All posts for the month June, 2012

The Littlest Me

Published June 30, 2012 by KalamityK

I could start at the beginning but I’m not sure how much I remember. I remember bits here and there but it’s a little bit vague before the age of about 8. I have been told some stuff which helps so maybe I’ll start at the beginning and see where it takes me.

I was born in 1972. That means I’m 40 this year! Well old! Except I’m still waiting to grow up ‘cos I don’t think I have yet. Anyway, I was born into a family of 3 so my arrival made 4. I arrived to find I had a mum, a dad and older brother.


I don’t remember but apparently life wasn’t very happy in our house and my parents got divorced when I was 2.

I don’t remember ever living with my dad but mum tells me I was a daddy’s girl. My big brother was 5 so he has some memories but I don’t think they’re all particularly nice ones.

After the split, we lived at my granddads for a while, in the house mum was born in.  I think I was happy. I don’t have any memories of not being happy.  I do have a few memories of infant school.

I remember playing kiss chase in the playground. I always chased the same boy. Kevin B. I loved Kevin but Kevin didn’t love me. Whenever the game was reversed, I would stand still so he could catch me and kiss me but he always ran off after my friend Janine instead.  I didn’t give up though. As far as I was concerned he was my boyfriend. It was my first introduction to unrequited love! Thankfully I’m not the stalker I was at the age of 5. I no longer stick around where I’m not wanted!

I remember one day at school they gave us curry for dinner. This was the 70’s. Curries weren’t established as Britain’s favourite food at that point. It really wasn’t nice. The dinner lady had to cut it. Seriously? The fact that they had to cut it shows they weren’t doing it right. So there was this square block of curry on my plate. There was no way I was going to eat that. Not in a million years. I stood my ground and no matter how hard the dinner lady tried to force that stuff into my mouth, I was having none of it. I could sit at a table and refuse to eat for hours and hours if I had to. I had quite a few meal time strikes as a child and this was one of the first. I won. You couldn’t fault the puddings though!

I also remember us going into the playground on Pancake Day.  I have this video clip in my head of us kids all in a line, each holding a tiny little frying pan. Whether they were real or toys I don’t know, but within each pan was a little pancake. They were real. The teachers must have cooked them previously for us. They took us outside so we could flip them into the air and I remember one of the pancakes getting stuck on a tree branch. The rest of the pancakes must have been flung all over the playground. Maybe taking us outside was a good idea after all. It was a fun day.

I remember a conversation I had with the dinner lady in the playground when I was 5. My mum was getting married and I was going to be bridesmaid! I used to go and hold the dinner lady’s hand and walk around with her. I think it made me feel special. I was so excited about being a bridesmaid at my mummy’s wedding that I must have told her my big news for a few days on the trot because one day she turned to me and said ‘Yes I know… but when?!’ Maybe she was sick of hearing me talk about it. But it made me think. I didn’t know when. Just soon and that was good enough for me.

I remember going to the toy library. I must have been only 3 or 4. It was at the bottom of the hill past the school. Once a week, mum would take us down there to choose a toy which we then got to play with for a whole week.Then we’d go back and either renew it or get a new one. I can remember choosing a rattley ball on a stick and pushing it back up the hill. It had lots of little coloured things inside which went round and round and round as you pushed it and it made clickety-clack noises as it went. I was so pleased with it. I felt so happy as I pushed it back up the hill. I loved that toy library and when I grew up and had my own little boy, we lived quite close so I took him there too.

One day I spotted my friends down the hill so I ran down to meet them and as I ran I sped up, my body going too fast for my little legs and suddenly my feet went out from under me. I tumbled to the ground and ended up with stinging grazed palms, a bump on my chin and bloody, gravel-filled knees. My friends were forgotten. I got up, saw the blood running down my leg and turned around, crying and limping back up the hill to the safety and comfort of my mums’ arms. I HAD to get to my mum. She’d make it better.

I have a vague recollection of the Queens Silver Jubilee in 1977. Just along the road from our house was a big green area. For the Jubilee, the grownups had set up a street party or some sort of fayre. I just remember there were tyre swings and lots of little triangle flags everywhere you looked and cake. I wasn’t allowed to go on the green on my own as I was only 5 so I think I was with my brother. I still have the Silver Jubilee coin that us kids got given. I found it the other day in a little bag along with the coin from Charles and Diana’s wedding.

When I was little I wasn’t allowed to cross the road on my own and on the other side of the road, in the gutter, was a dead cat. Some local kids were all standing around looking at it and I wanted to see it too. I’d never seen anything dead before and it was too far to see properly from my side of the street. I was curious. My brother could cross the road because he was 3 whole years bigger than me. He went to look at it but when I asked him to come and get me and take me over he wouldn’t. Mums’ rule about not crossing the road on my own was like an impenetrable barrier. I just couldn’t step off the kerb.

We went to the church down the road and because mum was a single parent with two small kids she got support from the vicar and his family. My brother and I would go down the road to the vicarage and play with the vicars kids. These kids turned out to be not very nice.  I think there were quite a lot of them. They had this nice garden to play in with a big sandpit in it. One day when we were there, we went to play in the sandpit but we couldn’t because a dog had used it for his business. Rather than tell the vicar so he could clean it up, his kids went and told him that it was ME! I was absolutely mortified and pleaded my innocence. It wasn’t me! I would never do that! But he chose to believe his children, as they were all saying the same thing. He grabbed me by the arm and dragged me inside. I cried and cried and pleaded with him to believe me but he didn’t listen. He got a cane or a paddle or it might have been a wooden spoon, I can’t quite remember what it was, and smacked me with it on my bare backside. I was about 4 years old. I was humiliated and embarrassed and shocked that he could ever believe it was me and shocked that his kids, who were supposed to be our friends, would tell such a mean lie and not own up even when they heard my cries through the window. Maybe it wasn’t a dog. Maybe it was one of the them which is why they blamed me. I don’t know why they did it but it was my first memorable life lesson that some people were bad and would hurt you for no reason. 

After that I had a real hang up about the subject of poo. It embarrassed me.  I still don’t like to talk about it but I’ve trained myself not to react or get embarrassed when it becomes conversation.  30 years later when I told that story, my mum thought I’d imagined it or was remembering a bad dream but then my brother piped up and said he remembered it too. Thanks bro, I was convinced I hadn’t made it up!


Lucky for us that mum didn’t stay single! We still had our old dad (Bio) and saw him and his new family every weekend but now we had a new dad (Non-Bio) as well and didn’t need to go to the vicarage so often. Mum and dad got married and I was a bridesmaid. After the wedding had happened and life returned to normal, my brother wanted to wear his wedding suit to school. It was bright red and very cool and he wanted to show it off to his mates. Mum said he could but when I asked to wear my bridesmaid dress to school, she said no! WHAT? I was so cross. It wasn’t FAIR! Why could he wear his wedding clothes to school but not me? I didn’t understand that going into school in an floor length silky dress with added muff to keep my hands warm was slightly inappropriate whereas red denim trousers and a matching jacket wasn’t quite the same. I wanted to go dressed like a princess!

My granddad had a dog. She was a little poodle named Candy. In the summer when the ice cream van would come, we would hear the music and run back to our houses to ask our mums if we could have an ice cream. It was a nervous run because you wanted an ice cream so badly but you just had no idea if the answer today would be yes or no. The excitement and anticipation was almost too much. When you got there and mum said yes.. well… that was the best thing EVER! You got your few pennies and ran back as fast as you could to stand in the queue behind all the other kids that lived that little bit closer and got there first. You’d stare at the pictures on the window and try to decide which wonderful lolly or ice cream would soon be coating your lips and trickling down your grubby little fingers. Would it be a 99 or would it be a fab or perhaps a rocket? Maybe a milkmaid but then again, maybe not because they didn’t last long enough. Or would it be a screwball so you got a bubblegum at the end, which made it last even longer? It was NEVER an ice cream wafer shell because they were only for grownups. Nope, it had to be a 99, with a flake and some strawberry sauce if we were lucky. Because granddad would let us have an icecream if we promised to break the end off the bottom, dip it in the top, and make a mini ice cream cone for Candy the poodle. She loved her mini ice creams and it was funny to watch her snaffle them up as quick as anything!

It’s amazing how many memories come back once you get started. These are all from 5 and under. I’ll think of some more  another day. But for now I’m back in 2012 and I’ve got a flat to clean. Yep, it’s still waiting for me!

What’s your earliest memory?


Is it bedtime yet?

Published June 24, 2012 by KalamityK

Gosh. You know sometimes, you just have ‘one of those days’. Yup, well, today was ‘one of those days’. I went to bed last night determined to get up fresh, whack some music on full blast and get on with the housework.

Because I work during the week, I resent doing housework in the evenings. Once 6pm comes around, no housework gets done. As far as I’m concerned evenings are for relaxing and winding down. So the mess builds up and then the weekend happens. At least one of these days is set aside to blitz the flat. 

Well today started off not great the second I woke up. This was due to discovering that the ATM machine I was standing in front of, that was spitting money at me, wasn’t actually real. It was just a dream, brought on by too many discussions last night about money with the manchild and an article online about a generous cashpoint giving out £20’s instead of £10’s. Dammit. 

The morning improved slightly when the manchild offered to cook breakfast. Yum. He’s a pretty good cook. Bacon, egg, sausage, beans…. That almost made up for the dream not being real.

So we had a slow start to the day. Definitely no loud music, just the tv and clips of epic fails on youtube, while we had brekkie. Eventually, I got up to get started.

I couldn’t put it off any longer. I got the lounge done while manchild started on his room.  Within a few minutes of hitting the kitchen mess, I hear my name being called from the hallway. It’s the manchild. He’s put the washing machine on and for some  reason it’s started spewing water everywhere! Fantastic! A waterfall was gushing out of the powder drawer, rushing down the front of the machine in great torrents, totally flooding all the laminate flooring. Marvellous!

So rather than doing the housework that was already there waiting patiently for my attention, we had to find towels, sheets, mops, anything and everything big enough and thirsty enough to soak up the h2o now gracing my hallway. (The washing machine lives in a cupboard in the hallway rather than being noisy and obnoxious in the open plan kitchen). 

I can’t get at all the water because it’s gone underneath the laminate. That’ll have to come up. But not yet. It’s all sticky under there so I can’t pull it up until I have something to replace it. One day! For now though, it’ll just have to dry out over the next few days. 

By the time that was more or less cleaned up, it was time to go and collect the bedbase that a friend was giving me. I had to throw mine out cos I broke it whilst trying to move it. From then on it squeaked. As if merely looking at it caused it pain. You only had to shift your bum a smidge to get more comfy and the bloody thing started squeaking like you were doing acrobatic karma sutra moves on it! I wouldn’t have minded but it just reminded me of how single I am!

So dad came and got me and then we went and got the bed. We took it back to mine and dad went off to do dad stuff. I proceeded to put the pieces of the puzzle together. It wasn’t too difficult. I’m pretty good at flatpack furniture. (IKEA, I heart you!) There were a couple of screws to be put in awkward places and no amount of effort or perseverence on my part would get the flipping allan key into the tiny space given to turn these screws, so they are still looser than I’d like. Fingers crossed I won’t find myself at some point in a crumpled heap at the bottom of a collapsed bed! Should that happen though, you’ll be the first to know!

It took me about 40 minutes to finish the puzzle that is now my bed. I’ve rolled all over it. Thrown myself this way and that, bounced up and down on it… and still no squeak!  The proof of the squeaking is in the sleeping, but I’m hoping for good things. Anything has to be an improvement on the last couple of months involving me, the floor and a mattress. 

All that’s left to do now is all the housework I didn’t get around to doing this morning!

Now, where did I put those marigolds?! 

An apple a day…… might induce me to murder.

Published June 21, 2012 by KalamityK

I mentioned on my About Me page that I would elaborate on the ‘apple’ subject. Today’s the day. I have just removed myself from an apple situation at work.

I have nothing against apples as an entity. They are good for you. They are healthy. They are one of your five a day. Apples, apparently, keep doctors away. But for me, they are evil tree spawn put on this earth to burn my ears and make my life miserable!


‘But apples don’t make a sound!’ I hear you say. Oh yes they do. Next time you bite into an apple, listen. You might not notice it normally but it’s there. They make that sort of wet crunchy sound as the flesh is torn from it’s core. I can’t bear it. I have this sound problem whereby certain sounds send me into a state of unnecessary-ness. Most people will have at least one sound that they can relate to in this manner. Think of someone dragging their nails down a chalkboard, or a fork accidently slipping and screeching along a plate. It sets your teeth on edge. If it lasted for more than a second or two, you’d probably do anything in your power to stop it, wouldn’t you?

Well, that’s what happens to me when I hear someone bite into an apple. For others it’s the sound of constant sniffling and throat clearing, or shoes shuffling along  the floor, or the repetative click of a pen or the clickety clack of a keyboard, the shrill whistle of certain birds or dogs barking incessantly. I think I’m rather fortunate that it’s just eating noises that bug me.

Most people who know it bugs me just think I’m over sensitive and a moaner.


Of course I am! It’s not NORMAL to react in anger to someone eating an apple! But I didn’t choose to have sounds affect me in this way. I would do almost anything to get rid of it so I don’t have to leave the coffee break area when colleagues bring out the fruit, anything not to feel so angry with my colleagues when they get their lunch and start chomping on raw carrots that I have to walk away so I don’t grab the offending item of food and throw it out the window. It’s a weird and unpleasant feeling and I live at least 70% of my working life with earphones in because of it. I found out a couple of months ago that it has a name and there’s a whole bunch of other people with the same problem! It’s called Misophonia.

I cannot be at the same dinner table as someone who eats like their face is channeling a cement mixer or someone who talks with a ton of food in their mouth. If I DO have to be at the same table, I will try not look at that person for the duration of the meal. There HAS to be music on in the background or I will sit and go internally insane. It’s actual torture and the only escape is to…well… escape!

Not a lot is known about misophonia as it’s only just being ‘discovered’, despite it affecting people for decades and decades. Most doctors will have never heard of it. The people that have done studies on it reckon it triggers something in the brain that kickstarts the fight or flight response. That’s just daft because these sounds aren’t exactly going to kill me are they? So that probably means that my brain is wired up wrong. Unfortunately it gets worse as you get older and there’s no magic cure to make it disappear.

So if you break out the fruit n veg or open a packet of crisps, don’t be surprised if I get up and leave. If I can’t get up and leave, expect me to start growling at you….   But please, for your own safety, don’t even think of chewing any gum around me because I guarantee I WILL be planning your accidental death!

It’s a DNA thing.

Published June 19, 2012 by KalamityK

I haven’t got the foggiest idea what I’m going to write about. I stand amazed and slightly in awe of those bloggers who pop out posts day after day. I dunno how they do it, especially when each and every one is interesting and/or funny. I don’t have that much stuff in my head. Where do they get inspiration from to write? Some people must just be born to be writers. I don’t think I’m one of them. I really enjoy it but it doesn’t come natural.

I know some get it from their kids but the manchild is pretty much grown up now and does his own thing. I’d get into big trouble if I wrote all about him, particularly as he’s in the nocturnal phase of his life. I imagine most of his tales would include an 18 certificate! I don’t think I want to know too much of what he’s up to. I remember far too much from my own nocturnal phase to want to venture into that murky depth, thank you very much.


So what shall I write about? I see the world around me and currently it’s all just a little bit dull and uninspiring, if I’m honest. Maybe my brain has to be in the right place for the genius to appear. Maybe the moon has to be aligned with some planet or other. Whatever it takes, I’m under the impression that the genius part of my brain is on holiday this week… probably off touring old ruins or paddling on some secluded beach with just the fish and a good book for company. Sounds fab. Wish I could have gone. I rather fancy a holiday.

My last holiday two years ago was a trip to Kusadasi, Turkey. Ok, I have been to Oz since then, which is always amazing!… but it’s a ‘visiting family’ kinda holiday rather than an R&R kinda holiday. Anyway, I went with the ‘rents, uncle and cousins’ family to Turkey and we stayed in my uncle’s house and went out for trips here, there and everywhere. It was 2 weeks of utter lovely. Day trips, sight seeing, meals out with the fam, nights on the balcony watching the sunsets appear in glorious technicolour. Nothing but good times. Well there was that one time… but I’m not sure mum would appreciate me telling you all about how she tripped and fell into her suitcase!


This caused us all to stop dead in our tracks and dad to go into Superman mode, almost  flying up the stairs to rescue his fair maiden, (which in turn caused a picture to leap off the wall in sheer fright as he went past). It left a stonking bruise on her leg… the tumble, not the picture. But guess what? Chivalry aint dead! 

I’m sure mum would rather it go in the forgotten pile, filed right next to the time she got out of the car in California and promptly tripped over a  concrete thingy in the car park which caused her to slice her chin open (she spent half the holiday with her chin bandaged up), and that other time when she managed to slip down the stairs in Mexico and land on her coccyx. I probably shouldn’t tell you about those at all but if I did, it might explain some things. Like why I’m always falling off my flipflops.

There’s a reason you don’t see me in high heels  and it looks like this…         

Is it my fault if I’m genetically predisposed to lose my balance? Personally, I blame the parents. 

How the manchild climbs things like a natural born monkey and manages to avoid certain death, I’ll never know.

Gizza fag…. or not.

Published June 13, 2012 by KalamityK

Hello, my name is Kalamity and I’m an ex-smoker. It has been 8 months, 18 days and 21 hours since my last cigarette.

Tell ya something, coping with people is much more stressful when you don’t have cigarettes. After a 27 year relationship with ciggies and them being my most reliable friend for more than 2 and a half decades, it’s hard to let them go. Ok, maybe not the most reliable but the longest lasting. We had history. The first time we met, just a couple of streets up from High School when I was 12. All those times we hid in the school bushes together on the other side of the playing field when the teachers came looking for us. The time that bloke from church saw us and told my parents, getting me into trouble. Sneaking out of the meetings at bible camp to go and smoke on the grandstand or in the park. All those long, lonely walks home after a night out cos I’d spent the taxi money. All those long, lonely nights in when the little manchild was in bed and it was just me and ciggies . If I felt lonely, I reached for the fags. Ciggies and me, together.

But I did it. With the help of the Stop Smoking Clinic at work and an e-cigarette bought online, I split us up. And I miss them. I miss the trips outside. The trips were necessary to pacify the nicotine god that needed sustenance and worship every couple of hours but they were also necessary for my sanity. If I got irritated with someone, I escaped them and went for a fag break. If I got stressed with work, I went for a fag break. If I was upset about something… fag break. The breaks were a chance to step away and just breathe, albeit with nicotine-laced oxygen. No more fag breaks for me! Going out and not having asmoke isn’t the same. It doesn’t give the same level of relief. That’s like expecting an alcy to get the same feeling from drinking grape juice that they get from drinking wine. It doesn’t quite cut it. Now I’m a snappy bitch.

A lot of people smoke but don’t really want to. They don’t like the taste, the smell, the lack of oxygen in their lungs, the nicotine stained fingers… but they’re addicted. They try time and time again to give up and they always fail. I wasn’t really one of them because I never ever hated it. I did try quitting a few times when the manchild was little but in the last 1o years or so I never tried to give up. I watched my friends repeatedly attempt it and to me it seemed pointless. Why keep attempting to quit when you know you’re not truly ready to do it? You’ll just make yourself suffer PLUS you’ll feel bad for failing. I LIKED SMOKING! I didn’t care that it was smelly. I didn’t find the smell all that unpleasant anyway and I just found men to date who shared my vice or who didn’t care if I sparked up. I didn’t care that I was addicted. I was happy to have a vice and I was happy that my vice didn’t involve being  a druggie or an alcy or a gambler. I didn’t think it made me look cool or sexy. I just enjoyed doing something I knew I shouldn’t.

I didn’t mind when they stopped us smoking upstairs on buses or in public buildings because it was too confined and the smoke got overpowering. I mostly smoked outside anyway. I was a bit miffed when they stopped us smoking in pubs and clubs but only because it meant that you couldn’t have a fag and a drink together. Can’t smoke inside, can’t take the drink outside. Apart from clubs, the only place I smoked inside was at home. And not even there, once I moved into a nice flat. I smoked out on the balcony. As for putting pictures of knackered organs and dead people  on the cigarette packets, that just irritated me because  I knew they didn’t work. 

I miss having something to do with my hands whilst I’m walking… anywhere. If anything, it’s made me walk even less than I did before because what made walking worthwhile was the fact that I could spark up at the same time. Now I won’t get off the bus a stop early because my very first thought is ‘I want a fag’. So I avoid that thought by staying on the bus and not walking places. Maybe eventually I’ll be able to do it without the temptation to buy a packet of fags but until that happens, I’m not risking it.

If I cave it’ll be because something really stressful drives me to it, not just because I miss it. It really ain’t worth the aggro that dad would give me if I started again. And it means I won’t be tempted to push anybody’s kids into the nearest pool when they start nagging at me to give up. I’ll stick to the occasional puff of my pink electronic fag until I don’t need it anymore. 

But if I do falter and start puffing again, I guarantee I’ll do it in style. 

Kalamity K 🙂 

Who is Gordon Bennett anyway?

Published June 11, 2012 by KalamityK

It’s been pretty quiet at work today. There are usually about 12 of us but we all work varying hours and days so some days it’s busy and some days it’s like the Mary Celeste. Somedays it can be both, with the morning being full of people and then by about 2pm it’s gone all quiet again.  So I thought I’d fill my time by attempting post #10. WordPress keeps encouraging me to get to my next big achievement.. post #10, so here it is. I’d better get an extra big congrats from them!

I said something earlier as an expression to a colleagues’ comment. I don’t even remember what we were talking about but my response was ‘Gordon Bennett!’ And then I instantly thought ‘Who is Gordon Bennett? This is an exclamation I’ve heard countless times throughout my life but where did it come from? I have no idea so I’m gonna google it………


Aha!……So Gordon Bennett was born in 1841 He lived a hedonistic lifestyle and frequently did things people thought were terribly terribly shocking. He  inherited his fathers’ multi-million dollar estate and he was also a very good journalist who took control of the New York Herald. He’s also the bloke who sent  a correspondent off to find David Livingstone in Africa when everyone else had given him up as lost and hence the famous words were uttered ‘Dr Livingstone, I presume?’ So now we know.  Yay!

It got me wondering about other euphimisms and minced oaths we commonly use but often haven’t got a clue where they came from. The reason there are so many, and this is just my opinion, is probably because the British, particularly the upper classes back in the day, didn’t want to be heard swearing and sounding like common dock hands. It was frowned upon as coarse and vulgar. Respectable people didn’t utter curse words! So they made up alternative words and phrases to use at times when an expletive might have come in handy but their peers wouldn’t approve.

Dagnammit – God damn it! I use this one a fair bit. It must be the ‘good’ stock in me 😉 see Family Tree post.

Darn/Dang – Damn.

Crikey – Christ.

Good Grief – Good God.

For crying out loud – For christ’s sake.

Strewth- God’s truth. Those are not exactly swear words are they? I guess they would come under taking the Lords’ name in vain. Blasphemy could very likely earn you a clout around the ear from your mother and a threat from the parish priest to end up in the eternal fires of damnation! Not worth the aggro really.

Flaming Heck/Flipping Heck – Fucking hell      … (don’t slap me, mum!)

Then there are the ones I can’t imagine posh people saying…..

Cor Blimey – God blind me. My mum told me that one when I was a kid. She used to say that if I kept saying blimey, God might just do it! 

Bleeding Heck/Blimmin’ heck –  Bloody hell.  I wonder where Bleeding Nora comes from though. I can’t find that one. Who was Nora?

There are a lot of minced oaths around but we’ve got so used to them that we don’t really wonder about them anymore. I like ’em. I like the history of where words and expressions come from. So many countries use our language that it’s an ever evolving thing. New words are added constantly but we don’t make up so many new minced oaths anymore because swearing is so widely accepted now as every day language. It’s a shame really. I am guilty of swearing now and then. Lately it’s been more often than I used to but I think I’ll have a go at making up some new minced oaths instead. After all, the more you use a swear word, the less effective it becomes. I think I’ll keep mine for special occasions. Or when I’m really ‘peed’ off.

I don’t know if I’ll ever call someone a  ‘Berk‘ again though. It derives from the cockney rhyming slang ‘Berkeley hunt’……

Kalamity K 🙂


My quick fling with Bulimia

Published June 10, 2012 by KalamityK

I threw up earlier today for no reason. I didn’t do it on purpose.  I hate being sick. It hurts. I don’t just mean my stomach hurts. I mean it hurts all over. My skin tightens up and it feels like a thousand needles are being pushed into my back and chest and arms all at the same time. My muscles contract and ache afterwards. I thought for a moment today that I might have pulled a muscle in my arm, it hurt so much. That’s one reason why I could never be bulimic. How on earth people manage to make themselves throw up regularly is beyond me.  I know they get good at it and train themselves to hurl on demand, but don’t they get that pain? Is it just me? Does anyone else get that needle-like pain all over their upper torso when they’re being sick? Not to mention the runny nose and streaming eyes. And heaven help me if my bladder is full!

I tried bulimia once about 18 years ago. Ever since I gave birth to the manchild I’ve been underheight… or as other people like to call it… overweight. I’d had enough.  I knew I didn’t have enough willpower to stay off the crisps and chocolate permanently so I thought to myself  “Aha!.. I’ll be bulimic! I’m sure I could control it. I’ll stuff my face with all the lovely yummy goodies and then throw it up so I won’t be fat anymore and people won’t look at me as if I’m not good enough.” A perfect plan! Or so I thought…

I went and bought a delicious lemon meringue pie and decided I would eat the whole thing, because if you’re gonna do this then you need a good amount of grub inside you, which I assume must be why bulimics binge eat. I did. I swallowed down the feeling that I was doing something wrong along with each bite. I just pretended it wasn’t there. I ignored the guilt of eating a whole pie on my own, comforting myself with the knowledge that it would be gone soon and I wouldn’t have to feel bad about it. 

Well, flip me. Have you any idea how hard it is to throw up when you actually want to? I had to get something long and thin to make it happen cos I wasn’t gonna put my fingers down my throat. My OCD doesn’t like me getting my fingers mucky. I hunted around and eventually found a comb, one of those hairdresser ones with the long, thin handle. The comb and I assumed our positions!  And after what seemed like forever, I finally succeeded in my mission.


As I kneeled there on the bathroom floor, staring at the lemon meringue pie slowly drowning in the toilet bowl, all I could think was ‘What a waste!’ I felt so deflated with the whole thing that I never did it again. My relationship with bulimia was over as soon as it started. It really was a quick fling.

I’m currently still underheight. 

Kalamity K 🙂

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