage and a cattle prod.

I've also received an email: "We have your Oomph. Deposit £1,000 in a plain envelope and leave it on the Floozie in the Jacuzzi by 5pm today, or the Oomph gets it."

I replied: "Having just paid my extortionate tax bill I doubt I have 1,000 pennies let alone pounds, but I do have 1,000 phrases to describe how I feel about the Inland Revenue, will that do?"

As yet, no reply.

DAY 21

Oomph is back! I found it lying face down on the bedroom floor this morning. I nudged it with my toe, hissing "And where the berluddy hell have you been?", but it just flipped me the bird. That's when I did some fancy football kick and splattered it against the wardrobe door. It's still there.

There was a note on my kitchen table: "Where's the milk and cookies?" I suspect Father Christmas brought Oomph back. This is confirmed by an unnamed source who sounded suspiciously reindeer-ish when they rang me this morning to tell me what happened.

So what happened was, Oomph was in some pub in Harborne, slagging off the customers and being offensive, when Father Christmas burst in, all ruddy faced. Rudolph had apparently tracked Oomph down because Oomph kept sending Rudolph rude messages on his mobile phone. Father Christmas wasn't pleased because he'd been getting some right earache from Rudolph about it and he was trying to rest after all the frantic festivities.

So anyway, Father Christmas grabs Oomph by the scruff of the neck - or around the neck region anyway since Oomph doesn't actually have a neck - and shook it quite firmly. "You Oomph?" FC asked, "Brummie Broad's Oomph?" Oomph promptly hurled up all over FC's snazzy Santa outfit. FC furiously tossed Oomph into an empty sack (empty because its no longer Christmas, try to keep up) and dragged it out to his sleigh, which was causing a major traffic jam on Harborne High Street.

Father Christmas brought Oomph home last night, landing his sleigh in the bog that used to be my garden and fighting his way past a comatose dog at the back door. When he let Oomph out of the bag, it ran around swearing and gesticulating, so FC told it to Get To Bed. Oomph flounced up the stairs and collapsed in a heap - or a squelch - on my bedroom floor, where I found it this morning.

So Oomph is back, although not much use at the moment. I've tried scraping it off the wardrobe door, but it clings on, screaming, "Just fark off and leave me alone! And bring me another beer!" You just can't get the oomph these days.

Until its back to full capacity, I'll just keep taking the tablets.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday (Oomph allowing)
Brummie Blogs: Hanging out there rest of time

I'm anosmic. I have no sense of smell. I've never had any sense of smell, ever. Its congenital, I was born that way. For me the world of smells just doesn't exist. Period.

But my own mother has never quite believed it. I'm sure she thinks its some childhood prank that's carried on for a bit too long. I gave her some flowers once and she said, "Oh they smell lovely don't they."

"I don't know, mom."

"Here, smell them," she insisted.

"I can't smell, remember?"

"Oh, still not?"

"No, mom, but any day now." Tsk.

My mother buys me aromatherapy sets as presents, I suspect to try and catch me out.

"Nice colour," I tell her.

"What about the smell?"

"What about it?"

"Do you like it?"

"Well if Hubs sniffs my neck after a bath and smiles, I'll assume it's nice. If he collapses in a dead faint, probably best to avoid it in future."

Or my mother will suddenly gasp, "You're wearing perfume! I thought you said you couldn't smell!"

"Hubs bought it for me," I say, "It could be Au de Poo for all I know and he's just trying to keep other men away."

"Get a real Christmas tree this year," my mother said recently, "They smell so nice."

Honestly, you could craft a Crimbo tree from cow manure and I wouldn't know the difference.

"She really can't smell," Hubs often tells her. "Trust me, some of the stuff I've let off in bed, any normal woman would have killed me a long time ago."

"What do you mean, any normal woman?" I ask.

We went out for a pub lunch yesterday. As we got out of the car, famished and frozen, my mother said, "Oh you can smell the food can't you."

"No," I laughed.

"Oh yes," she said, suspiciously, "You can't smell can you."

"No, mom."

"Maybe when you give up smoking you'll be able to smell again."

"I've never been able to smell, mom."

"Haven't you?" she asked, like this was something new she'd never heard before.

"No, mom."

"I don't remember you ever mentioning that you couldn't smell when you were little."

"Well I clearly remember telling you when I was about seven or eight," I said, "And you didn't believe me then either."

"Oh it's not that I don't believe you," Marmee said, half-heartedly.

"What is it then?" I asked, "Do you think I've been lying for the last thirty-odd years?"

"Maybe you just don't have a very good sense of smell."

"I have zero sense of smell, mom."

"Maybe if you tried harder."

I don't know what it is that makes my mother question my veracity. It's not like I'm claiming to have seen the face of the Virgin Mary in my soap or declared that I'm being abducted by aliens on a regular basis. Maybe she's disappointed to have produced an offspring with fewer than average senses, who knows.

All I know is that my Own Mother doesn't believe me.

Sniff.

Brummie Broad: Here every Tuesday
Brummie Blogs: There rest of time.