Silliness; LOL; personal blog; funny; funny stories; quirky; humour; humor; wit; happy; cheerful; fun; light-hearted; carefree; upbeat

The night of the spring rolls

Finally after far too long we have wardrobes! The joy! It’s like being on the platform waiting for the tube, spying a seat and then getting it! It’s the same sense of happiness only this time the happiness comes from safely stored pants and doesn’t involve barging anyone.
We have had wardrobes before today but they didn’t last. We had some secondhand ones from my sister that lost vital parts as we drove up the A127 with the boot half open.
If there’s anything harder than putting flat pack furniture together it’s putting flat-packed furniture that’s been dismantled back together!
I’m the big one in the relationship so I do anything that requires banging. Tony my husband holds what I bang including his own fingers.
When we got our secondhand triple wardrobes home, minus a few bits we mutually agreed we were sure we could manage without, I had the idea of building them in their upright position. If you ever find yourself in this position, don’t do it this way!
After about 18 hours of re-construction, standing on the makeshift ladder (the pouffe), I put the sturdy lid of the top of the wardrobe in its final position and told Tony to basically lay inside the shell at the bottom, holding it all together. My plan was to bang this bad boy into situ. Looking below, seeing just the top of Tony’s head, I heard him say, ‘don’t drop it on my head for fucksake’.
With that, I immediately dropped it on his head 6 feet below. The effect was like dropping a potato (one for jacket spuds not one of those little Jersey fellas) onto a house of cards. It flattened him. I literally had to get off the ladder (pouffe) and lift it off him to see if he was dead. I blame the fact I strained to hear what he said and lost my grip.
I knew it was bad when I could see more of the inside of his head than I was supposed to. My response to an emergency situation, I learnt, was to laugh my head off even though Tony had a sizeable gash on his forehead that was bleeding profusely. My reaction to nerves you understand. Tony’s reaction, dazed, was to refuse definitely required hospital treatment and to say, ‘what the fuck have you done to me now?’
Some hours later I knew he was still dazed/concussed when he took longer than usual to browse the Chinese menu and just kept weakly repeating ‘spring rolls’. He was definitely dazed as he wasn’t whinging about the time from order to delivery and getting up to open the door at every set of car headlights that lit up the room, saying, ‘it’s here…about bloody time. He ain’t getting no tip’.
I never felt OK about hanging garments in the wardrobe after that and his Harry Potter scar a constant reminder of that terrible night. I call it the ‘night of the spring rolls’.
So getting these new wardrobes is exciting. Knowing where your pants are at any moment provides a deep sense of security and being able to get my shoes out their temporary home, the summer house, has been awesome. The Australian’s invented that word for this very moment.
Recovering our shoes from the summerhouse, Tony’s Oakley sandals look like they’ve grown a beard as mould has set in to the extent they are barely recognisable as an item of footwear, looking more like a Gorgonzola.
I pick up and remember fondly, the high heels I brought to impress Tony in the early days before I wore flats with gel souls for added comfort. We laughed at how I’d decided I’d wear them for the first time in the snow. I was staying at Tony’s parents and as he and his mum waved me off to work in the early hours asking me if I should be wearing them, I skidded along the path, caught the fence post and said, waving, ‘I’ll be fine’, as I swung violently to the ground. Unwrapping myself from the lamppost, I said, ‘I think I will change them actually’. It was a good chance to get a plaster for my hand too before setting out in moonboots, the pre cursor to Uggs. Never worn em since. Never will. Nonetheless pleased to be reunited with them and to offer them space in my wardrobe until I take them to the charity shop along with a heck of a lot of stuff that must have fit at some point!
Talking of things that no longer fit, there’s my wedding dress. I think that will be my next blog entry, as it really deserves an entry all to itself. Anyway, I have never worn this dress and it is a size 10 and I am not. It’s been in the corner of a room folded nicely in its bag thing, and made a lovely nest for Mr Nut (cat) for as long as I can remember. Anyway, Tony holds it up and says, ‘you’re not keeping this are you’? And unsatisfied with my ‘yes’ answer, he says, ‘great, we’ll put it in the loft shall we until I bury you in it when you die. I’ll wait a few weeks until you decompose a bit and then you should fit nicely into it coz there ain’t no other way it’s happening’. My response, ‘where will Mr Nut sleep now’. Tony’s response, ‘ffs’.
Advertisements
Silliness; LOL; personal blog; funny; funny stories; quirky; humour; humor; wit; happy; cheerful; fun; light-hearted; carefree; upbeat

Long abandoned sausage

So I love the daffodils and their little cheery, cheeky yellow faces. When you see them you know it’s spring. Their only downside a reminder of the increased need to self buff your bits.
Their appearance also a prompt to clean up the rattan furniture. Though covered, an eagle shit on it early winter. It looks like someone has slung a poorly cooked omelette out there. The bird has obviously been genetically modified by the MOD for reasons I suspect involve hovering over trumps head to answer the question we all want to know, just why does Trump’s hair look like that? The obvious answer being he is building a wall between his forehead and hair which he is making his hairdresser pay for.
Not all rattan furniture got covered in our garden. Some random items are slung about. It’s like winter suddenly descended upon us and we had to run into the house immediately leaving everything as if it was for our very survival. Funny I don’t remember the conversation that said shall we fuck this shit off and go in and not return until spring.  I’m dreading lifting the lid up on the BBQ for fear of a long abandoned sausage. Maybe that’s what the eagle was after!
A leisurely walk around the garden on the first sunny day of the year, in a bit too premature three quarter length trousers, is an opportunity to assess what made it through winter.
It is a time to reflect as you look at what’s dead, and comprehend just how much of your life you lost last year, wandering around with healthy looking just brought plants in pots, moving them around in different positions, leaving them there for a bit, then digging your holes satisfied the place meets the plant’s needs and you ascetic desires, only to find they’re now dead. And not the sort of plant death that teases the odd shoot below, the sort of plant death where it’s just brown and crispy like a twiglet and all that’s left is the tag telling you how you should have cared for it and reminding you how much you paid for it!
The Christmas tree is standing browned in the corner. It looks like someone set fire to it. And the spiteful git still drops sharp but brown needles as I battle to get it in the green bin.
I want to hoover the artificial grass with the Dyson and search for an extension lead. I start in the summer house where all our shoes are until we get our new wardrobes. I find a black pair of slip ons that I have been looking for since Winston chewed the shit out of my alternative pair of black slip ons. One of them is bent under the lawn mower and as I pull it out the toe area is distinctly sticking upwards and some paper has got wet and stuck to it and it’s topped off with dry grass as the lawnmower gives up its contents.
Eventually, I find the extension lead. It appears some tosser had just thrown it into the summer house unravelled. Now, there’s a 50 percent chance that tosser was me (Tony would argue the percentage allocation) but nonetheless I’m annoyed. And just how is it that someone throwing it in there and then neither of us going into the summer house until I just opened the door, that it wrapped itself around every God Damn thing in there, including he thong of every flip flop and don’t even get me started on buckles or laces.
After sitting down to untangle the cable, which caused excitement for the dog resulting in unpredictable face licking, before he gets pre-occupied with licking his own bits, I started hoovering. I actually hoovered for about 20 minutes before deciding this was a project that could span the week. Instead I’d give everything a soak.
An initial watering of the garden, totally unnecessary this early on, confirms the hose is screwed.  It’s one of those scrunchy ones, and clearly, while we were keeping warm or eating our Christmas dinner, someone sabotaged it by stabbing it repeatedly with a fork. Hence the random spraying along the fucking thing so the decking floods and there’s a pathetic dribble of water at the head, basically like someone spitting onto the garden. That needs replacing then along with all the solar lights that promised a lot and now give nothing!
Sod it, time for Prosecco! Oh yer and to deny any involvement in why the Dyson is full of leaves and no longer works. Looking visibly confused and saying, ‘no idea’ when questioned about the blockage in a 2 octave higher than normal voice should suffice but doesn’t. So I sip my beverage and pull out bamboo leaves and twigs from the hoover on the grass getting another random face lick from the dog.
Silliness; LOL; personal blog; funny; funny stories; quirky; humour; humor; wit; happy; cheerful; fun; light-hearted; carefree; upbeat

Ghost dog!

Well finally Tony (husband) and I back from Gran Canaria after a 19 hour delay!

Fortunately, we did not return to 18 cat shits around the house like we did when we got back from Amsterdam!  Tony’s brother hadn’t realised the cat flap had somehow jammed and she’d not been going out. She pooped in the brand new fire place on top of the coals and on a tin of paint (with the handle up) – that’s when you know she must have been really cross to take such an awkward motion! She must have been squatting thinking, I’ll show those bastards.

Tony and I went to get our dog Winston from his foster carer. He was more pleased to greet us than when we got back from Mexico after 6 weeks. This time he could actually be arsed to say hello and brought me a small plastic chicken. Though when we got home the lore of the cat’s arse was much more appealing.

Willow (cat) was pleased to see us as she went out and brought us a mouse. But she’s so lazy these days, she just brought it in alive and spat it under the dining room table in a way that said, ‘you’re back then. There you go, I got you this, sort yourself out’, before gorging herself on biscuits while Tony, Winston and I chased the mouse with our selection of Tupperware/plastic Chinese boxes we keep just for this purpose. Fortunately this mouse was luckier than one I caught just before we went away, that veered to the left as it got used to the idea of having three legs.

Day before going back to work, there is only one thing to do, which actually I did after the first day back too! And that is, get your bra off, your PJs on, drink wine, whinge ‘this time yesterday I was eating paella’, oh and order unnecessary products from Amazon!

Today’s unnecessary products from Amazon to cheer myself up were:

1/ a magnifying glass because I realised how bad my eyes were on the beach last week when trying to identify if I was looking at moobs or boobs and because I spent 5 minutes calling the cat from the other side of the room and it was actually my own bra – not so bad though that I sat stroking my own cups. Since getting my magnifying glass, I no longer need to take my glasses off and read through one lens. However, Amazon now keeps saying, ‘people who brought this also brought’…and shows me pictures of shoe horns.

2/ the world’s smallest dustban and brush. So small it arrived in an A4 envelope. That’ll cheer me up. A bit of teeny, tiny sweeping.

On the day of going back to work, the dog just wouldn’t get up. He was trying to pull a sickie. He missed barging the door open and coming into the shower to try to lick my legs of soap and leg shavings with me shooing him away.

Instead, he decided to go in the spare bedroom, pull the duvet off the bed and crawl inside the cover. Check out the picture. That dog shape in a sheet is a dog in a sheet. It’s not a ghost dog.

Started my post holiday exercise regime. It is to dance everytime the Jet2holidays advert comes on. That’s it. Period.