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

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.

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

The Russian revolution man

Time to come home from Gran Canaria back to Essex. Last day of holiday is like a year’s worth of Sunday nights and New Year’s Eves all at once, when you don’t want to go back to work and think of everything else you’d rather do with your life with vague promises of making some changes.

I moan about going home and say, ‘the only thing there is to look forward to now is the Russian revolution on the history channel in full colour and high definition’. My husband Tony asks, ‘you looking forward to that then?’ ‘Nope, that’s kind of my point’.

Still at least our flight isn’t until 5pm and our cab to the airport is not until 3pm, or at least we hope, given some basic arrangements with the taxi company about them meeting us outside ‘the shop’ at a time I think we both understood to be the same.

It is the only nice day we’ve had since we have been here. Oh yer, everyone is on the beach today. Everyone is on the sun beds and splashing in the sea. Everyone is getting tanned and not shivering their tits off as we have all week.

After spending time sulking about going home and then taking snaps of basically everything, we went off for a civilised lunch and some Sangria, before a leisurely stroll back to the apartment to get our stuff and head to ‘the shop’ to meet the cab. Calm, relaxed, sunglasses on.

Of course, there was no cab there. And for 15 minutes we were sure one wouldn’t arrive until a car pulled up, which I can only describe as something between a stretched limousine and a hurse. It wasn’t in good condition. Every time we accelerated it sounded like a low inbound helicopter coming into land. Tony said, ‘Jeez, I’ve not been in a car this screwed since the Gambia’.  Hard to hear him as we accelerate again.

The traffic was horrendous getting to the airport. The bloke tells us it’s the hottest day of the year so far (of course it is, we’re going home) and everyone is off to the beach. Gotta love that, it’s 3:30pm and people at work are like, ‘yer, about the conference call, I’m off to the beach’.

We got to the check in and prided ourselves on being the first to check into our flight. ‘This is the way to travel’, we said, exchanging proud glances, looking forward to a bit of civilised duty free shopping and a beer before hopping on our flight, though I am already transitioning into a nervous flyer quicker than Michael J Fox becoming a werewolf in Teen Wolf.

Off to airport security. It’s a mystery to me how flying from the UK its belts off, boots off and liquids in plastic bags. Over here none of this happens and I wonder whether they are taking this seriously or just thinking of getting to the beach on this the hottest day of the year.

There does appear to be an adequate level of attention as my stuff is pulled over. There was the initial conversation of, ‘have you got liquids in this bag’? ‘No’, followed by the security guy pulling out a large bottle of water, shaking his head and then putting it in the bin. Then he pointed at a security woman and I deciphered that his miserable grunts were informing me to go over to her. Yep definitely the case as this non-smiling, hard faced woman was calling me over with her finger.

Mrs Happy then started swabbing basically everything I owned. Inside my case, bag, you name it, it got swabbed. She pointed at my stomach and said some things that made me feel tense. She definitely wasn’t asking if I had a nice holiday and wishing me a pleasant flight!

She pointed at my stomach again. At which point I started lifting my dress up thinking she wanted to swab my stomach, like they do when you go into hospital thinking, I’m glad I didn’t go commando today. This was one of two options left to me when I discovered last night I was a pair of pants down. The other option, which I took, was to wash a pair in a dishwasher tablet. They are clean but crunchy.

With my full briefs on partial display to this lady, she frantically set about pulling my dress down for me, saying ‘no, no, no, no’. And then, she burst into hysterics. Even with the basic exchange between us, I knew she was saying, ‘what are you doing you twat’? She swabbed my tummy through my dress, laughing. She patted me on the arm, laughing. And she told the miserable grunter, laughing. They were both in hysterics. ‘Yes, funny, we laugh’, I said in Pigeon English in a way to bring us together, though my pants had just done that.

I look at Tony and he is shaking his head. ‘What have you just done? Did you actually just lift your dress up to that woman’? ‘Yes’, I said, looking back to see the woman bent over, still laughing. ‘Why the hell did you do that for god’s sake’? ‘Because I thought she wanted to swab my tummy’. ‘When have you ever known them do that at the airport’?

He had a point but in my defence, she just kept pointing at my stomach aggressively and I’ve taken 4 anti-mental flyer tablets (only supposed to take 2) and had a shit load of Sangria and I’m stressed as hell about flying and it all happened quickly.

‘Oh well, she was a miserable cow when we arrived. Now look at her. I’m just spreading the love’, I say. I think I’ll be spreading the love for a while judging by how much she is continuing to laugh, she’ll be telling co-workers for years, ‘I had a woman lift up her dress once’. Oh god, now she’s  actually doing the motion of lifting up a dress to other co-workers now also laughing. Bastards.

So, my bag not only does not stand up and has fallen 118 times in the last 10 minutes (obviously I exaggerate to make the point), and the handle does not fold down, but both wheels have now jammed and are not turning. My case is basically just using them as skis. This prompts me to ask it if it’s ‘f’ing kidding me?’ And in an attempt to get one up on the bag, I turn it over and drag it on its stomach, repeatedly calling it a piece of crap and kicking it up the arse.

Our flight is called. As we walk to the gate, I remember why I fell out with this bag before. Coming back on a flight previously, I lost my boarding pass between entering the gate and the plane. Every single person on that flight went round me while I frantically searched my bags. They stepped over my case and its permanently extended handle, as it had naturally fallen over upon immediately coming to a stand. I eventually found the boarding card bastard nestled into the pages of my book (still not read).

I was the last person onto the aircraft that day. Everyone was seated and looking at me. Stressed, nervous about the flight and the wheels on the case rolling and stopping in an ad-hoc  fashion, I kicked it along the gang way. The stewardess telling me to put my bag up the front as there was no more space above my seat at the back. Her offers of assistance ignored, I lifted the case/piece of crap up and in doing so, in one complete action, the handle forced its way up my floating shirt and as I lifted it into the overhead locker, it took my top up and flashed my lacy bra and a bit of nipple to the entire flight.

There exposed, I saw in slow motion every face on that flight looking at my chest. Tony just staring at me further along the plane with a look of embarrassment and disappointment which I’d like to never see again.

We are now boarding. I have my boarding pass, my dress is in its rightful place, I haven’t flashed anyone but I have transitioned into nervous flyer. We will be on our way shortly back to London Southend (er, it’s just Southend). Soon back to reality. Insert sad emoji here.

Ps, the picture is of our bags that just don’t stand!