I’m beginning to wonder if there is a pill I can take. Just a little pill to stop me doing the crazy things I do. If you know me, then you’ll know the sort of things I mean. It’s not going to stop on its own it seems.
First thing this morning I flashed the milkman. Not deliberately, obviously. Milk and yogurt are important in our house but not so much that I’d exchange my body for them. I imagine after this morning the milkman would decline anyway. I’d opened the door to throw a parcel outside (too long to go into) I seriously wasn’t expecting anyone to be standing on the front porch was I? So it seemed not such a bad idea to throw on a baggy cardigan which of course gapped right open the minute I bent down. Giving the milkman an eyeful. Fortunately, I didn’t blind him.
Not me, I hasten to add.
But this has got to stop. Only a few weeks ago I was trying on some new tops that had come by mail order. I’d just thrown on a see through one, forgetting I wasn’t wearing a bra when my neighbour phoned to ask if I knew why the power had gone off and did I think it was connected to the men working at the local school. Being the good neighbour that I am, I offered to go and ask them. So off I go, totally forgetting the see through blouse and lack of bra. No wonder they conducted the whole conversation staring at my breasts.
I don’t just spend my life flashing my tits you understand. I also do other crazy things like leaving my handbag in shopping trolleys and driving home. I’ve also got confused and tried to get out of hospital car parks using the entrance ticket and have been known to crash the whole system.
I’ve taken calls from obscene phone callers and apologised that I couldn’t talk to them because I’m too busy. As you’ve guessed they’ve phoned back right away.
I need therapy or something…
I also wear clothes with the labels in them much to the irritation of my friends. Don’t ask me why because I don’t know. It’s got something to do with this idea in my head that the item may need to go back to the shop. Friends are always tucking them in and tutting at me.
I always carry a spare pair of undies in my bag (clean of course).
My house is squeaky clean while my car looks like a bomb has hit it. I have a car radio that turns itself off every fifteen minutes and I refuse to get it repaired. It sort of fits me. I’m eccentric is all, right?
I leave the house locking the front door, but leaving the back door wide open…
Is there a pill? Or is it men in white coats I need?