‘Say it ain’t so’ Sunday

I give up on Tuesday’s, they’re just too boring. Believe me, they have no use whatsoever; apart from to remind you that the worst day of the week is gone: dead and buried – a dim and distant memory – a bit like Liverpool’s trophy hopes, only with more teeth.

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So, what’s a girl to do when the one day that fed her blog with its digital fodder, suddenly becomes so inane that even Wednesday shrugs its shoulders and shakes its head at it with a wry midweek grin on its chops? Well, I’ll tell you (not like on a Tuesday or anything)…

We effin’ ‘Say it ain’t so‘ on a Sunday.

Yep, you heard it here first, blog buddies: Saffi ‘Says it ain’t so‘ Sabbath-stylee.

A day of no toil, calm and dodgy dinners: so buckle up, you onesiewearing-yorkshirepuddingmaking-boxsetwatching-jobdodgers, Saffi’s coming to nudge you off the corner settee you spent the last three years paying for and make you wish you had shares in Alka Selzter; this Sapphicscribe ain’t for turning. She’s positively going Room 101 on your backsackandcrackwaxed ass!

I told you there’d be no holds barred didn’t I?

What does that even mean?

Well, I’ll let you in to a teensy-weensy secret: We gonna say what we want, when we want – and ‘when’ happens to be this goddammotherfrickinmoment right here, y’all. ‘k?

Yah-huh, thought it might be…

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You hear that sound, you sorry excuse for Sunday Saviours?

“Tick, Tock, Tick, Tock.”

The grains of hope are rapidly running out of the shattered timeglass for you feeble lot – we need the truth and we need it now!

So who’s gonna be brave and go first? It’ll only sting for a second – I promise.

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No?

Any takers?

Okay, I knew it’d be me. Afterall, that’s what I’m here for, right?

What grinds my gears? (apart from the euphemisms that people use to describe how angry they are?) What really makes my innards twist like an adder on acid and sends my crimson tide past boiling point? I’ll tell you.

You asked for it.

Empty fucking cups on soaps.

Recycled, Polyethylene corrugated drink holders with nothing in them. Why? Just, why?

They could fill them with water or cordial or something so that’s it’s slightly believable they’ve paid £2.40 for an Americanothatsnotanamericanocosithasmilkinit and haven’t suffered third degree burns to their perfectly manicured pinkies whilst carrying them back to the only factory/laundrette/pub/marketstall in the village. I mean, really? Would it take that much?

They lift them off the fake counters and they float in the air like Olive off of Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children and we’re supposed to believe that they have something in them. Do you honestly think we are that stupid? Seriously?

And how come there’s never any steam? Coffee’s hot, right? There’d be steam. So stop blowing on them and then slewing it back as if your throat’s made of asbestos – we don’t flippin’ believe you!

Enough – there’s nothing in it and we all know it.

By God’s! If I only had one of those guns from the cop shows with eighteen thousand bullets in it – I would totally use it to shoot those empty cup holders…and ten-times dead zombies.

Annnnnd breathe. Phew. It is Sunday afterall. It’s supposed to be peaceful – and harmonious – and… how come they never burn their collagen-filled lips? Huh?

Right, stop it, it’s not doing me or you any good. Nothing positive can come of this.

It used to be a Tuesday, now it’s a Sunday and there’s nothing to see here. Move along. There’s a good girl/boy/hapless village idiot.

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Happy Dossday, you feckless soap-rakes: I wouldn’t want to be the intern that’s sent out for your invisible, Cinnamon-festooned Skinny Latte.

‘Say it ain’t so, Sunday.’

Saffi

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Writer, dreamer, pantser.

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