At the beginning of November 2011 Demi decided to take a break from work, bad weather and the stresses of everyday life and jet off to Egypt with the Gayle King to her Opera Winfrey. The last time she went on holiday, Posh and Jack were left with the job of looking after me, after all there is nothing cooler than being 23 and having babysitters or as I prefer to call them, my bitches. However all was not lost, as Posh took me out for lunch to this little café I love in Fintry, which will one day be where I reside as I love it there. I just need to win the lottery or marry a rich man to be able to afford a house in this prestigious area of The Campsie Fells (rich men or men who feel that within the next 10 years could possibly be able to buy me my dream house, whether it be through hard work, a large inheritance or something you would rather not disclose, should email their proposals to email@example.com). However in November, Demi felt that I was able to look after myself with help from my younger sister Rumour who’s usually is about as useful as a chocolate teapot. No offence Rumour, but it is true.
Before leaving I convinced my mother to put me on her car insurance so I could drive to the local shops or any appointments I needed to go to. Now I know what your thinking, that I, Samantha McInnes, before my legs got buggered, was a terrible driver and now I walk with a stick and even then I still cannot walk very far or very fast, so what in the name of God made me think that I could drive an automobile when I would struggle to press hard on the brake or may in fact drive somewhere and be stranded as my legs would be too painful and weak to drive back? I knew all this but I chose to ignore it. I had tried driving a few months earlier, Mary and I went to the local supermarket and by the time I returned my legs were in agony and experiencing spasms, after that I gave up on the dream but I thought enough time had passed to give it another try and Mary warily agreed. The prospect of driving again got me as excited as George W. Bush in a firearms factory, “shoot em up boys!” After I stopped running due to M.E, driving became almost a kind of escape for me, I loved nothing more than driving along with my music up full blast, singing at the top of my voice and catching people staring at me like I was a lunatic for performing as if I was on stage at the Royal Albert Hall when I was in fact in my car. Being able to drive was also about me getting my independence back instead of having to rely on others all the time. It was almost as though being able to get in a car and being able to drive wherever I wanted, was the first step in getting my life back after a rather shit year.
Excited by the prospect of driving, the day after Demi left I took the car over to my friend Elvis’. The ten minute drive there was manageable, were my legs slightly worse than usual? Yes but I had been expecting that. The drive home again made them slightly worse but I went straight to bed when I got in, rested up and the next morning the legs were still sorer than normal but it was a manageable pain. A few days later empowered by my trip to Elvis’ and slightly over confident, I decided I was going to drive into the city centre. With this new ugly motorway that intrudes on the lovely view of where I one day want to live, it only takes 20 minutes by car to get to the City Centre. It’s a straight road so it should have been relatively easy to drive there and back. That is if you weren’t me who decided to drive in during rush hour but in my defence, I hadn’t driven in over a year, I forgot rush hour existed. Drivers in rush hour are mental! They weave in and out of lanes like they are in Grand Theft Auto but without flame throwers and a mission from an underworld criminal that goes but the name of Fat Tony or Heavy Nuts Jungle Robba (this is what came up when I typed my own name into a gangster converter). These speed merchants cut out in front of you, not giving a damn if they have given you enough space to break in time. They don’t realise that all this does is cause more traffic jams as people are having to break to stop from crashing into these lunatics. All they want to do is get home as fast as possible, have these people not heard of patience? Because of this, by the time I got into the city centre my legs were trembling from the amount of stopping and starting that I was forced to do but it was not over yet, as the city provided yet another obstacle that would impact on my legs; pedestrians with a death wish. Here’s a tip for you all, see that big button you press that turns the red man to green, its there so I don’t knock you down. Would you run out in front of a train? No, well don’t run out in front of my car then! Did these people not know I was having trouble with my legs?
When I finally stopped at my destination, not only were my legs killing me but my nerves were shot to pieces by the lunatic drivers and pedestrians with a death wish. I had to go into Posh’s work and sit down for a bit to get over it all. “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger”, this is what I text to my friends to tell them about this massive achievement but when I finally managed to get home I didn’t feel proud or happy, I felt devastated, as my legs ached beyond belief and continued to do so for the rest of the week and with that I knew that my dream of driving and getting some of my independence back was over.
On the day of Demi’s homecoming, there were chores that needed done around the house to stop her ritual moan about how untidy and dirty the place was compared to the vision of beauty it was when she vacated it. Her favourite complaint was always the worktops. The worktops in our house are impossible to clean unless you have a PHD in kitchen cleaner. It seems that the more you try and get them to shine like a Dettol advert, the dirtier and greasier they look. The fact that I never manage to get them to sparkle pisses Demi off and she ends up just re-cleaning them all over again. By the end of it, they are so clean you could perform surgery on them. For this reason I thought I would appoint myself on washing machine duty, an easy job that doesn’t require the use of much energy and the only way you can mess it up is if you stick something pink in with the white and luckily no one really wears pink in this household. After sitting down and watching the previous nights Chelsea Lately, I thought it was time to start my only chore; I went into the bathroom and picked up my first pile of washing and as I turned to exit I noticed something black down the toilet pan. My first thought on seeing this was puzzlement; I thought long and hard and did not remember emptying my bowels at any point during this day and anyway my jobbies (this is a poo for those who don’t speak Scots) are not that big and I always flush. I was then disgusted by the fact that someone had done a massive jobby in the pan which had now grown into something that closely resembled the Shit Demon from Dogma but on a much smaller scale and had left it there as a present for the next person. I emptied at least half a bottle of bleach down the pan and flushed expecting it all to just disappear but when it didn’t budge and instead seemed as if it was starting to increase in size, I started to freak out. I did the only thing I knew how to in these situations; I phoned Posh Spice. In a panic these were my words to her: “Ahhhh there is something big and black down the toilet! It’s either a Shit Demon that will soon grow to the size of a full grown man and smother me with faeces or some kind of massive toilet loving rodent that likes to bite peoples bums as they go to pee”. Her request for me to stick my hand down and pull whatever it was out was met by a statement so full of curse words that if it is ever repeated, statues of the Virgin Mary across the world will start to cry, this left only one option, Posh was going to have to come over and fish it out herself. While awaiting Posh’s arrival I got a phone call from her Fiancé Jack who had been online Googling animals that come up the toilet and comparing it to the photograph I had sent him. After a long conversation of whether this was a sewer rat, a rodent that climbed up the brick work into the bathroom and then fell into the toilet or indeed a shit monster, we realised the only way we would find out would be for me to build up all my courage and stick a hanger into it. The sensation I described as the following “imagine if Ben the dog was down the toilet and you poked him with a stick that’s what it feels like” (Please note that it was not Ben the dog in the toilet pan) but at least it ruled out the Shit Demon. Sticking the hanger into the toilet sickened me so much that I hobbled out the bathroom as fast as I could, leaving the hanger in the toilet and shutting the door behind me, refusing to go in again until Posh got here. When Posh arrived, after what felt like a decade but was probably more like 20 minutes, I was distraught, between this thing in the loo and my driving fiasco I had been sent over the edge. Posh unscathed by the possibility that she may be eaten by the giant panda down the toilet (yup it got more extreme with every minute that passed) went in to inspect and sent me for a bucket to put this creature in. As posh reached in to pull it out, I shut my eyes tight, unable to look at whatever it was that had terrified my life for the past half an hour. I only opened them again when I heard Posh’s screams of “You stupid F***ing idiot”, it was then I seen the actual culprit in Posh’s hands; a pair of black thermal socks from the washing pile I had picked up to put in the machine.