I guess, in the grand scheme of things, I do take a lot for granted.

It seems however that perhaps I should be more appreciative of stuff.

Like, my neck.

I never truly appreciated the momentous amount of effort my neck puts in everyday, not only keeping my humongous Sindy doll head with its erratic and uncontrollable bonce sitting on top upright, but it also seems to have some influence over my voice box too.

Who knew?

The neck and the voice in cahoots, I wonder if any medical people are aware of this phenomenon? Maybe I should write to … um… er… Google?

For the past week having been suffering with some pretty intense whiplash following on from my surprise fondling session with a glass wall, it has dawned on me just how much of my life I owe to my neck.

‘You are taking it a bit far Lexy. I am sure you could speak normally even if you are unable to swivel your head!’

The Irish one was frustrated with my whiplash.

The Irish one was wrong (as usual) as I had tried but totally couldn’t do ANYTHING normally without my neck agreeing.

It was like my GSCE drama was coming back to haunt me and for some reason I was really getting in to character.

As a Dalek.

Not only did I find myself having to walk and operate generally like I was in some dodgy parental version of Dr Who, but I was also, on account of my (Immense and fabulous theatrical background – seriously you should have seen me in the local theatre’s version of Drop dead Fred! I was the most life-like tree you ever saw!) I was also beginning to sound like a Dalek too.

‘Talk normally!’  He bellowed as he approached me from behind (not in a dodgy way) in the kitchen.

‘I ser-iou-sly carnt.’ I had mechanically responded turning slowly around to face him with my shoulders, a look of horror etched on to my face.

Just before this happened you see, I had been in the throws of attempting to erect a makeshift splint for my neck made out of an empty KFC bargain bucket and seven ice lolly sticks all glued together.

Addison, who had eaten the 7 ice lolly’s in a bid to seem useful was now swinging from the light fixtures screeching like an over sugared Russian monkey gymnast. Seriously, only dogs could hear him.

So upon shuffling in to the kitchen to fetch more glue for my whiffy chicken sponsored neck upholstery and discovering as I felt something remotely poo like squidge between my bare toes (as obviously Dalek’s cant look down) that Doodle had released his bowel all over the floor, I totally felt it normal if not necessary to shout.

‘EXCREMENT!! EXCREMENT!!’  In the most mechanical Dalek voice I could muster.

It just came out naturally, actually. (Which is also how doodle later explained himself.)

I have noticed though, that having whiplash is also akin to having just given birth.

In that, you are in all this pain but no one gives a damn cos now there is a baby (ours who was by now licking the windows,) you may as well be a lump of whale skin. (Although saying that, I’d make a nice lipstick me. They could call me – Shit Tinkle Brown.)

So anyway, here are my new years resolutions.

1) Stop walking in to glass walls as this ultimately leads to runny poo ending up between your toes and you being unable to clean your feet cos you cant bend down without either a) screaming like a girl or B)…. Screaming like a girl.

2) Keep the fish alive, because when the fish are dead they hold no entertainment value and a ‘holiday down the toilet’ is now just not cutting the mustard with the child. He is also now starting to believe, on account of us having to change the story, that to get to heaven, you have to flush the loo. Awkward.

3) Do more stuff that involves vodka.

4) Stop forgetting to take my medication.

And that’s me out.

‘Irish one!’

‘What?’ he replies a look of concern passing over his features.

‘Lick my poo toes!!’ I snort at how funny I think I am.

‘You are gross. I can not believe we are getting married this year!’


I want to walk down the aisle dressed like a Dalek!


I wonder if Disney would allow it? I bet they have the costume and everything…


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