Football is bad for my soul.

As you may well have realised, yesterday was the long-awaited England match. I went to watch it with my family at my grandparents house.

I should not be allowed to watch football. I turned into a monster. By the second half I was wishing all manner of death upon the American team, who may be perfectly agreeable and charming people in the flesh. But I doubt it, because they're American, and they scored. In fact, I was so angry at the point of the American handball that I suggested, rather loudly, that he had his arm amputated rather than getting a yellow card, as then it wouldn't get in the way again. I think I may have scared my family, especially my nan. Sorry nan.

This could possibly be seen as perfectly normal, if I was accustomed to watching football. I am not. I never watch it, I didn't even realise it was the World Cup until about three days ago, when I was told by an exasperated friend. I'm not a football person. It's not in my blood, at least not on my fathers side. He hates it, and I can see why. I don't like being tense, it makes me... well, tense. I have resolved to stay away from any further matches. It's not even a good game! Now badminton, that's a sport. *ducks to avoid sharp objects thrown by football fans*

So, for this reason, I have come to the conclusion that football is bad for my soul, and so I shouldn't be allowed to watch it. EVER.

Of Tooth and Toothbrush

First post!

Recently I have begun the process of getting braces, which would be simple if I weren't getting them from Stafford Hospital, but I am, so it's not. Before I'm deemed worthy of having the braces, I have to go to lessons on cleaning my teeth and not eating hard things. I've been to one, and there is a further one to go, but the first was traumatic enough.

I had to clean my teeth while she held a mirror up for me. Honestly, I've never used a mirror to clean my teeth before, after all these years, I think I know where most of them are. What was more unnerving than watching my own contorted face gawping back at me, was the woman staring at me while I brushed. I kept thinking to myself "What if I've been doing it wrong all these years?"

After this ordeal was over, and I'd successfully dribbled down my front (how embarrassing), she told me that I had a good technique. I replied saying "I've been doing it a while", to which she laughed politely, but was clearly irked. Maybe she's heard that one before? A little later, she revealed to me that her toothbrush was often flat by the time she used it, because her children and husband usually got here before her. Nice. So, here I was, recieving a lecture on dental hygiene from a woman who shares her toothbrush with at least three other people, when she began to insult my toothbrush, the poor thing.

I mention this, because it brings me to my tale of buying a new toothbrush. I went to my local tesco direct, which is essentially a petrol station with a fruit isle, and purchased what has to be the best manual toothbrush I have come across. It was mint scented, yes scented. And just in case, in your excitement, you forgot what mint smelt like (easily done when confronted with such an item), there was a mint leaf scratch n sniff on the front. Unfortunately, however, when I scratched, I sniffed no mint. I think the man in the shop scratched away all the sniff in his lust for mint-scented-packaging. Darn you, tesco man, darn you to heck. (Madagascar reference)

So, now you know of my toothbrush, which has damn fine bristles, if I do say so myself. Thank you for reading.