Ratgrease and Bare Bottoms

There's been a new development in the saga of Rat B's stupidity: it's now transpired that she is unaware of the top of her own head--or, more specifically, the filthiness thereof. I became aware of this problem after feeding the rats a tomato. The following morning, the fruit had vanished without trace, save for one: Rat B appeared to have on a red cap. Closer inspection revealed that the red pigment was suspended in a thin but disgusting layer of sebaceous ooze. Ratgrease, in other words. A--a dandruff hat, if you will.

I got a Q-tip and scrubbed it off. Rat B, passive thing that she is, put up no resistance whatsoever. Rat A, on the other hand, stole the Q-tip a few times.

Also, from the Department of Separate but Equal Stupidity, a pill designed to minimize the time you spend on the loo--except, see, it gives you diarrhea. Yeah, that's right. "Ditropan XL, for the treatment of overactive bladder"; most common side-effects: dry mouth, constipation, drowsiness, and diarrhea. (In point of fact, diarrhea only occurs in about nine percent of patients, but broadcast standards demand that commercial spots for drugs list common side-effects. So, within thirty seconds, they promise you a relatively loo-free existence, and warn you of impending bowel Armageddon. Pthhhhbt.)

And, from the Department of the Apocalypse, also known as Collections Hell, my financial troubles have temporarily been put on hold, following an unexpected windfall. Very temporarily, though. The entire amount received was immediately engulfed by my enormous debts. My net worth is still around minus five thousand dollars.

Any more departmental reports? Oh, yes: the Department of Public Safety, I think. We had a fire alarm this morning--another one!--and I flouted fire regulations by not leaving the building. I was going to, but there was a whole process involved:

1) Wake up to a sufficient extent to realize that the horrible noise assailing my ears is neither a dream nor something on the telly;

2) Check the street for fire engines--I'm not giving myself three days' rubbish health for a bloody drill, am I? (Those stairs, they kill me every time);

3) Find something to wear;

4) Put it on;

5) Find a box;

6) Put Rats A and B in the box;

7) Find my coat and shoes, and get them on my back and feet respectively;

8) Find my walking stick;

9) Re-find the box with Rats A and B in, which I have lost somewhere between steps 6) and 8).

The bell stopped ringing while I was still working on Step 4. Getting dressed is very complicated. Sweaters, especially. Sweaters are complete mazes when you're in a hurry. Armholes, headholes, torso-holes, torn holes--how anyone ever gets into one is beyond me. Me, I dive in every morning with a prayer and a whimper: Please, O Omnipotent Sweater God, don't let me get my head stuck in the armhole today! And then there's trousers, which, if you get them on inside-out, cannot be buttoned up. And socks, of course, where you never know if they're upside down or no till there's a big pouchy bit bagging out of your ankle. Then you try to turn them round, of course, at which point you get Indian-burns on your ankles, and you've got to start over anyhow. And sometimes, when you're having a really bad day, you get the whole kit on, then realize you're not wearing any underpants.

I used to have a flatmate who habitually wore nothing but underpants. I was sure he'd forget them some day, and I'd be subjected to six inches of swinging Burgel*, but he never did.

Ever notice, though, when somebody's walking about in their underpants, one's eyes gravitate immediately to said underpants? At which point, of course, they think you're looking at their willy. I'd be there in the kitchen, mornings, and this guy Burgel would be there (in his underpants):

"Morning, Socar."

"Morning, Burgel." (Don't look at his cock! Don't look at his cock! Don't look at--)

"Shit...there goes my bacon."

--and then he'd bend down, and I'd be looking at his arse. Great. And he'd look through his legs, and see me looking at it. Or maybe not, but one gets paranoid about these things. It doesn't do to be staring at other people's rude bits. Unless, of course, one wants to sleep with them**.

Me, I never walk about in my underpants. I set out my clothes on the counter before I get in the shower, and put them on before I get out. I wear a nightgown to bed if nobody's visiting, and sleep fully dressed if they are. Last time I was naked and not in the shower, I was--oh, right. That's how I got the money for the Royal Bank, isn't it? So I've been naked once, since last year. It's not that I'm a prude, though. I just don't like being cold.

One final report, before I hit the sack (appropriately nightgowned, of course), this one from the Department of Public Nudity: the man across the street is using his PC in the buff again. Also, there's a workman two roofs over with a monumental case of plumber's arse. And with that lovely image, I bid the Internet goodnight!

* Name changed slightly, but not much, to partially protect the partially clothed.

** Which, though it might've been more comfortable than sleeping on the leather couch I had at the time, was not on the agenda.