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

Little respect for the knicker line

So with the weather disappointing, well, basically cold, we decided to get a massage.
The bloke at reception checked his diary and despite it being completely empty told us to come back initially in 15 minutes, but then he changed it to 30 minutes. We realised why when he followed us outside as we left and sat down at a table leisurely ordering a beer. Fair play.
Time for our massage. We went into the room to get changed, and to have the discussion we always have when we have a massage about what they just told us to do with our underwear, despite pants on, bras off being a general universal principle.
I am convinced whilst we got changed that they were pulling straws on who should do the fat one (me). Well, it was the skinny bloke that got the short straw. His legs were so tiny they basically resembled tights when you first get them out of their packaging. Small, with a basic leg shape.
I lay down on the bed face down in that hole thing that’s a bit like putting your face in a toilet seat. I’ve mentioned I can’t taste. This is due to a nasal condition that is typically associated with older men. It means that when my head is in certain positions, my nose leaks like a tap. Well, this is one of those positions and my nose leaked onto the lotus leaf in a bowl below. I wondered how long it could actually drip for. It was enough to do two arms and a leg.
When my guy straddled me (it was a Thai massage which I’ve not had before and wasn’t prepared for this to happen but it was a charming surprise), I felt so sorry for him. He was like a tiny ballerina white water rafting, trying to keep on my bloated body. Right there was the definition of abuse of workers and why there still is a place for trade unions in the modern era.
His hands were so tiny it was like little pigeon’s feet walking over me. And those little fellas definitely didn’t show much respect for the knicker line. Basically, if that line was between two countries, there were definitely points were the sacred triangle could have read signs as a declaration of war. Though, those invasions were more of a welcome wander as was the sweeping across the fat bits of your boobs that swell out when you lay on your front and they swell out and nest into your armpits.
At the end of the massage there was some ball bouncing that occurred on the face area. I felt like he had snooker balls in a stocking that he was bashing onto my forehead. As he did, he was speaking softly. I wasn’t sure if I should say ‘pardon’, but realised he was doing some sort of chanting. That or he was saying ouch, ‘this one’s put my back out. Fat cow’.
At the end, the first thing I said to Tony was, ‘did you have that ball bouncing shit on your head’. ‘Yep, there was definite ball bouncing on my head, that did happen and she went very close to my privates a few times, there was a definite bit of sweeping going on round there’. ‘Yer, I had it too. We’ll re-book shall we’. And of course we did.
I told Tony I felt like I’d abused the poor guy and that the only fairest way to massage me was like one of those car washes in the UK when one person does your wheels and another one your windows. ‘Yer, I’m surprised they didn’t bring a tag team in to service you’. ‘Thanks’.
As we came out I commented on the statute of a naked man with a very small manhood. Tony said, ‘perhaps that’s why that masseur took such an interest in mine’. I stopped to take a picture and we named him Tiny Roger.
Silliness; LOL; personal blog; funny; funny stories; quirky; humour; humor; wit; happy; cheerful; fun; light-hearted; carefree; upbeat

Little sausage

Just landed in Gran Canaria, we go through airport security, or a place where a bored guy just waves us through, while I am using my bag to cut off people who don’t appear to understand the concept of queues. How very British.

We have a cab waiting, and meet the guy. He introduces himself as Jo, not very Spanish I think, and I say my name, to which he immediately responds, ‘argh, you’re a woman’, with genuine surprise. There’s lots of laughing and awkward head nodding. Then he shows us to the cab.

We get in the car and he puts our bags in the boot. It gives me chance to ask Tony, ‘why did he confirm I was a woman’? ‘I don’t know, it shocked him maybe’, ‘Yer that’s not helping’.

Jo comes and gets in the car too and for the first time I actually hear where we are going. Just before you go on holiday people always ask, ‘where are you going’? I can answer as I always know the country, but then they ask, ‘where abouts’? To which my standard reply for all holidays is, ‘not far from the airport’. They must think I like planes. Then its, ‘are you staying in the North or South’? I just pick one. Then its ‘what’s the weather like’? Say a number. The latter, I should have looked into as I am already freezing in my shorts.

We get to the general area of where we will be staying and Jo tells us to stay in the cab and relax while he jumps out to helpfully locate our actual apartment. ‘What’s he want’? I ask suspiciously. He goes down one road and comes back, then down another and comes back, down another and comes back now shaking his head. Tony farts. ‘Great, the poor guy is out there looking for our apartment and you’re in his cab farting. I don’t think he meant relax that much’. Tony’s defence, ‘everyone farts in cabs’, like that’s an inherent virtue of human nature.

Eventually, Jo’s found our apartment. He gets our bags out, tries to stand them up and forces the handle up on mine. Good to see he is having the same issues. Then we start the process of paying. I tip, not knowing whether I have just giving him more money than he will have seen in a life time or have deeply offended him.

He walks us round to the apartment wheeling our cases for us saying, ‘you relax’. The lady who is due to meet us at our apartments isn’t there. Tony calls her.  No answer. ‘OMG we’ve been scammed’, you immediately think. Yer that doesn’t go away when he tries another 4,5,6 times with the same result! Eventually he gets through and she says she will be 8 minutes (very precise). Jo laughs at the short time frame we are given and says, ‘haha, Spanish time she will be at least an hour or maybe here tomorrow’.

Jo says he will wait with us for the lady to turn up. I repeat internally, what’s he want and did I just pay his mortgage off with that tip to warrant this interest? He convinces us he will look after our stuff and that we should go and have a beer. Off we go. Not used to a friendly cabbie, we laugh, somewhat nervously at how he is probably riffling our bags or just plain running of with them.

1 hour later, the lady arrives. We say goodbye to Jo and he writes his name and number down so we can get him to take us to the airport when we go back. That’s when we learn his actual name is Panchos. He is lovely and the lady who meets us is lovely. Turns out the island is full of just really nice people, just intent on us having a nice holiday (the two we met anyway)!

Once inside the lady shows us a map and points out all the interesting places to go. We hope our faces politely say can we just skip this part. We are sure your old town is very lovely but we are merely here to drink Sangria.

After she goes I ask Tony if it’s safe to drink from the taps. ‘It’s not 1987 honey’.

We go out to have a nice meal. We sit down and 14 days later the waiter comes to take our drinks order. As he walks off Tony says, ‘jeez what a dream boat’. I laugh my head off. ‘Dream boat, I am a woman and I have never found reason to use that term’. He’s right though, so we just keep ordering loads of tapas just so we can spend time with him and we fight over who will actually place the order. When Tony says, ‘well take one of the small sausages’ please, internally I am dying and want to say, ‘actually, we will take any size sausage, either of us, what ever size sausage you have, will be great. We’ll take one for the team’.

The rest of the meal is spent with me vaguely listening to our conversation while following Dreamboat’s arse around watching like a complete pervert as it bends and straightens gorgeously as he wipes tables. I just want to reach out and stroke it. You have to understand, Tony is my soulmate and my best friend and we just are laughing at this and my interest in him very light-hearted.

Then, Tony spots a man coming along to the tables selling Oakleys, followed immediately behind by a bloke selling roses. ‘They better not come here, I’m not interested’, he says. The Oakley bloke passes by and doesn’t stop, the rose guy passes by and doesn’t stop. ‘Why didn’t they stop’? He asks as suprised as Jo/Panchos learning I was a woman. ‘I dunno, maybe your face telling them not to. You didn’t want them to anyway’. ‘I know, it’s nice to be asked though’. ‘What so you can tell them no’. ‘They’ll probably burn your retinas anyway’. ‘Yer, just like mine’, I say pointing to the hole in my sunglasses. We laugh.

I tell Tony the worst place I visited for people selling stuff was Barbados. When we arrived I was like, I don’t think that’s right that they move people selling Aloe Vera plants on, it’s their livelihood. Then the next day I was like, right, can you take this seller down and put his coconuts up his ass.

Tony says, ‘this place is like Byron Bay’. That’s were we spent our honey moon. It’s in Australia and is a place with a great energy and anything goes. People dress in all sorts of get ups from suits to hippy shit. Here there are people going by in puffer jackets and scarves, shorts, then some fancy heals go by and sparkly tops and then there was the lady in the red skirt (tutu like) and gold lycra top. Me, I’m in the shorts and full on summer get up. I’m freezing but I have no jumpers or jeans, nothing other than 100% cotton dresses. I want to be the lady that goes by in jeans a jumper and knee high boots.

Tony observes that everyone here is either a runner or a smoker. That’s true, loads of runners and loads of smokers. That prompts a game of ‘runner or smoker’, to everyone going by.

We talk about how, today I’d sent a message to Winston (dog’s) wonderful holiday family to tell them he eats shoes, as we forgot to tell them. As if to prove it I sent a picture of the shoes featured earlier in my blog. I was mortified that this didn’t reach them in time and to basically hear back that yes, they know with a picture of a small child’s eaten shoe. So, not knowing the size, we discuss ideas on what gift we can give in exchange for the shoe. The numerous pen knifes, lighters and the eye burning Oakleys just don’t seem right. Nor does the bikini glad ornament with Gran Canaria splayed across the breasts.

At the end of the meal we move the tip around on the table, both wanting to look like we were the one who left it in case he decides to give us a bit of extra sausage. The coins move around like we’re playing chess.

We walk home and I say ‘Ola’ to the dogs we pass but a bit like a Gentlemen’s Club, I have a no touching rule our of respect for Winston. Though he has shown no respect having pinched a crying small kids shoe. The ‘no touching rule’, has nothing to do with the time I surprised a dog with my ‘ola’ in Mexico that basically wanted to chew my face off.