Futile is my word of the week. A word draped in lethargic misery, disappointment and despair. Yes, dear reader, that’s the tone for today’s offering from yours truly.
Makeup application, futile. It slides off in the sweaty heat. This happens within seconds rather than minutes, but I slap it on still, hopeful, and yet deep down I know it’s a useless effort. The smudges that remain beyond the ten second mark are deftly seen off by the face mask requirement on public transport.
Looking for the cold side of the pillow. No such thing. Stop looking for it. We all know that at present it’s an exercise in frustration and futility, and yet we all still keep turning that poor damp sweaty head rest, desperate for cool solace. There is none.
Dreaming of air conditioning, futile. It’s not going to happen for most of us. Much like England’s ability to deal with weather that is, too cold, too wet, or too dry, the too hot situation never lasts so long that solutions are deemed necessary. The ten and a half months of dull weather is what we cater for here in Blighty. So save your dreams for the accessible, iced Pimms, iced coffee and ice cream, they are possible, they are available. Although this may be the time to note that you could ride around all day on the circle line if you insist on pursuing the dream of chilled, albeit second hand air.
Saving the NHS, futile. It’s gone. While those who work for the health service have their holiday cancelled in order to deal with the continuing pandemic, the Health and (we don’t) Care Bill has been passed. The final nail in its coffin. The millionaire mates of the tories are picking over the bones of the once great, world leading NHS as I write. If you voted tory it is useless to try to persuade me that you wished to save this institution. These two things were mutually exclusive. You may fool yourself, but you don’t fool me.
Is it futile to go into space in a dick shaped rocket? Well that’s a question for one of those festering knob bandit billionaires. Either of them.
I wonder if the merchandise for the space vacation for millionaires will include an actual rocket dildo, or, is Jeff keeping that for his own pleasure?
fat tart 