Ape Shit

I have so many hormones coursing around my body! I am premenstrual in a particularly mad bovine manner and not especially nice to be around as a result.

PantyHead and I had, until this point, been getting on quite well together. I had perfected the art of the sweet smile and under-breath mutter in response to her many ludicrous requests. But today with the P.M.S she’s been seriously getting on my metaphorical g-string. I have spent a good portion of the day swearing loudly in a ‘do-you-kiss-your-mother-with-that-mouth’ way at a variety of inanimate objects. I released a string of profanities so unladylike at an aging piece of steak in the freezer that I’m certain it blushed.

It doesn’t help that the Head of Pant has resumed her obsessive blood pressure computations and consequent food Nazism. If I am to fully understand her system, sugar makes her pressure go down and salt makes it go up. So today for every scoop of ice cream consumed she has had to chase it with a spoonful of cold mushroom soup. We must then have long and protracted conversations about what she should eat next:

PantyHead: Oh, Emma, I’m hungry. What can I eat?

Me: What about a slice of toast?

PantyHead: No, toast has salt in it.

Me: Ok, what about a Banana?

PantyHead: What?

Me: BANANA. YELLOW, MONKEYS EAT THEM A BANANA! BANANA! [Use both hands to indicate curved banana shape of approximately 10 cm in length]

PantyHead: Oh, Heavens no! [Look of utter disgust]

Me: [Pondering silently] Eek, she’s misunderstood my hand signals and now thinks I am some sort of sex fiend pervert creating obscene penile gestures.

PantyHead: No, no, no! Bananas have sugar in them!

Me: Oh. [Relief.] WELL, WHAT DO YOU WANT TO EAT?

PantyHead: I don’t know...a tomato? No wait, that has sugar. Just pass me a Kit Kat.

PantyHead’s increased appetite has of course given her cause for alarm, as she is sure it indicates a hyperactive thyroid. She was immediately on the blower to the Doctor who was due to come round for some blood tests later today:

PantyHead: Hello Doctor?

Doctor: Hello, 'Mrs PantyHead'. [Obviously he doesn’t call her ‘PantyHead’ he uses her real name and immediately identifies her by the desperate tone of her creaking voice]

PantyHead: Hello, now I know you’re coming round today. What time do you think you’ll be here?

Doctor: I’ll see you at 1pm.

PantyHead: It’s just that I don’t know where I am. I’m just so hungry all of the time and…[Beep. Dial Tone]…and…[Removes from ear and stares at it in amazement] He’s hung up on me. I don’t believe it! [Said in tone of Victor Meldrew*]

That was me tickets. The look of complete stupefaction on PantyHead's face was enough to amuse me all day. Although my sense of humour failed when I stupidly gave myself a tomato-sauce bindi whilst checking if the squeezy ketchup nozzle was blocked. Note to self, this should not be done by staring straight down nozzle and squeezing the bottle hard. You will squirt tomato sauce directly between your eyes and you will look like a twat.

Now, if I can just get through the rest of today. Maybe Men’s synchronised diving will be on again? I caught 10 minutes of it earlier. I think I could quickly become an ardent spectator - am especially keen on the cheeky rear view underwater shots when the competitors have to pull up their water-displaced Speedos very quickly. Oh, dear maybe I am pervert?

*Victor Meldrew, disgruntled Retiree in British sitcom 'One Foot in the Grave'