There are those who have chosen, of their own volition, to be single. Those people who enjoy a sunset stroll along the beach holding their own hands, an evening in front of the fire with nothing more to caress but a faux-fur cushion from ASDA, to tuck themselves up in bed with a hot water bottle cunningly disguised as a bunny-rabbit. These people are either lucky, sad, or seriously deluding themselves.
Then there are those whom the entire population of the opposite (or in some cases same) sex have decided that they should be single. This is an example of an unusual, but possibly encouraging, world-wide collaboration seldom seen in the fields of politics, religion or taste.
Here are a few handy tips for the unwilling, unwitting and unwary single person:
Get rid of all forms of communication such as telephones, the internet, letter boxes, and carrier pigeon roosts. If they can’t get in touch you can work on the joyful assumption that they would if only they could.
Dispense with of all types of media such as televisions, radios, the internet, books and windows. If you can’t see other people enjoying relationships then you won’t miss having one yourself.
Don’t go to clubs, pubs, evening classes, supermarkets, street corners or anywhere past your front door. If you can’t meet anyone then, again, you can work on the joyful assumption that if you did then you would surely meet your perfect mate.
Get a cat. These feline friends obviate many of the more awkward aspects of singledom such as having nothing to cuddle, having no one’s sick/faeces to clean up, and the natural proclivity to talk to oneself.
Should you find yourself still struggling with appreciating the joys of singledom then get another cat, or a few more, or possibly a dozen.
The above tips surely show that you don’t have to be sad to be single and you don’t have to be sad to be single. Life is still full of fun, joy and lots of things to do. Such as talk to the cats.
Showing posts with label domestic affairs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label domestic affairs. Show all posts
Sunday, 9 December 2007
Wednesday, 24 October 2007
How to Love Yourself
Now that you have successfully fallen out of love (and into the second person narrative style)(if you missed previous post here’s a quick recap: you are now squatting in a cupboard with your eyes, ears and mouth covered) it is time to reconnect with your inner being. Oh, done that in the cupboard, ok, good.
They say that in order to be loveable you must first love yourself. This is sometimes a challenge to the recently dumped. Self-esteem, self-worth and self-abuse can be at an all-time low. Not only that but hours spent in a cupboard can lead to awkward cramps and a general fear of light, air and iridescent cockroaches.
Fret not. Here are a few handy tips to self-love:
Remember that you are beautiful – when you pass mirrors (if you haven’t smashed them all) smile. Say ‘Hey gorgeous, you are looking wonderful tonight.’ ‘My God who is that attractive person?’ or, if you feel that is going too far, simply stick to ‘Good, ok, still alive.’
Treat yourself as you would like to be treated by someone who loves you (that’s you). Buy yourself flowers, chocolate, more chocolate, and many small figurines of Jean-Luc Picard. Ha, how clever, only someone who REALLY loves you would know to buy you that.
Take yourself out for a romantic evening. Many a dumpee finds it difficult to get out, go out, go. Here’s the solution - simply simulate a romantic evening in the comfort of your own home (if you still have one):
Eat a meal with your loved one - a carefully placed mirror (if you haven’t smashed them all) or photograph of yourself (choose one from ten years ago) on the seat opposite will enhance that couple effect.
Take your loved one dancing – put your mp3 player on high volume, turn the lights down low, and if you are a disco type, blink a lot to simulate a strobe effect.
Go for a romantic walk by the riverside – fill the washing-up bowl with water and a few unidentifiable bits of debris and place on floor, open the windows for that fresh-air feel, and open the bin for that romantic river smell.
Whisk your loved one off to bed – undress slowly (here is where loving yourself really comes into its own because it suddenly doesn’t matter that you have forgotten to put clean knickers on, shave or remove those stray pubes that think that the pubic area extends to the upper (and/or lower) thighs). Mutter sweet nothings (again yay, it doesn’t matter if you are actually incanting tomorrow’s shopping list or yesterday’s suduko numbers because only you can hear). If you are not now feeling truly hot - turn on the electric blanket. And, just like a real relationship, or in fact better (because you know that is going to happen), fall asleep.
When you wake in the morning and discover that you have slept blissfully with your loved one all night without them even disturbing you with incessant snoring, terrifying sleep apnoea, or twitching like a person being given electric shocks direct from the local power station then you know. It’s love.
They say that in order to be loveable you must first love yourself. This is sometimes a challenge to the recently dumped. Self-esteem, self-worth and self-abuse can be at an all-time low. Not only that but hours spent in a cupboard can lead to awkward cramps and a general fear of light, air and iridescent cockroaches.
Fret not. Here are a few handy tips to self-love:
Remember that you are beautiful – when you pass mirrors (if you haven’t smashed them all) smile. Say ‘Hey gorgeous, you are looking wonderful tonight.’ ‘My God who is that attractive person?’ or, if you feel that is going too far, simply stick to ‘Good, ok, still alive.’
Treat yourself as you would like to be treated by someone who loves you (that’s you). Buy yourself flowers, chocolate, more chocolate, and many small figurines of Jean-Luc Picard. Ha, how clever, only someone who REALLY loves you would know to buy you that.
Take yourself out for a romantic evening. Many a dumpee finds it difficult to get out, go out, go. Here’s the solution - simply simulate a romantic evening in the comfort of your own home (if you still have one):
Eat a meal with your loved one - a carefully placed mirror (if you haven’t smashed them all) or photograph of yourself (choose one from ten years ago) on the seat opposite will enhance that couple effect.
Take your loved one dancing – put your mp3 player on high volume, turn the lights down low, and if you are a disco type, blink a lot to simulate a strobe effect.
Go for a romantic walk by the riverside – fill the washing-up bowl with water and a few unidentifiable bits of debris and place on floor, open the windows for that fresh-air feel, and open the bin for that romantic river smell.
Whisk your loved one off to bed – undress slowly (here is where loving yourself really comes into its own because it suddenly doesn’t matter that you have forgotten to put clean knickers on, shave or remove those stray pubes that think that the pubic area extends to the upper (and/or lower) thighs). Mutter sweet nothings (again yay, it doesn’t matter if you are actually incanting tomorrow’s shopping list or yesterday’s suduko numbers because only you can hear). If you are not now feeling truly hot - turn on the electric blanket. And, just like a real relationship, or in fact better (because you know that is going to happen), fall asleep.
When you wake in the morning and discover that you have slept blissfully with your loved one all night without them even disturbing you with incessant snoring, terrifying sleep apnoea, or twitching like a person being given electric shocks direct from the local power station then you know. It’s love.
Saturday, 20 October 2007
How Not to Fall Out of Love
There comes a time in many people’s relationships that’s called ‘The End’. It seldom causes the same sense of satisfaction as those mystical words rolling up as a classic film finishes, nor does one get the opportunity to discover who it was that actually played the leading roles, directed or who the mysterious man that looked like your father’s uncle was. Sometimes, often the better times, the end of a relationship is of one’s own volition. Oft as not though it is because one has been dumped, rejected and generally thrown out into the world of singledom without a by-your-leave, an excuse-me or even a darling-would-you-mind-if-I-just….
This leads to a key question many a dumpee has been forced to ask – ‘How do I fall out of love?’ Here are a few top tips:
Do not think about the object of your affections. At all. A tall order indeed but there are a number of practical aids around the house that may help –
Remove all evidence of the Beloved, including:
Photographs (especially photographs).
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been accidentally left behind including socks, CDs, books, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been purposefully left behind including uncomfortable chairs, CDs of embarrassing seventies groups, books so trashy that even the Beloved thinks he doesn’t own them, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Anything that may remind one of the Beloved such as ashtrays he made for you in pottery class in 1978 when pottery classes were de rigueur, cupboard doors he may have smashed in a fit of pique, and walls he painted colours you really never liked.
Anything that may look like the Beloved such as muddy boots, life-sized models of Arnold Schwarzenegger (or possibly Woody Allen), and the Beloved’s children. Ok, perhaps not his children as they are also your children. So best simply disguise them using false beards, face-paint and gorilla costumes. Assure them that Halloween has been extended to an all-year event.
Now you have thoroughly cleansed your house all that remains is to cleanse your mind. As your mind is smaller than your house (unless you live in a world even more bizarre than the one I live in) this shouldn’t be too difficult. Perhaps. Or not. A few top tips on self-brainwashing include:
Never use any words that start with the same letter as your Beloved’s name.
Don’t, under any circumstances, watch, listen to, or read anything that is to do with love. This boils down to essentially not watching, listening to or reading anything at all. Ever.
Avoid places that you have ever made love. Hence going to bed is definitely out, as is laying the table, having a bath, taking a shower, the sofa, building a nice fire, driving, canoeing, ice skating, and bungee jumping.
At this point I can hear you asking ‘But what’s left if I avoid all of the above, good and excellent advice as it is?’
Fret not. There is still a life after being dumped. Don’t imagine that there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.
If you have a toilet that is not in the bathroom that will prove a good place to hang out. Failing that any convenient cupboard large enough to squat in will prove excellent. Then, simply cover your ears in case anyone should try and play love songs in your vicinity. Cover your eyes in case you see any stray pubic hairs that you failed to notice in your house-cleansing ritual. Close your mouth firmly lest you utter any words that begin (or for that matter, contain) any letters that are in your Beloved’s name. And voila! Out of love. Fucking sorted. Oh, but don’t use the word ‘fucking’.
This leads to a key question many a dumpee has been forced to ask – ‘How do I fall out of love?’ Here are a few top tips:
Do not think about the object of your affections. At all. A tall order indeed but there are a number of practical aids around the house that may help –
Remove all evidence of the Beloved, including:
Photographs (especially photographs).
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been accidentally left behind including socks, CDs, books, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Items belonging to the Beloved that may have been purposefully left behind including uncomfortable chairs, CDs of embarrassing seventies groups, books so trashy that even the Beloved thinks he doesn’t own them, and pubic hair adhering to household surfaces.
Anything that may remind one of the Beloved such as ashtrays he made for you in pottery class in 1978 when pottery classes were de rigueur, cupboard doors he may have smashed in a fit of pique, and walls he painted colours you really never liked.
Anything that may look like the Beloved such as muddy boots, life-sized models of Arnold Schwarzenegger (or possibly Woody Allen), and the Beloved’s children. Ok, perhaps not his children as they are also your children. So best simply disguise them using false beards, face-paint and gorilla costumes. Assure them that Halloween has been extended to an all-year event.
Now you have thoroughly cleansed your house all that remains is to cleanse your mind. As your mind is smaller than your house (unless you live in a world even more bizarre than the one I live in) this shouldn’t be too difficult. Perhaps. Or not. A few top tips on self-brainwashing include:
Never use any words that start with the same letter as your Beloved’s name.
Don’t, under any circumstances, watch, listen to, or read anything that is to do with love. This boils down to essentially not watching, listening to or reading anything at all. Ever.
Avoid places that you have ever made love. Hence going to bed is definitely out, as is laying the table, having a bath, taking a shower, the sofa, building a nice fire, driving, canoeing, ice skating, and bungee jumping.
At this point I can hear you asking ‘But what’s left if I avoid all of the above, good and excellent advice as it is?’
Fret not. There is still a life after being dumped. Don’t imagine that there is nowhere to go and nothing to do.
If you have a toilet that is not in the bathroom that will prove a good place to hang out. Failing that any convenient cupboard large enough to squat in will prove excellent. Then, simply cover your ears in case anyone should try and play love songs in your vicinity. Cover your eyes in case you see any stray pubic hairs that you failed to notice in your house-cleansing ritual. Close your mouth firmly lest you utter any words that begin (or for that matter, contain) any letters that are in your Beloved’s name. And voila! Out of love. Fucking sorted. Oh, but don’t use the word ‘fucking’.
Monday, 8 October 2007
How Not to Sympathetically Restore an Historic Vernacular Building
I visited the Beloved in his swanky new flat today. So we could sign the Separation Agreement. I imagined an event rather like the signing of the Magna Carta, or the Declaration of Independence. You know, a lot of serious men in beards, quill pens, strange hats, trousers that have little flappy bits and button up at the front.
Sadly it was not to be on this historic day. But don’t worry, something historic did happen (that comes later). The Separation Agreement that I had driven through the long and windy night (or rush hour traffic depending on how you look at it) to retrieve from Spicketts & Battrick (I kid you not) in deepest Splott transpired not so much to be a Separation Agreement as an Agreement to make an Agreement. And to pay the aforementioned Spicketts & Battrick a phat load of cash.
Undeterred and only slightly tearful I determine to make light conversation:
‘Flat’s looking nice. I like your red kettle and florescent pink sheets’
‘I chose them for the colour’ Nice to see that good taste still plays a leading role in his life.
‘New trousers?’
‘Yes, M&S, but the fluff from the new carpet keeps sticking to them.’ I nod sympathetically. I understand that he too has his problems.
‘And nice new flat-screen TV.’
‘Yes, and I can use it as a monitor too.’
I am reassured that at least he has overcome his lack of sports-viewing.
‘I’ve been trying to mend the shed.’
The blank look on his face leads me to believe that he may have forgotten the shed. That, somehow, the shed no longer plays a leading role in his life. Undeterred I continue, ‘it needs new felt for the walls.’
‘I don’t think we can afford that at the moment, it’s been an expensive month.’
Still undeterred I return home. And go into the garden to reclaim the lawn from it’s status as a meadow. Whilst hard at strimming my neighbour approaches:
‘Big storm forecast for tomorrow,’ he declares in a sage-like manner.
‘Oh my God! The shed!’ I declare in a non-sage-like manner. ‘It’s still all leaky! What about my precious slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture that I’m going to sell on ebay and thus support myself and my children on for the foreseeable future?!?!!!’
My neighbour, unlike the Beloved, totally sees the crisis in the situation. He appreciates that the shed is not only a shed housing much precious belongings, but an iconic building in itself. After all, his grandfather built this magnificent edifice with his own hands. It has stood through storm, disaster, famine, various hunger pangs, and numerous light rain showers for the last 50 years. Or so. The shed is an emblem of sheddiness. Nothing, not even single-parent impecuniousness should stand in the way of the restoration of this historic piece of vernacular architecture.
‘I have some plastic,’ he offers kindly.
‘And I have some old vinyl flooring,’ I add, just to sound like I’m not totally scrounging, ‘and a staple-gun.’
This is what happened:
The plastic was bright green. The vinyl flooring was fake cork. They made a stunning combination. All my combined experience of half a degree in Architecture, years of crap DIY and a qualification in quilt-making blended seamlessly into one great work of Restoration. I think it puts previous efforts of The National Trust, World Heritage and Cadw into the shade. It even outstrips the magnificence of my Greenham Common Bender and that was almost waterproof.
This is it:
When I showed it proudly to the lawyer, and reassured her that should worse come to worst we could always live in this magnificent building she smiled. Or perhaps it was wind.
Sadly it was not to be on this historic day. But don’t worry, something historic did happen (that comes later). The Separation Agreement that I had driven through the long and windy night (or rush hour traffic depending on how you look at it) to retrieve from Spicketts & Battrick (I kid you not) in deepest Splott transpired not so much to be a Separation Agreement as an Agreement to make an Agreement. And to pay the aforementioned Spicketts & Battrick a phat load of cash.
Undeterred and only slightly tearful I determine to make light conversation:
‘Flat’s looking nice. I like your red kettle and florescent pink sheets’
‘I chose them for the colour’ Nice to see that good taste still plays a leading role in his life.
‘New trousers?’
‘Yes, M&S, but the fluff from the new carpet keeps sticking to them.’ I nod sympathetically. I understand that he too has his problems.
‘And nice new flat-screen TV.’
‘Yes, and I can use it as a monitor too.’
I am reassured that at least he has overcome his lack of sports-viewing.
‘I’ve been trying to mend the shed.’
The blank look on his face leads me to believe that he may have forgotten the shed. That, somehow, the shed no longer plays a leading role in his life. Undeterred I continue, ‘it needs new felt for the walls.’
‘I don’t think we can afford that at the moment, it’s been an expensive month.’
Still undeterred I return home. And go into the garden to reclaim the lawn from it’s status as a meadow. Whilst hard at strimming my neighbour approaches:
‘Big storm forecast for tomorrow,’ he declares in a sage-like manner.
‘Oh my God! The shed!’ I declare in a non-sage-like manner. ‘It’s still all leaky! What about my precious slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture that I’m going to sell on ebay and thus support myself and my children on for the foreseeable future?!?!!!’
My neighbour, unlike the Beloved, totally sees the crisis in the situation. He appreciates that the shed is not only a shed housing much precious belongings, but an iconic building in itself. After all, his grandfather built this magnificent edifice with his own hands. It has stood through storm, disaster, famine, various hunger pangs, and numerous light rain showers for the last 50 years. Or so. The shed is an emblem of sheddiness. Nothing, not even single-parent impecuniousness should stand in the way of the restoration of this historic piece of vernacular architecture.
‘I have some plastic,’ he offers kindly.
‘And I have some old vinyl flooring,’ I add, just to sound like I’m not totally scrounging, ‘and a staple-gun.’
This is what happened:
The plastic was bright green. The vinyl flooring was fake cork. They made a stunning combination. All my combined experience of half a degree in Architecture, years of crap DIY and a qualification in quilt-making blended seamlessly into one great work of Restoration. I think it puts previous efforts of The National Trust, World Heritage and Cadw into the shade. It even outstrips the magnificence of my Greenham Common Bender and that was almost waterproof.
This is it:
When I showed it proudly to the lawyer, and reassured her that should worse come to worst we could always live in this magnificent building she smiled. Or perhaps it was wind.
Saturday, 6 October 2007
How Not to Just Fucking Sort It
Well, Just Fucking Sort It September is over. And it’s time to take stock of just how very sorted everything is now. My world should be as sorted as an immaculate filing system, an accountant’s underwear drawer, a tube of Smarties after it has been sorted into different colours and then eaten in just the right order. Whatever order that is. Blues last I think.
So this is what happened:
At the beginning of Just Fucking Sort It September it was September 1st. Good start I feel. It was a Saturday, again an auspicious day. It wasn’t raining, or not much anyway, well, not enough to make the shed roof leak.
There were things that needed sorting-
The leaking shed
My underwear drawer
The flowerbed
The thousand other flowerbeds that inhabit my garden
The garden
The cupboard under the stairs
All the other cupboards
The house
My relationship with the Beloved
My life
On September 1st this didn’t seem un-ambitious. On October 6th, which happens to be today, I realise that maybe I was just a tad over-optimistic.
This is what happened:
The shed is still leaking. I fixed the roof. But then it turned out that all the walls were leaking too. Which isn’t a problem as long as all rain in the next foreseeable future remains strictly vertical. Could happen. I will therefore classify this in ‘Just Fucking Sorted’
I have given a great deal of attention to the garden. Mostly by removing most of its contents including trees, shrubs, grass, children, lost items belonging to the Beloved, small unknowable grey things, and large knowable brown things. It is now not so much a garden as a wasteland that abuts the house. Again, fucking sorted.
I have also given a great deal of attention to the house. Mostly by removing most of its contents including the most of the cupboards, my underwear drawer, furniture, spiders’ webs, walls, doors, ceilings, lost items belonging to the Beloved, small unknowable grey things and large knowable brown things. The house now resembles not so much a house but a handy building site, which could attract attractive builders. Perhaps. So, fucking sorted.
The Lawyer removed herself to her bedroom. The physicist removed herself to Uni. The snotty cat removed himself to the after-life. The Beloved removed himself to swanky flat in Radyr to cavort with his new beloved therefore ameliorating the necessity to sort my relationship with him. Tick that one off my iGoogle Things To Do List.
So, really the only item that is still left outstanding at the end of Just Fucking Sort It September is my Life.
Buy hey, given how successful I’ve been sorting everything else out, surely a life can’t be that hard?
So this is what happened:
At the beginning of Just Fucking Sort It September it was September 1st. Good start I feel. It was a Saturday, again an auspicious day. It wasn’t raining, or not much anyway, well, not enough to make the shed roof leak.
There were things that needed sorting-
The leaking shed
My underwear drawer
The flowerbed
The thousand other flowerbeds that inhabit my garden
The garden
The cupboard under the stairs
All the other cupboards
The house
My relationship with the Beloved
My life
On September 1st this didn’t seem un-ambitious. On October 6th, which happens to be today, I realise that maybe I was just a tad over-optimistic.
This is what happened:
The shed is still leaking. I fixed the roof. But then it turned out that all the walls were leaking too. Which isn’t a problem as long as all rain in the next foreseeable future remains strictly vertical. Could happen. I will therefore classify this in ‘Just Fucking Sorted’
I have given a great deal of attention to the garden. Mostly by removing most of its contents including trees, shrubs, grass, children, lost items belonging to the Beloved, small unknowable grey things, and large knowable brown things. It is now not so much a garden as a wasteland that abuts the house. Again, fucking sorted.
I have also given a great deal of attention to the house. Mostly by removing most of its contents including the most of the cupboards, my underwear drawer, furniture, spiders’ webs, walls, doors, ceilings, lost items belonging to the Beloved, small unknowable grey things and large knowable brown things. The house now resembles not so much a house but a handy building site, which could attract attractive builders. Perhaps. So, fucking sorted.
The Lawyer removed herself to her bedroom. The physicist removed herself to Uni. The snotty cat removed himself to the after-life. The Beloved removed himself to swanky flat in Radyr to cavort with his new beloved therefore ameliorating the necessity to sort my relationship with him. Tick that one off my iGoogle Things To Do List.
So, really the only item that is still left outstanding at the end of Just Fucking Sort It September is my Life.
Buy hey, given how successful I’ve been sorting everything else out, surely a life can’t be that hard?
Thursday, 27 September 2007
How Not to Have a Successful Relationship
They say that the most important part of a successful relationship is communication.
It’s been my ambition for quite a long time now to be ‘they’ because then people would believe me. And heed my wise words. However I have singularly failed to be plural and stalwartly remain ‘she’, which, frankly doesn’t have the same ring about it.
They say that the most important part of a successful relationship is communication.
I realise now that my communication skills have obviously been lacking. I’ve had 25 years to impart important information and yet the Beloved is still unaware of many important facts.
I also realise now, since he is moving out on Friday, that there is stuff he will probably never know. I am deeply concerned about this. It could affect his future in a profound, deep and dramatic way. He is launching into the unknown (or at least a swanky flat in Radyr) unequipped with some of the most basic knowledge that leads to a successful life.
I didn’t realise just how poor my communication skills were until this afternoon. This is what happened:
The Beloved decided that he would clean the inside of the car. I advised the hoover as a expedient, effective and moderately jolly way to remove five years of crisp crumbs, chocolate dust and unknowable little grey bits from interior car surfaces. Unusually and quite unexpectedly he agrees with me. I reel in surprise. He reels in surprise. When we have finished reeling he asks,
‘Where is the hoover?’
You see what I mean? Important information. Not communicated. No wonder he is leaving. This is such a basic and unforgivable mistake that how he never left before is slightly unimaginable.
The hoover, in case anyone is now wondering, is in the same cupboard as it has been for the last 15 years. I told the Beloved this. He looked puzzled. I drew a map (he has a degree in Geography and I thought this was the sort of thing he might relate to).
It set me thinking. What else haven’t I told him? Loads. Oops. Damn. Bother. Blast. To remedy the situation I have compiled a handy list entitled ‘What I always meant to tell you but, sorry, somehow, in the hurly-burly of family life I somehow, quite without meaning to, and with no malice of forethought or intention to do harm I forgot’.
This is the List:
Where the hoover lives
Why pans in the cupboard are stacked with the largest on the bottom and the smallest on the top
Where your glasses are (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving them)
Why it is polite to shower
Where your keys are (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving them)
Why precious pieces of slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture are better stored inside rather than outside the shed
What the machine with the big round window is for (he has one of those in his swanky new flat and I don’t want him trying to store milk in it)
Why it is polite to use a condom
Where your wallet is (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving it)
Why that isn’t very nice
What women want.
I’m sure there are more. But I can always email him.
Ah, yes, that’s one – How to connect to the internet. I’ll send a letter instead.
It’s been my ambition for quite a long time now to be ‘they’ because then people would believe me. And heed my wise words. However I have singularly failed to be plural and stalwartly remain ‘she’, which, frankly doesn’t have the same ring about it.
They say that the most important part of a successful relationship is communication.
I realise now that my communication skills have obviously been lacking. I’ve had 25 years to impart important information and yet the Beloved is still unaware of many important facts.
I also realise now, since he is moving out on Friday, that there is stuff he will probably never know. I am deeply concerned about this. It could affect his future in a profound, deep and dramatic way. He is launching into the unknown (or at least a swanky flat in Radyr) unequipped with some of the most basic knowledge that leads to a successful life.
I didn’t realise just how poor my communication skills were until this afternoon. This is what happened:
The Beloved decided that he would clean the inside of the car. I advised the hoover as a expedient, effective and moderately jolly way to remove five years of crisp crumbs, chocolate dust and unknowable little grey bits from interior car surfaces. Unusually and quite unexpectedly he agrees with me. I reel in surprise. He reels in surprise. When we have finished reeling he asks,
‘Where is the hoover?’
You see what I mean? Important information. Not communicated. No wonder he is leaving. This is such a basic and unforgivable mistake that how he never left before is slightly unimaginable.
The hoover, in case anyone is now wondering, is in the same cupboard as it has been for the last 15 years. I told the Beloved this. He looked puzzled. I drew a map (he has a degree in Geography and I thought this was the sort of thing he might relate to).
It set me thinking. What else haven’t I told him? Loads. Oops. Damn. Bother. Blast. To remedy the situation I have compiled a handy list entitled ‘What I always meant to tell you but, sorry, somehow, in the hurly-burly of family life I somehow, quite without meaning to, and with no malice of forethought or intention to do harm I forgot’.
This is the List:
Where the hoover lives
Why pans in the cupboard are stacked with the largest on the bottom and the smallest on the top
Where your glasses are (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving them)
Why it is polite to shower
Where your keys are (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving them)
Why precious pieces of slightly mouldy flat-packed furniture are better stored inside rather than outside the shed
What the machine with the big round window is for (he has one of those in his swanky new flat and I don’t want him trying to store milk in it)
Why it is polite to use a condom
Where your wallet is (although I have mentioned this, he tends to outwit me on this one by moving it)
Why that isn’t very nice
What women want.
I’m sure there are more. But I can always email him.
Ah, yes, that’s one – How to connect to the internet. I’ll send a letter instead.
Sunday, 23 September 2007
How Not to Mend the Shed Part II
Just Fucking Sort It September continues. The Save Our Shed campaign is well and truly underway. This is what happened:
As you may recall the shed is now not covered in most of the crops of middle France.
So I can now access the exterior. I thought that a peep at the roof from the outside might be helpful. After having found the ladder, which the Beloved had handily stored under some brambles, I propped it against the end of the shed. With Health and Safety in mind I measured the angle at which I had propped the ladder (20 degrees) with my school protractor. Satisfied that this fell into the recommended parameters of Health and Safety as recommended by those wise Health and Safety bods (well, only just out of the parameters anyway) I began my ascent.
I had expected to find a few loose screws (of the exterior-head variety) (already familiar with the interior-head variety), perhaps some slightly worn edges, and possibly a magpie preening its feathers. Wrong. I found a landscape akin to a deforested, storm-tossed and post apocalyptic middle France after having had all its vines removed. There were valleys filled with water, valleys filled with brown unknowable smelly stuff, a multitude of screws so loose that I’m surprised that the preening magpies hadn’t picked them up and used them as combs and toothpicks for the entire magpie population of middle Wales. There were holes of the smaller variety which could be plugged with chewing gum (am chewing that now), there were holes of the middle-sized variety, large enough for a preening magpie to use as a handy entrance. AND THERE WAS A HOLE.
This is what it looked like:
As you may recall the shed is now not covered in most of the crops of middle France.
So I can now access the exterior. I thought that a peep at the roof from the outside might be helpful. After having found the ladder, which the Beloved had handily stored under some brambles, I propped it against the end of the shed. With Health and Safety in mind I measured the angle at which I had propped the ladder (20 degrees) with my school protractor. Satisfied that this fell into the recommended parameters of Health and Safety as recommended by those wise Health and Safety bods (well, only just out of the parameters anyway) I began my ascent.
I had expected to find a few loose screws (of the exterior-head variety) (already familiar with the interior-head variety), perhaps some slightly worn edges, and possibly a magpie preening its feathers. Wrong. I found a landscape akin to a deforested, storm-tossed and post apocalyptic middle France after having had all its vines removed. There were valleys filled with water, valleys filled with brown unknowable smelly stuff, a multitude of screws so loose that I’m surprised that the preening magpies hadn’t picked them up and used them as combs and toothpicks for the entire magpie population of middle Wales. There were holes of the smaller variety which could be plugged with chewing gum (am chewing that now), there were holes of the middle-sized variety, large enough for a preening magpie to use as a handy entrance. AND THERE WAS A HOLE.
This is what it looked like:
The obvious question was obviously what I was asking myself – ‘How the fuck did I miss that?’
I have a theory:
The HOLE had several attributes –
It was previously obscured by most of the foliage of middle France
It is over where the Beloved keeps his bike
The Beloved’s bike is always wet
I had assumed that the Beloved’s bike was always wet because –
He rides it in the rain
He sweats a lot
Ergo, the wetness of the bike and surrounding area was due to Beloved-related activity.
Wrong. Or somewhat wrong.
I am, however, undaunted. I examined the problem from every angle (including 20 degrees). And came up with a cunning plan:
The shed needs a new roof to protect my precious, slightly mouldy, flat-packed furniture that I’m going to sell on ebay to obviate my singe-parent impecuniousness.
A roof is made of big flat things.
I have big flat things inside the shed (my precious, slightly mouldy, flat-packed furniture that I’m going to sell on ebay to obviate my singe-parent impecuniousness).
The obvious solution comes to mind. Fucking Sorted.
Monday, 17 September 2007
How Not to Mend the Shed – Or the French Vine Conspiracy
It rained today. Not much, but enough. Enough to make the shed roof leak. As you may recall I have just put my precious junk into (or rather back into) the shed. For safekeeping. Against the elements. Only the elements are also putting themselves into the shed. Possibly for safekeeping, or maybe for fun, but I suspect a certain amount of malicious intent. Because frankly, the places where the elements have discovered to get in are pretty small and obscure. I feel that the elements have probably gone to a lot of trouble to discover these small cracks and orifices. And if penetrating my shed was just for fun, then why the hours of dedicated research? Ipso facto, malicious intent. A prejudice against soon-to-be impoverished single mothers.
However, in the spirit of Just Fucking Sort It September I was undaunted. Elements pshaw! I declared. I will not let a few malicious elements defeat my cunning plan of making millions out of dismantled, slightly rotten ex-flat-packed cheap furniture. So I set to to mend the shed. This is what happened:
Firstly I assessed the damage by carefully examining puddles and small drippy bits on the floor and sides of the shed. I traced the aforementioned puddles and small drippy bits to their associated holes in the roof and walls. This was most revealing. Because there appeared to be an escaped vineyard attempting to enter the shed along with the elements. Could it be that most of the crops of middle France were also prejudiced against soon-to-be impoverished single mothers? It appeared so. This smacked of a conspiracy.
Undaunted I decided to eliminate the escaped crops of middle France. Hours later, stained with mouldy grape juice and feeling slightly sticky I surveyed my work. A pile the size of your traditional EU wine lake of mouldy grapes, vicious vines and unknowable tendrils adorned not only my precious slightly rotten ex-flat-packed cheap furniture, but the exterior of the shed, the rest of the garden and most of the outskirts of Cardiff.
‘Ha!’ I declared to the French escapee. ‘That showed you!’ The pile grinned knowingly. It had started raining again. The elements had taken on a new vigour. A vigour that only elements can achieve when they discover that not only that they can enter a woman’s shed through previous cracks and orifices, but that now, due to the lack of most of the crops of middle France, the cracks and orifices were larger and more welcoming than they were before I had started welding my trusty loppers.
‘Ha!’ declared the conspiratorial elements. ‘Fucking Sorted.’
However, in the spirit of Just Fucking Sort It September I was undaunted. Elements pshaw! I declared. I will not let a few malicious elements defeat my cunning plan of making millions out of dismantled, slightly rotten ex-flat-packed cheap furniture. So I set to to mend the shed. This is what happened:
Firstly I assessed the damage by carefully examining puddles and small drippy bits on the floor and sides of the shed. I traced the aforementioned puddles and small drippy bits to their associated holes in the roof and walls. This was most revealing. Because there appeared to be an escaped vineyard attempting to enter the shed along with the elements. Could it be that most of the crops of middle France were also prejudiced against soon-to-be impoverished single mothers? It appeared so. This smacked of a conspiracy.
Undaunted I decided to eliminate the escaped crops of middle France. Hours later, stained with mouldy grape juice and feeling slightly sticky I surveyed my work. A pile the size of your traditional EU wine lake of mouldy grapes, vicious vines and unknowable tendrils adorned not only my precious slightly rotten ex-flat-packed cheap furniture, but the exterior of the shed, the rest of the garden and most of the outskirts of Cardiff.
‘Ha!’ I declared to the French escapee. ‘That showed you!’ The pile grinned knowingly. It had started raining again. The elements had taken on a new vigour. A vigour that only elements can achieve when they discover that not only that they can enter a woman’s shed through previous cracks and orifices, but that now, due to the lack of most of the crops of middle France, the cracks and orifices were larger and more welcoming than they were before I had started welding my trusty loppers.
‘Ha!’ declared the conspiratorial elements. ‘Fucking Sorted.’
Friday, 14 September 2007
How Not to Save Oneself from Pecuniary Disadvantage
The ‘Just Fucking Sort It September’ story continues. Because I’m still sorting. Or trying to sort. I’m certainly not, much to my profound disappointment, fucking. And according to various reliable sources (the internet, the small thingy on the bottom of my computer screen, and the feeling in my bones, spleen and unsightly spot on my forehead just below the hairline that luckily I can cover it up) it is still September.
There are some things that are easier to sort than others. For example I have just completed a large and appealingly categorised database of all the authors in the Leaf Anthologies for our spanking new website (not literally spanking obviously, and not up yet so don’t rush to go and look). Should I so desire, at the click of a button I can make the authors all fall into alphabetical order. This is not painful for them and yet strangely pleasing for me. If only all of life were so easy. And obliging. And lacking in pain. And in neat little boxes that line themselves up and can be turned into lots of colours.
But, in the spirit of Just Fucking Sort It September I am obliged to tackle heftier tasks than spreadsheets. So, undaunted, back to the shed I go.
This is what happened:
Before I even managed to enter the shed I was arrested by a thought. The thought in question, was ‘The outside shed is very full.’
I was then arrested by a follow-on thought. ‘What the fuck am I going to do with all this stuff?’
I was then arrested by a follow-on follow-on thought. ‘I might need it.’
This double follow-on thought was of great significance. Because, you see, previously, when the outdoor shed was first invented by the Beloved, and a canny thought it was too, we were rich. And so the contents (is that the right word for a collection of articles that is bounded by no more than fresh air?) was junk.
Now, however I am about to be poor. Life has been cunningly redefined. Thus junk is now redefined. As useful stuff. As valuable goods. As items that could be cleverly dismantled into their constituent parts of mdf, nails, screws, small unknowable metal things and little plastic contraptions to stop doors slamming and sold on ebay for what I hope will be a small fortune. I have unwittingly come across the solution to single motherhood poverty.
I look at the skies. I think it might rain. I heft the contents of the outdoor shed back into the indoor shed to protect my valuable assets from the dangers of corrosion, rust and bird-shit.
Just Fucking Sorted.
Beginning to suspect that this may take more than September. Perhaps October as well. But since ‘Just Fucking Sort It October’ doesn’t have the same ring about it I may have to consider ‘Just Fucking Organise it October’. Still, always nice to have something to look forward to, that’s what I say.
There are some things that are easier to sort than others. For example I have just completed a large and appealingly categorised database of all the authors in the Leaf Anthologies for our spanking new website (not literally spanking obviously, and not up yet so don’t rush to go and look). Should I so desire, at the click of a button I can make the authors all fall into alphabetical order. This is not painful for them and yet strangely pleasing for me. If only all of life were so easy. And obliging. And lacking in pain. And in neat little boxes that line themselves up and can be turned into lots of colours.
But, in the spirit of Just Fucking Sort It September I am obliged to tackle heftier tasks than spreadsheets. So, undaunted, back to the shed I go.
This is what happened:
Before I even managed to enter the shed I was arrested by a thought. The thought in question, was ‘The outside shed is very full.’
I was then arrested by a follow-on thought. ‘What the fuck am I going to do with all this stuff?’
I was then arrested by a follow-on follow-on thought. ‘I might need it.’
This double follow-on thought was of great significance. Because, you see, previously, when the outdoor shed was first invented by the Beloved, and a canny thought it was too, we were rich. And so the contents (is that the right word for a collection of articles that is bounded by no more than fresh air?) was junk.
Now, however I am about to be poor. Life has been cunningly redefined. Thus junk is now redefined. As useful stuff. As valuable goods. As items that could be cleverly dismantled into their constituent parts of mdf, nails, screws, small unknowable metal things and little plastic contraptions to stop doors slamming and sold on ebay for what I hope will be a small fortune. I have unwittingly come across the solution to single motherhood poverty.
I look at the skies. I think it might rain. I heft the contents of the outdoor shed back into the indoor shed to protect my valuable assets from the dangers of corrosion, rust and bird-shit.
Just Fucking Sorted.
Beginning to suspect that this may take more than September. Perhaps October as well. But since ‘Just Fucking Sort It October’ doesn’t have the same ring about it I may have to consider ‘Just Fucking Organise it October’. Still, always nice to have something to look forward to, that’s what I say.
Monday, 10 September 2007
How Not to File
You know filing? That thing we mostly hate that involves having to put bits of unknown and difficult to understand paper into some form of paper-shaped receptacle. Cardboard is often involved. And sometimes paperclips. And always a great deal of mess, piles of paper on the floor and that gesture where one grabs one’s hair and attempts to pull oneself into another dimension by unsuspecting follicles whilst scrunching one’s features like a strange and expensive dog.
Filers deserve respect. It isn’t an easy job. A lot of thinking and reading and categorising is involved. The categorising is the worst part. This is because sometimes things just refuse out of sheer bloody-mindedness to fall into just one category. Take, for example, peanut butter and jam sandwiches. You have a peanut butter and jam sandwich. You have three files – peanut butter, jam, and bread. But what you really want to do is file it under butter. The only thing left to do is eat the sandwich thus obviating the need for any filing at all. It works with food, but after eating one’s fifteenth piece of paper, despite the variety of flavours, such as bank statement, receipt from the unicycle repair shop, gas company final demand (which is quite nice because it’s red) and (my personal favourite) yet another letter from the endowment company telling you that you have fuck all chance of ever paying off your mortgage even if you are stupid enough to pay them more money after they have already spent all your money by investing it in peanut butter companies with shit filing systems, you start to feel quite sick.
Anyway, filing. This is what happened:
I needed to find a piece of paper. And important piece of paper. Which told me just how much money we still owe to mortgage company. Mostly because if we could somehow magic away the mortgage then the Beloved could go live in a swanky flat with bells and whistles and peace and quiet (aside from the whistles) and no Lawyers and Physicists and lunatic blog writers. The thing about magicing things away, I always find, is that you have to know what it is you have to magic away. Thus my search.
The particular paper-shaped receptacle I was searching through was one of those concertina-style filing thingys you buy especially for filing those piles of paper that accumulate with the relentlessness of an oncoming migraine in piles on the kitchen dresser. It (the filing thingy) has handy categories already printed in it. Things like ‘bills’, ‘receipts’ and (oh good, I thought when I saw this one) ‘mortgage’. I looked in the slot entitled ‘mortgage’ in the naive hope of finding my important piece of paper. No. I looked in some more slots. No. Eventually I realised. The papers had not so much been filed as dealt. Playing card-style. After having been shuffled with the expertise of a croupier on crack.
Still, much to my delight I found a peanut butter and jam sandwich handily filed under ‘butter’.
Tomorrow I am looking forward to the Alliance and Leicester helpline. Just praying that their filing system is better than ours.
Filers deserve respect. It isn’t an easy job. A lot of thinking and reading and categorising is involved. The categorising is the worst part. This is because sometimes things just refuse out of sheer bloody-mindedness to fall into just one category. Take, for example, peanut butter and jam sandwiches. You have a peanut butter and jam sandwich. You have three files – peanut butter, jam, and bread. But what you really want to do is file it under butter. The only thing left to do is eat the sandwich thus obviating the need for any filing at all. It works with food, but after eating one’s fifteenth piece of paper, despite the variety of flavours, such as bank statement, receipt from the unicycle repair shop, gas company final demand (which is quite nice because it’s red) and (my personal favourite) yet another letter from the endowment company telling you that you have fuck all chance of ever paying off your mortgage even if you are stupid enough to pay them more money after they have already spent all your money by investing it in peanut butter companies with shit filing systems, you start to feel quite sick.
Anyway, filing. This is what happened:
I needed to find a piece of paper. And important piece of paper. Which told me just how much money we still owe to mortgage company. Mostly because if we could somehow magic away the mortgage then the Beloved could go live in a swanky flat with bells and whistles and peace and quiet (aside from the whistles) and no Lawyers and Physicists and lunatic blog writers. The thing about magicing things away, I always find, is that you have to know what it is you have to magic away. Thus my search.
The particular paper-shaped receptacle I was searching through was one of those concertina-style filing thingys you buy especially for filing those piles of paper that accumulate with the relentlessness of an oncoming migraine in piles on the kitchen dresser. It (the filing thingy) has handy categories already printed in it. Things like ‘bills’, ‘receipts’ and (oh good, I thought when I saw this one) ‘mortgage’. I looked in the slot entitled ‘mortgage’ in the naive hope of finding my important piece of paper. No. I looked in some more slots. No. Eventually I realised. The papers had not so much been filed as dealt. Playing card-style. After having been shuffled with the expertise of a croupier on crack.
Still, much to my delight I found a peanut butter and jam sandwich handily filed under ‘butter’.
Tomorrow I am looking forward to the Alliance and Leicester helpline. Just praying that their filing system is better than ours.
Saturday, 8 September 2007
How Not to Sort Out Your Life
The Beloved has a plan. To sort everything out. Or not.
The thing about plans is that sometimes they are great, think of lunar landings, recipes by Nigella Lawson and inventing chocolate. And oft as not, they are ill-conceived, think Apollo 13, recipes by Dr Crippen, World War I.
On the scale of plans the Beloved’s is somewhere between The Charge of the Light Brigade and The Millennium Dome. Sort of not quite rounded and rather chaotic. This is what happened:
Beloved: I have a plan.
Me: Good, that’s nice dear.
Beloved: Sign this piece of paper
Me: Good, that’s nice dear
Beloved hands me pen. I inspect piece of paper, as my father always told me not to sign anything without reading it first. This can be tricky when it comes to crowds wanting autographs in a hurry but since that situation is yet to arise I decide to read the piece of paper.
It is not so much a piece of paper as a form. Entitled ‘How to remove yourself from your life, home and not-marriage.’
The essence of the form is fairly straightforward. The usual gubbins, boxes, words, nicely shaded areas that indicate you don’t have to do anything in nicely shaded areas and that a designer has been hard at work choosing just that shade of pukey green to put in the nicely shaded areas.
The gist of the form is ‘Please sign away any rights to the last quarter of a century of your life, including any Physicists, Lawyers, decorative but slightly decrepit houses and decorative but slightly decrepit Beloveds.’
I fiddle with the pen. I think. Hard. This is a hard decision on par with very hard decisions one has known. Worse than deciding on what colour to paint the sitting room, what to name the cat or even how many dining room chairs we might need should we ever invite someone to dinner. I think some more. I fiddle with the pen some more. I look across the table at the beloved. He morphs strangely into one of those evil baddies from a 1950s horror movie. I can hear a strange ‘Ha ha ha ha’ in ever descending tones.
‘I’ll get back to you on this one.’ I say handing him the pen.
I think I handled the whole situation quite well. I always was rather good at forms.
The thing about plans is that sometimes they are great, think of lunar landings, recipes by Nigella Lawson and inventing chocolate. And oft as not, they are ill-conceived, think Apollo 13, recipes by Dr Crippen, World War I.
On the scale of plans the Beloved’s is somewhere between The Charge of the Light Brigade and The Millennium Dome. Sort of not quite rounded and rather chaotic. This is what happened:
Beloved: I have a plan.
Me: Good, that’s nice dear.
Beloved: Sign this piece of paper
Me: Good, that’s nice dear
Beloved hands me pen. I inspect piece of paper, as my father always told me not to sign anything without reading it first. This can be tricky when it comes to crowds wanting autographs in a hurry but since that situation is yet to arise I decide to read the piece of paper.
It is not so much a piece of paper as a form. Entitled ‘How to remove yourself from your life, home and not-marriage.’
The essence of the form is fairly straightforward. The usual gubbins, boxes, words, nicely shaded areas that indicate you don’t have to do anything in nicely shaded areas and that a designer has been hard at work choosing just that shade of pukey green to put in the nicely shaded areas.
The gist of the form is ‘Please sign away any rights to the last quarter of a century of your life, including any Physicists, Lawyers, decorative but slightly decrepit houses and decorative but slightly decrepit Beloveds.’
I fiddle with the pen. I think. Hard. This is a hard decision on par with very hard decisions one has known. Worse than deciding on what colour to paint the sitting room, what to name the cat or even how many dining room chairs we might need should we ever invite someone to dinner. I think some more. I fiddle with the pen some more. I look across the table at the beloved. He morphs strangely into one of those evil baddies from a 1950s horror movie. I can hear a strange ‘Ha ha ha ha’ in ever descending tones.
‘I’ll get back to you on this one.’ I say handing him the pen.
I think I handled the whole situation quite well. I always was rather good at forms.
Monday, 13 August 2007
What Never to Feed Your Cat
There didn’t seem to be much wrong with snotty cat. In fact he wasn’t even snotty. He was obviously just on a diet. For he eschewed the usual offerings of Tesco ever-so-nice little sachets of food that to me looked so disgusting that for once I actually agreed with the cat on something.
Usually, you understand, cat and I are polar opposites when it comes to topics like: Politics - he believes in a dictatorship (him) whereas I tend towards pure anarchy. Religion – he believes in one god (him) whereas I tend towards a more agnostic point of view. Obviously when he proves once and for all that he is God I will acknowledge his deityness with all the usual show of bowing and prostration but until then I will attempt to remain simply respectful.
Childrearing – he believes children are for the provision of laps and extra food whereas I tend towards the provision of laptops and extra food.
Death – he is of the let’s only live 9 times school of thought whereas I have yet to decide.
And finally Food – he believes that food is the god-given right of every cat. You can see how his reasoning is flawed here because if he is God then he should be providing his own food. Yet I provide the food, ergo, I am God.
That small point of philosophy cleared up back to the cat’s diet. This is what happened:
Cat refuses Tesco food. I am surprised. Usually he eats anything.
Cat refuses food for a second time. I am more surprised
Cat refuses food for quite a long time. I assume he is on diet in preparation for his summer holiday next door.
Physicist comes back from holiday and comments ‘cat looking very thin.’ I nod knowingly. Yet small corner of doubt beginning to show. Physicist concerned re cat’s welfare.
I resort to buying Kitekat, whose slogan is ‘as good as it looks’. Shit then. Yet… cat eats it. Or rather the first meal of it. Then cat refuses even Kitekat.
Sister and nephew come to visit ‘cat looking very thin’ they comment. I nod knowingly. Some concern that the cat is going to die of starvation. I explain about possible forthcoming holiday and possible need to wear speedo and impress all the cats next door. Nephew explains that they feed their cat Whiskas.
Well, it is a well known fact that once you go down the slippery Whiskas slope there is no turning back. Once a cat has tasted Whiskas it will eat nothing else. They put something addictive in it (possibly cocaine, heroine or chocolate).
‘Yes,’ pipes up the physicist, ‘he likes Whiskas.’
‘WHAT?’ I exclaim ‘Who has been feeding him Whiskas?’
It transpires that whilst I was stranded by floods the beloved did. Judas. Finally I bow to the pressure of all members of family thinking cat is going to die.
He eats the Whiskas.
He eats more Whiskas.
He eats more and more Whiskas.
The bank balance plummets.
He has in fact starved himself to the point of near death in order to get his fix of Whiskas.
Never, never, never knowingly feed your cat Whiskas if you don’t want to starve yourself to near death by the whole of your grocery budget being taken up by expensive and addictive cat food.
In grateful thanks for all the Whiskas the cat shits on the bathroom floor. I may yet resort back to the going on holiday theory.
Usually, you understand, cat and I are polar opposites when it comes to topics like: Politics - he believes in a dictatorship (him) whereas I tend towards pure anarchy. Religion – he believes in one god (him) whereas I tend towards a more agnostic point of view. Obviously when he proves once and for all that he is God I will acknowledge his deityness with all the usual show of bowing and prostration but until then I will attempt to remain simply respectful.
Childrearing – he believes children are for the provision of laps and extra food whereas I tend towards the provision of laptops and extra food.
Death – he is of the let’s only live 9 times school of thought whereas I have yet to decide.
And finally Food – he believes that food is the god-given right of every cat. You can see how his reasoning is flawed here because if he is God then he should be providing his own food. Yet I provide the food, ergo, I am God.
That small point of philosophy cleared up back to the cat’s diet. This is what happened:
Cat refuses Tesco food. I am surprised. Usually he eats anything.
Cat refuses food for a second time. I am more surprised
Cat refuses food for quite a long time. I assume he is on diet in preparation for his summer holiday next door.
Physicist comes back from holiday and comments ‘cat looking very thin.’ I nod knowingly. Yet small corner of doubt beginning to show. Physicist concerned re cat’s welfare.
I resort to buying Kitekat, whose slogan is ‘as good as it looks’. Shit then. Yet… cat eats it. Or rather the first meal of it. Then cat refuses even Kitekat.
Sister and nephew come to visit ‘cat looking very thin’ they comment. I nod knowingly. Some concern that the cat is going to die of starvation. I explain about possible forthcoming holiday and possible need to wear speedo and impress all the cats next door. Nephew explains that they feed their cat Whiskas.
Well, it is a well known fact that once you go down the slippery Whiskas slope there is no turning back. Once a cat has tasted Whiskas it will eat nothing else. They put something addictive in it (possibly cocaine, heroine or chocolate).
‘Yes,’ pipes up the physicist, ‘he likes Whiskas.’
‘WHAT?’ I exclaim ‘Who has been feeding him Whiskas?’
It transpires that whilst I was stranded by floods the beloved did. Judas. Finally I bow to the pressure of all members of family thinking cat is going to die.
He eats the Whiskas.
He eats more Whiskas.
He eats more and more Whiskas.
The bank balance plummets.
He has in fact starved himself to the point of near death in order to get his fix of Whiskas.
Never, never, never knowingly feed your cat Whiskas if you don’t want to starve yourself to near death by the whole of your grocery budget being taken up by expensive and addictive cat food.
In grateful thanks for all the Whiskas the cat shits on the bathroom floor. I may yet resort back to the going on holiday theory.
Monday, 30 July 2007
How to Fight Chaos, Space-time Continuums and Stuff and Almost Win
I’ve been fighting chaos. This is what happened:
I woke up bright and early, or at least early, or earlyish. I donned by superhero attire of knickers and cape. The cape kept tangling in my knickers so I took that off. Then I didn’t feel it was appropriate to wander the house in just superhero knickers (nice as they are) as there were young men present. So I put on some superhero jeans and t-shirt. And went forth to fight chaos.
The chaos was lurking in an evil and mostly scary way in a small room we call the ‘den’. Possibly we call it this because it is where evil chaos hangs out. Or possibly we call it this because it is so small that it resembles a structure created with spare bedlinen by a child aged approximately five. In fact I have no idea why it is called ‘the den’.
So, chaos, lurking in the den. Imagine the scene if you will – a small room with a small bed and a small desk. Lurking under, over, betwixt, on, in-between, amongst, throughout, amidst and amid the small bed, desk and room is stuff. Serious amounts of stuff. A very very a lot of stuff. The sort of stuff that can only accumulate after fifteen years of putting stuff in a very small room with a desk and a bed. This is the sort of stuff that was there –
Photographs of babies, children and people one no longer recognises
Bank statements from bank accounts one probably never held
Dust
Paintings painted by small children who may or may not be one’s own children but are definitely not the children of Michelangelo
Files of hand-written college notes for qualifications one never used and therefore have forgotten and anyway the notes are totally illegible
Certificates for qualifications one never used and therefore have forgotten but now engender a brief feeling of pride at being so well qualified
Dust
Unrecognisable sticky things
Tents one has bought to go camping only it never stopped raining so the tents are still sealed in their original cellophane wrapping
More dust
Scrunched up old bedding that smells as if the cat has pissed on it
Cats pissing on scrunched up old bedding
Dusty unrecognisable sticky things
And more. Much much more. It is a miracle of space that all this stuff was in this very small room. I brought the physicist in to explain exactly how there could be more stuff in a room than the actual volume of the room. She muttered something about compression and space-time continuums and went back to her room where the amount of space and the amount of stuff actually make sense.
I took my best superhero deep breath and started. And continued. And finished only twelve hours, sixteen recycling bags, seventeen bin bags, and eleven boxes that I don’t know what the hell to do with later. I shall now have to rearrange all the other rooms in the house in order to accommodate all the very useful stuff (see above list) that I have rescued. But that’s ok because I have lots of time as I am now prisoner in my own home because I can’t get past the desk, the bed, the sixteen recycling bags, the seventeen bin bags, and the eleven boxes that I don’t know what the hell to do with that are blocking the road.
I woke up bright and early, or at least early, or earlyish. I donned by superhero attire of knickers and cape. The cape kept tangling in my knickers so I took that off. Then I didn’t feel it was appropriate to wander the house in just superhero knickers (nice as they are) as there were young men present. So I put on some superhero jeans and t-shirt. And went forth to fight chaos.
The chaos was lurking in an evil and mostly scary way in a small room we call the ‘den’. Possibly we call it this because it is where evil chaos hangs out. Or possibly we call it this because it is so small that it resembles a structure created with spare bedlinen by a child aged approximately five. In fact I have no idea why it is called ‘the den’.
So, chaos, lurking in the den. Imagine the scene if you will – a small room with a small bed and a small desk. Lurking under, over, betwixt, on, in-between, amongst, throughout, amidst and amid the small bed, desk and room is stuff. Serious amounts of stuff. A very very a lot of stuff. The sort of stuff that can only accumulate after fifteen years of putting stuff in a very small room with a desk and a bed. This is the sort of stuff that was there –
Photographs of babies, children and people one no longer recognises
Bank statements from bank accounts one probably never held
Dust
Paintings painted by small children who may or may not be one’s own children but are definitely not the children of Michelangelo
Files of hand-written college notes for qualifications one never used and therefore have forgotten and anyway the notes are totally illegible
Certificates for qualifications one never used and therefore have forgotten but now engender a brief feeling of pride at being so well qualified
Dust
Unrecognisable sticky things
Tents one has bought to go camping only it never stopped raining so the tents are still sealed in their original cellophane wrapping
More dust
Scrunched up old bedding that smells as if the cat has pissed on it
Cats pissing on scrunched up old bedding
Dusty unrecognisable sticky things
And more. Much much more. It is a miracle of space that all this stuff was in this very small room. I brought the physicist in to explain exactly how there could be more stuff in a room than the actual volume of the room. She muttered something about compression and space-time continuums and went back to her room where the amount of space and the amount of stuff actually make sense.
I took my best superhero deep breath and started. And continued. And finished only twelve hours, sixteen recycling bags, seventeen bin bags, and eleven boxes that I don’t know what the hell to do with later. I shall now have to rearrange all the other rooms in the house in order to accommodate all the very useful stuff (see above list) that I have rescued. But that’s ok because I have lots of time as I am now prisoner in my own home because I can’t get past the desk, the bed, the sixteen recycling bags, the seventeen bin bags, and the eleven boxes that I don’t know what the hell to do with that are blocking the road.
Wednesday, 20 June 2007
How to Use Fiction and not Science to Fix the Freezer (or Not)
Something happened. I’m not sure how. But it could have been carelessness. Or it could have been the power cut. Many things, but mostly pregnancies, have been blamed on these two culprits. This was a case of ice trying to rule the world.
I noticed it first last night. The freezer door would not shut. Upon further examination it transpired that instead of the usual freezer contents: pizzas that are so thin on cheese that no one will eat them, blackcurrants from the bumper crop six years ago, the year before lasts’ chocolate mousse left over from a party, ice packs for purple feet, ice cream that is all sort of frosty on top, you know, the general collection of totally inedible stuff, there was ice. And only ice. Big white and slightly scary ice. Ice so large that it was creeping out and trying to reach the tumble dryer for some sort of ice/heat party.
This, I thought, was a problem. For two good reasons. One, how was I going to cook those blackcurrants that I had been meaning to turn into a delicious blackcurrant cake for the last six years? Two, how was I going to close the door? And three (ok three good reasons) since the door was open then the freezer motor was going completely mad thinking that it was its sole and crucial responsibility to bring the rest of the house down to freezer temperature.
Reason three won. Mostly because the beloved has a bit of a thing about how much electricity freezers use. Luckily the beloved is flying to Canada (to speak at conference about sustainability) using aviation fuel instead of electricity. But he’s coming back. On Thursday. And will not be happy to find the whole house turned into a freezer using about a million times more electricity than a normal freezer fiasco.
So, a plan was needed. The obvious sprung to mind. Turn off the freezer. Not so simple as it seemed. The freezer is attached to the fridge. To be precise the fridge is on top of the freezer and attached. Turn one off and the other one goes off. (It’s a metaphor for marriage; every house should have one.) The fridge is full of food we actually want to eat. That needs to be cold.
A rethink needed. I racked my brains for a solution. Being a bit of a traditionalist I looked on the bookshelves for a solution. You know, a book called ‘Freezer Monsters and How to Win’ or ‘Is Your House Being Taken Over By the Freezer?’ or ‘Come to Terms With Your Ice In Twelve Easy Steps’. Nothing. How odd. But my eye finally alighted on a helpful guide book. It advocated the use of a towel in any given emergency. Or even better, it transpired, as I read on, 42 towels. I have only 12 towels so decided to settle for just one for the moment. I left the other ones together to breed in the hope that in the morning I would discover 42 or more.
I held my towel. I approached the freezer. Quickly I cunningly shoved the towel between the fridge and freezer doors. It draped in a satisfying manner over the ajarness of the freezer door. The writer of that guide knew a thing or two, I thought. This was definitely going to stop my house from reaching sub-zero temperatures and using all the electricity available to the western half of Cardiff.
Everything was fine. The problem was solved. Until the physicist tried to open the fridge door. The towel fell off.
‘What’s this towel doing here Mum?’
I explained all of the above re my advice from the book.
‘Why don’t you just get a knife and cut away the ice?’
I explained all of the above again.
She took a knife. Attacked the ice monster with the ferocity only a victim of A level mania can muster.
Why is it that children never believe a word one says?
‘It’s not working.’
I explained all of the above again.
‘I know, I’ll heat the knife.’
Physicists, honestly. She boiled a kettle. She poured boiling water into a jug. She heated the knife.
‘It’s not working.’
I explained all of the above again. She spilled the jug of water. Grabbed my towel and used it to mop up.
She turned to me in despair.
‘Have you got another towel?’ I redeemed a towel from the pile of fornicating towels and handed it to her. She shoved the towel between the fridge and freezer doors. It draped in a satisfying manner over the ajarness of the freezer door.
‘There,’ she said, quite pleased at this solution.
‘Well done dear.’
A triumph of fiction over science I think.
I noticed it first last night. The freezer door would not shut. Upon further examination it transpired that instead of the usual freezer contents: pizzas that are so thin on cheese that no one will eat them, blackcurrants from the bumper crop six years ago, the year before lasts’ chocolate mousse left over from a party, ice packs for purple feet, ice cream that is all sort of frosty on top, you know, the general collection of totally inedible stuff, there was ice. And only ice. Big white and slightly scary ice. Ice so large that it was creeping out and trying to reach the tumble dryer for some sort of ice/heat party.
This, I thought, was a problem. For two good reasons. One, how was I going to cook those blackcurrants that I had been meaning to turn into a delicious blackcurrant cake for the last six years? Two, how was I going to close the door? And three (ok three good reasons) since the door was open then the freezer motor was going completely mad thinking that it was its sole and crucial responsibility to bring the rest of the house down to freezer temperature.
Reason three won. Mostly because the beloved has a bit of a thing about how much electricity freezers use. Luckily the beloved is flying to Canada (to speak at conference about sustainability) using aviation fuel instead of electricity. But he’s coming back. On Thursday. And will not be happy to find the whole house turned into a freezer using about a million times more electricity than a normal freezer fiasco.
So, a plan was needed. The obvious sprung to mind. Turn off the freezer. Not so simple as it seemed. The freezer is attached to the fridge. To be precise the fridge is on top of the freezer and attached. Turn one off and the other one goes off. (It’s a metaphor for marriage; every house should have one.) The fridge is full of food we actually want to eat. That needs to be cold.
A rethink needed. I racked my brains for a solution. Being a bit of a traditionalist I looked on the bookshelves for a solution. You know, a book called ‘Freezer Monsters and How to Win’ or ‘Is Your House Being Taken Over By the Freezer?’ or ‘Come to Terms With Your Ice In Twelve Easy Steps’. Nothing. How odd. But my eye finally alighted on a helpful guide book. It advocated the use of a towel in any given emergency. Or even better, it transpired, as I read on, 42 towels. I have only 12 towels so decided to settle for just one for the moment. I left the other ones together to breed in the hope that in the morning I would discover 42 or more.
I held my towel. I approached the freezer. Quickly I cunningly shoved the towel between the fridge and freezer doors. It draped in a satisfying manner over the ajarness of the freezer door. The writer of that guide knew a thing or two, I thought. This was definitely going to stop my house from reaching sub-zero temperatures and using all the electricity available to the western half of Cardiff.
Everything was fine. The problem was solved. Until the physicist tried to open the fridge door. The towel fell off.
‘What’s this towel doing here Mum?’
I explained all of the above re my advice from the book.
‘Why don’t you just get a knife and cut away the ice?’
I explained all of the above again.
She took a knife. Attacked the ice monster with the ferocity only a victim of A level mania can muster.
Why is it that children never believe a word one says?
‘It’s not working.’
I explained all of the above again.
‘I know, I’ll heat the knife.’
Physicists, honestly. She boiled a kettle. She poured boiling water into a jug. She heated the knife.
‘It’s not working.’
I explained all of the above again. She spilled the jug of water. Grabbed my towel and used it to mop up.
She turned to me in despair.
‘Have you got another towel?’ I redeemed a towel from the pile of fornicating towels and handed it to her. She shoved the towel between the fridge and freezer doors. It draped in a satisfying manner over the ajarness of the freezer door.
‘There,’ she said, quite pleased at this solution.
‘Well done dear.’
A triumph of fiction over science I think.
Sunday, 10 June 2007
How to Turn Disablement to Your Advantage and the Mysteries of Casts
I think I’m getting the hang of this disablement thing now. It is simply a question of role reversal. The trick is to use everyday ordinary phrases that usually come out of others’ mouths and make them come out of mine. And substitute the word ‘Mum’ for ‘daughter’ or ‘daughter’s boyfriend’. Here are a few successful examples that occurred today:
Daughter, can I have a bagel please, and some orange juice and can you bring it to my room?
Daughter, we have run out of milk, can you go to the coop, and whilst you’re there get some bread and croissants and smoothies and biscuits and cake and a weeks shopping and a small kitchen sink?
Daughter’s boyfriend, my computer is broken can you come and fix it and install some programs and bring me a cup of coffee, and wash the car too?
Daughter, where are my favourite jeans and my blue t-shirt? If they are in the wash can you get them clean by an hour ago?
See, easy. Just a matter of mindset. Why didn’t I think of breaking my foot years ago? The house is running like a well oiled machine, without the mess of the oil or the noise of a machine. And I am sitting in bed. Doing fuck all. It is my intention never to have this cast removed. Ever.
The cast is still a bit of a mystery to me though. On one level it is familiar as an old, hot, heavy and stupidly large sock. On another level I can’t help but think - why? Is this not severe overkill? I have broken a bone in my foot. I saw the x-ray: 4th metatarsal. I have a cast that covers most of the western hemisphere. And weighs as much as the eastern hemisphere. And is as hot as the upper hemisphere. And as itchy as the lower hemisphere. By my calculations now this cast covers two earths.
And here’s another mysterious thing. (look away now if you are a bit squeamish). The two ends of the bones had managed to separate themselves rather in the fashion of Tower Bridge. Without the towers and the tourists. Well there might have been tourists but they are invisible to NHS x-ray. Probably Japanese and therefore quite nano and compact. So how is it supposed to work that by encasing most of my body in plaster of Paris these bones magically realign themselves? Out of protest? Because they have read the reports of famous footballers’ injuries and are followers of celeb fashion? Because they empathise with the plight of Japanese tourists unable to cross bridges?
Meanwhile, due to the highly technologically advanced nature of this thing adhering to my leg I am leaving white smudges all around the house. I’m like snotty-cat on a very bad shedding day. Visitors proffering chocolates have been able to discover my location by following the trail of plaster debris. Scientists looking for the answer to the missing matter in the universe have been crowding the house taking samples. NHS managers have been out in force with dustpans and brushes collecting the stuff in order to recycle it for the next unfortunate sauna accidentee.
And I have a confession, but please don’t tell anyone at the hospital, or my family, or anyone really – I’ve broken the world’s largest cast already. The bit that is under my foot, probably the crucial bit that is actually attempting to do something for the divorced metatarsal. Oops.
Daughter, can I have a bagel please, and some orange juice and can you bring it to my room?
Daughter, we have run out of milk, can you go to the coop, and whilst you’re there get some bread and croissants and smoothies and biscuits and cake and a weeks shopping and a small kitchen sink?
Daughter’s boyfriend, my computer is broken can you come and fix it and install some programs and bring me a cup of coffee, and wash the car too?
Daughter, where are my favourite jeans and my blue t-shirt? If they are in the wash can you get them clean by an hour ago?
See, easy. Just a matter of mindset. Why didn’t I think of breaking my foot years ago? The house is running like a well oiled machine, without the mess of the oil or the noise of a machine. And I am sitting in bed. Doing fuck all. It is my intention never to have this cast removed. Ever.
The cast is still a bit of a mystery to me though. On one level it is familiar as an old, hot, heavy and stupidly large sock. On another level I can’t help but think - why? Is this not severe overkill? I have broken a bone in my foot. I saw the x-ray: 4th metatarsal. I have a cast that covers most of the western hemisphere. And weighs as much as the eastern hemisphere. And is as hot as the upper hemisphere. And as itchy as the lower hemisphere. By my calculations now this cast covers two earths.
And here’s another mysterious thing. (look away now if you are a bit squeamish). The two ends of the bones had managed to separate themselves rather in the fashion of Tower Bridge. Without the towers and the tourists. Well there might have been tourists but they are invisible to NHS x-ray. Probably Japanese and therefore quite nano and compact. So how is it supposed to work that by encasing most of my body in plaster of Paris these bones magically realign themselves? Out of protest? Because they have read the reports of famous footballers’ injuries and are followers of celeb fashion? Because they empathise with the plight of Japanese tourists unable to cross bridges?
Meanwhile, due to the highly technologically advanced nature of this thing adhering to my leg I am leaving white smudges all around the house. I’m like snotty-cat on a very bad shedding day. Visitors proffering chocolates have been able to discover my location by following the trail of plaster debris. Scientists looking for the answer to the missing matter in the universe have been crowding the house taking samples. NHS managers have been out in force with dustpans and brushes collecting the stuff in order to recycle it for the next unfortunate sauna accidentee.
And I have a confession, but please don’t tell anyone at the hospital, or my family, or anyone really – I’ve broken the world’s largest cast already. The bit that is under my foot, probably the crucial bit that is actually attempting to do something for the divorced metatarsal. Oops.
Thursday, 7 June 2007
How to Survive of Disablement with a Modicum of Sanity
So that’s it. I’m officially, albeit temporarily, disabled. Why did no one warn me that this might happen? Why didn’t my horoscope yesterday tell me to beware of small saunas containing naked people? I would have taken heed. Honestly. Why didn’t my horoscope last month warn me to install such handy features in my house as a Stannah Stairlift, those big rails around the toilet, a bungalow, a nurse, a stasis chamber?
All I can be grateful for is that my horoscope of about six months ago warned me against returning the NHS crutches to the relevant NHS establishment after Daughter the Younger put pitch fork through her foot. So, I have crutches. And beer. Perhaps not a good combination. But since I haven’t been warned I shall continue to mix the two.
Adaptation, as Darwin put it so well, is the name of the game. Life as a temporarily disabled person simply requires a modicum of adjustment. Should your find yourself in this position (possibly also due to lack of correct astral readings) here are some handy tips:
Crutches can be used for more than just crutching. You can use them –
As giant chopsticks to pick up sundry items from the floor
As mops by simply putting a damp rag underneath
As removers of cobwebs from unlikely places
As weapons of mass destruction in the case of severe anger. Which may happen. Life with crutches tends to develop those tendencies.
If you are on crutches you cannot –
Carry things upstairs
Carry things downstairs
Go upstairs
Go downstairs
Dance tango
If you are on crutches allow that little bit of extra time for –
Moving from one location to another
Going to the toilet (remember, disentangle before sitting)
Washing of any part of the body
Everything
You may discover that being temporarily disabled alters your relationship with people. This can be telling and perhaps it is worth making a note of. This is my personal experience –
Physicist comes over very helpful and drives to coop for emergency croissants
Daughter the Younger finds situation most amusing and demonstrates tricks to do on crutches that she perfected after the pitch-fork incident
Friends send cyber-hugs via email and MSN (thank you)
Sauna builders come round to apologise
Sauna builder’s dog comes round to apologise and eat anything she finds on the floor
Beloved becomes extremely grumpy and offers no hugs at all
Cat doesn’t notice and remains as hungry as ever
A final word of advice – beware false horoscopes, small saunas and remember, we are all just a slip away from purple feet that look like balloons.
Monday, 4 June 2007
Red Letter Day – or How I Won for the First Time Ever
Yesterday was a red-letter day.
I just Googled that to find out why it was thus called:
"We wryte yet in oure kalenders the hyghe festes wyth rede lettres of coloure of purpre."
Which is a tad confusing. So perhaps it was a purple letter day. But a day of festival and celebration none the less. And June 3 will be forever thus write in the scriptures and kalenders of Aardarkism (which I have yet to write), (but at least there is now a hyghe feste)
And why such cause for celebration and hyghe feste? I won my first ever argument with the Beloved. This is what happened:
We were awarded M&S vouchers for the great good deed of renewing our car insurance. £25 each. A haul if there ever was one in these days of financial pecuniary and lack of decent attire with which to attire ourselves.
Beloved: ‘I’m off to M&S to spend this voucher which is burning a hole in my holey pocket.’ He was attired in a spectacularly holey pair of jeans.
Me: ‘They don’t have anything nice in M&S for men.’ The subtext here being fairly obvious to one as used to reading between lines as the Beloved.
Beloved: ‘I need new jeans.’ Indicating the aforementioned garment, or rather the large expanse of hairy leg that was revealed by the aforementioned garment.
Me: ‘You waste your time and voucher buying jeans from M&S. They have nice skirts though, but they cost more than £25.’ Subtext galore.
Beloved: ‘I need new jeans.’
Me: ‘Try ASDA’
Beloved: ‘Ok then, let’s spend all the M&S vouchers on something for you.’
Essentially, then, the bottom dropped out of my world. I felt very like one of those cartoon characters who has just run off the side of a cliff only to look down and discover that there is no longer anything of a substantial nature under their feet/paws/whatever passes for their lower limbs.
This had never happened to me before. I barely understood the phrase ‘Ok then,’ when arriving out of the lips of the Beloved. I searched his countenance for the usual signs of sarcasm. I poked him to ensure that he was actually real. I asked him a few tricky questions to ensure he hadn’t been replaced by an alien.
So, we went to the great emporium and bought an expensive and particularly gorgeous skirt. Which I will now wear on all hyghe festes that come my way.
I think he is probably ill. But I don’t like to mention it. Because he might agree. And that would be proof of serious illness, if not something fatal.
I am still in shock.
I just Googled that to find out why it was thus called:
"We wryte yet in oure kalenders the hyghe festes wyth rede lettres of coloure of purpre."
Which is a tad confusing. So perhaps it was a purple letter day. But a day of festival and celebration none the less. And June 3 will be forever thus write in the scriptures and kalenders of Aardarkism (which I have yet to write), (but at least there is now a hyghe feste)
And why such cause for celebration and hyghe feste? I won my first ever argument with the Beloved. This is what happened:
We were awarded M&S vouchers for the great good deed of renewing our car insurance. £25 each. A haul if there ever was one in these days of financial pecuniary and lack of decent attire with which to attire ourselves.
Beloved: ‘I’m off to M&S to spend this voucher which is burning a hole in my holey pocket.’ He was attired in a spectacularly holey pair of jeans.
Me: ‘They don’t have anything nice in M&S for men.’ The subtext here being fairly obvious to one as used to reading between lines as the Beloved.
Beloved: ‘I need new jeans.’ Indicating the aforementioned garment, or rather the large expanse of hairy leg that was revealed by the aforementioned garment.
Me: ‘You waste your time and voucher buying jeans from M&S. They have nice skirts though, but they cost more than £25.’ Subtext galore.
Beloved: ‘I need new jeans.’
Me: ‘Try ASDA’
Beloved: ‘Ok then, let’s spend all the M&S vouchers on something for you.’
Essentially, then, the bottom dropped out of my world. I felt very like one of those cartoon characters who has just run off the side of a cliff only to look down and discover that there is no longer anything of a substantial nature under their feet/paws/whatever passes for their lower limbs.
This had never happened to me before. I barely understood the phrase ‘Ok then,’ when arriving out of the lips of the Beloved. I searched his countenance for the usual signs of sarcasm. I poked him to ensure that he was actually real. I asked him a few tricky questions to ensure he hadn’t been replaced by an alien.
So, we went to the great emporium and bought an expensive and particularly gorgeous skirt. Which I will now wear on all hyghe festes that come my way.
I think he is probably ill. But I don’t like to mention it. Because he might agree. And that would be proof of serious illness, if not something fatal.
I am still in shock.
Saturday, 19 May 2007
My Fridge Eats Bagels
There are many mysteries in life. Things like why? Who? When? And What the fuck is that? One of the mysteries that mystify me and many others are disappearances. Mostly objects. Mostly objects that one needs. Things like pens, keys, hair bobbles, hair brushes, children, cars, houses, husbands, sanity etc.
Well, here in our house (which thankfully only disappears infrequently) the latest thing to disappear is food. Mostly bagels. From the fridge. One moment I have bought three tubular packaging thingys of onion bagels and stored them for safekeeping and freshness in that little drawer in the bottom of the fridge that you are meant to keep heaven knows what in. You know the ones, sort of plastic and always just a little bit dirty no matter how much you clean them. The next moment, when youngest daughter needs her bagel fix, the bagels are gone. Completely. Not even the packaging left. The daughter’s boyfriend, who has been sent downstairs in order to complete the bagel mission without the daughter having to rise from her bed, confirms the situation. The bagels are gone. We are mystified.
We consider likely suspects:
The boyfriend himself, unlike many chaps of his age, does not suffer from constant and devouring hunger that leads him to constantly devour all the food in the house including the bagels. Aside from which, incurring the scorn of youngest daughter by not producing the requested bagels by having eaten them is a terrifying prospect which a man of his sensibilities would not contemplate. So boyfriend is innocent. Of bagel theft anyway.
Could it be the physicist? Well, she does not really like onion bagels, but maybe she has been using them for obscure experiments. If it works for custard could it equally work for bagels? We cross-examine her. She denies that bagels or any other bready products are non-newtonian liquids and therefore do not interest her. She suggests that other non-newtonian liquids in the kitchen, ketchup and mayonnaise for example, may be of interest to physicists – but bagels phshaw!
Could the culprit be the beloved? Yet he too scorns bagels as a strange Jewish foodstuff that good Scotsmen like himself will not even consider actually exist. And if they do exist then only folk of a Jewish descent could possibly actually consume them. Like youngest daughter. But she is the bagel-less victim in all of this.
So, maybe it was me. I like onion bagels and am also of Jewish descent and I know where the bagels are kept. This sounds pretty likely. It must have been me. Yet, despite being menopausal, forgetful, and slightly irrational surely I would remember eating three packets of bagels. And I do not. At all. Even remember eating one. I declare myself innocent.
This leaves only the cat. He fulfils no criteria whatsoever. He is not Jewish, nor does he like bagels, nor does he experiment (much) on foodstuffs. Nevertheless we do question him. He vehemently denies any knowledge of bagels and simply asks that, if we are not busy, could we feed him again. We are busy.
All that is left to do is examine the scene of the crime. The fridge. The empty fridge. The bagelless fridge. It makes a slight belching noise. Enough to give it away. The obvious answer comes to us. The fridge has eaten the bagels.
Well, here in our house (which thankfully only disappears infrequently) the latest thing to disappear is food. Mostly bagels. From the fridge. One moment I have bought three tubular packaging thingys of onion bagels and stored them for safekeeping and freshness in that little drawer in the bottom of the fridge that you are meant to keep heaven knows what in. You know the ones, sort of plastic and always just a little bit dirty no matter how much you clean them. The next moment, when youngest daughter needs her bagel fix, the bagels are gone. Completely. Not even the packaging left. The daughter’s boyfriend, who has been sent downstairs in order to complete the bagel mission without the daughter having to rise from her bed, confirms the situation. The bagels are gone. We are mystified.
We consider likely suspects:
The boyfriend himself, unlike many chaps of his age, does not suffer from constant and devouring hunger that leads him to constantly devour all the food in the house including the bagels. Aside from which, incurring the scorn of youngest daughter by not producing the requested bagels by having eaten them is a terrifying prospect which a man of his sensibilities would not contemplate. So boyfriend is innocent. Of bagel theft anyway.
Could it be the physicist? Well, she does not really like onion bagels, but maybe she has been using them for obscure experiments. If it works for custard could it equally work for bagels? We cross-examine her. She denies that bagels or any other bready products are non-newtonian liquids and therefore do not interest her. She suggests that other non-newtonian liquids in the kitchen, ketchup and mayonnaise for example, may be of interest to physicists – but bagels phshaw!
Could the culprit be the beloved? Yet he too scorns bagels as a strange Jewish foodstuff that good Scotsmen like himself will not even consider actually exist. And if they do exist then only folk of a Jewish descent could possibly actually consume them. Like youngest daughter. But she is the bagel-less victim in all of this.
So, maybe it was me. I like onion bagels and am also of Jewish descent and I know where the bagels are kept. This sounds pretty likely. It must have been me. Yet, despite being menopausal, forgetful, and slightly irrational surely I would remember eating three packets of bagels. And I do not. At all. Even remember eating one. I declare myself innocent.
This leaves only the cat. He fulfils no criteria whatsoever. He is not Jewish, nor does he like bagels, nor does he experiment (much) on foodstuffs. Nevertheless we do question him. He vehemently denies any knowledge of bagels and simply asks that, if we are not busy, could we feed him again. We are busy.
All that is left to do is examine the scene of the crime. The fridge. The empty fridge. The bagelless fridge. It makes a slight belching noise. Enough to give it away. The obvious answer comes to us. The fridge has eaten the bagels.
Tuesday, 1 May 2007
How Inviting Far Too Many Guests Is Very Good For the Home
It’s my MPhil weekend this weekend. It sounds quite intellectual doesn’t it? And it is, at times. Not all the time. We gather up at the Uni and discuss each others’ work without sounding too nasty, or too sycophantic, or too outright dumb (a particular habit of mine). Then, usually, some of us might have a meal together followed by a general dispersal to general hotels, hostels, and guest houses ready to convene the next morning. But this is Cardiff. Cardiff is a busy place. General hotels, hostels and guest houses are generally busy this weekend. So, being of a munificent and kind nature, and being that half of my family are away swanning around the upper reaches of the American continent, I invited people to stay here, at my house, chez moi. An indefinite and indefinable number of people. And these indefinite and indefinable number of fellow students have taken me up on my offer. Which is great. Looking forward to it (that wasn’t ironic).
I like having people to stay. The only problem is that my house is not so sure. In particular some particular rooms are not so sure. Rooms that are generally out of my ken. Rooms that these indefinite and indefinable number of people will have to sleep in. Rooms belonging to teenagers and middle-aged men. Rooms that haven’t been cleaned since the turn of the century.
I’m generally not a frightened or timid sort of person. Except in the presence of aliens, but neither my family or my fellow MPhillers are aliens, or at least not as far as I know. However these aforementioned portions of my house do scare me. Very much. I suspect there may well be alien life forms growing in these very rooms. Still, I have attempted to rise to the challenge.
I started with the man’s room. To give him credit, he thought that he had tidied it before he left. His thinking can be a little skewed at times. It took a LONG TIME to clean his room. But I think now it may be suitable for human habitation. Then it was time to tackle the teenager’s room. This is what happened –
room 5: Ceci 0.
Fuck this, I thought. I’ll sleep in here, keep the door very closed when people are around (it works for the teenager, it might work for me). It will be ok if I open the window and air it for the next four days, and when I have to go in I will keep my eyes mostly shut. I did however wash the sheets. There are limits. An added bonus was that I found half a bottle of Martini slipped down the side of the bed. I’m assuming she has left that there for me. Thanks.
The problem with cleaning, I find, is that once you start, you start to notice all kinds of things that are dirty. Like most things. Things that in the normal run of life seem normal. Things that, when you imagine people you don’t know quite as well as your family seeing look DISGUSTING. Strange things like banisters, ceilings, the interiors of kitchen drawers, the exterior of kitchen drawers, kitchens, rooms, houses. So, I have been cleaning. Like a weird obsessed person. As a weird obsessed person. My house is cleaner than it has been since a long time ago.
Now I have to rid myself of this cleaning bug or I will turn into one of those sad people who ask guests to take their shoes off before coming into the house, put them straight into a decontamination chamber and then make them wear white paper suits for the entire duration of the visit. You know the ones.
Should you be one of the hapless individuals coming to stay on Friday, yes, what you will see is the cleanest my house has been for a very long time. I know, it doesn’t say much for my normal state of things. But then, normal, well, at least I haven’t bought any white paper suits.
I like having people to stay. The only problem is that my house is not so sure. In particular some particular rooms are not so sure. Rooms that are generally out of my ken. Rooms that these indefinite and indefinable number of people will have to sleep in. Rooms belonging to teenagers and middle-aged men. Rooms that haven’t been cleaned since the turn of the century.
I’m generally not a frightened or timid sort of person. Except in the presence of aliens, but neither my family or my fellow MPhillers are aliens, or at least not as far as I know. However these aforementioned portions of my house do scare me. Very much. I suspect there may well be alien life forms growing in these very rooms. Still, I have attempted to rise to the challenge.
I started with the man’s room. To give him credit, he thought that he had tidied it before he left. His thinking can be a little skewed at times. It took a LONG TIME to clean his room. But I think now it may be suitable for human habitation. Then it was time to tackle the teenager’s room. This is what happened –
room 5: Ceci 0.
Fuck this, I thought. I’ll sleep in here, keep the door very closed when people are around (it works for the teenager, it might work for me). It will be ok if I open the window and air it for the next four days, and when I have to go in I will keep my eyes mostly shut. I did however wash the sheets. There are limits. An added bonus was that I found half a bottle of Martini slipped down the side of the bed. I’m assuming she has left that there for me. Thanks.
The problem with cleaning, I find, is that once you start, you start to notice all kinds of things that are dirty. Like most things. Things that in the normal run of life seem normal. Things that, when you imagine people you don’t know quite as well as your family seeing look DISGUSTING. Strange things like banisters, ceilings, the interiors of kitchen drawers, the exterior of kitchen drawers, kitchens, rooms, houses. So, I have been cleaning. Like a weird obsessed person. As a weird obsessed person. My house is cleaner than it has been since a long time ago.
Now I have to rid myself of this cleaning bug or I will turn into one of those sad people who ask guests to take their shoes off before coming into the house, put them straight into a decontamination chamber and then make them wear white paper suits for the entire duration of the visit. You know the ones.
Should you be one of the hapless individuals coming to stay on Friday, yes, what you will see is the cleanest my house has been for a very long time. I know, it doesn’t say much for my normal state of things. But then, normal, well, at least I haven’t bought any white paper suits.
Thursday, 12 April 2007
Where Doing Nothing Could Be an Option
‘Doing nothing is not an option’ an oft heard saying in these modern times of doingness. Even one of our greatest sages and sayers of unlikely things, President Bush, has mentioned this. But I, being a woman of a questioning and inquisitive nature, wonder about the veracity of this statement. Surely there must be a case for doing nothing. There must be times in life where taking no action, just lying back and letting things happen, essentially doing fuck all, is the very best option of all.
So, I have looked at a typical day in the life of me, and the many doings I do, and analysed scientifically whether in fact the world would have been a better place if I had done nothing. Here are the results:
Activities that could be replaced with Doing Nothing with NO detrimental effects to the world -
Getting up. Not my favourite activity. Should I have chosen not to do so the consequences would be as follows – I would be happier.
Driving daughter to town. Daughter would have had to take train into town rather than me giving her a lift (reduce global warming). If daughter had known in advance that she wasn’t getting a lift then she would also have probably chosen the not getting up option and therefore also be happier.
Washing up. A lack of this activity would lead to people to have to reuse dirty plates glasses etc with possibly those famous ‘good bacteria’ so enable them to fight off tummy upsets, thrush, and having to drink disgusting yoghurt drinks in order to ingest the aforementioned ‘good bacteria’.
Laundry. Not doing this would mean that eventually family would be driven to such practices as turning their pants inside out, wearing those hugely unfashionable items at the back of their wardrobes (thus giving everyone a laugh) and the accumulated piles of dirty clothes randomly accruing around the house would cushion the impact of bodies hitting floors when people tripped up on the accumulated piles of dirty clothes accruing randomly around the house.
Going to work. Absconding from work would save many a poor person’s manuscript from being read and rejected so a huge amount of writers would not have that particular heartbreaking disappointment.
Writing poems, bits of novels and blog. If I never did this countless folk would be saved vast segments of their lives by not reading my outpourings (and leaving them more time to do nothing).
Going to bed. If I didn’t go to bed I wouldn’t have to get up (tricky space-time continuum question here re not getting up next morning and therefore being able to do nothing).
Activities that could be replaced with Doing Nothing with some detrimental effects to the world -
1. Going to tango class. If I didn’t dance then countless men would not be able to hold me in the ‘close hold’ let alone the ‘balancero’. This would not only disappoint the countless men but countlessly disappoint me.
So 7 to 1 to Doing Nothing. Bush – eat your heart out.
So, I have looked at a typical day in the life of me, and the many doings I do, and analysed scientifically whether in fact the world would have been a better place if I had done nothing. Here are the results:
Activities that could be replaced with Doing Nothing with NO detrimental effects to the world -
Getting up. Not my favourite activity. Should I have chosen not to do so the consequences would be as follows – I would be happier.
Driving daughter to town. Daughter would have had to take train into town rather than me giving her a lift (reduce global warming). If daughter had known in advance that she wasn’t getting a lift then she would also have probably chosen the not getting up option and therefore also be happier.
Washing up. A lack of this activity would lead to people to have to reuse dirty plates glasses etc with possibly those famous ‘good bacteria’ so enable them to fight off tummy upsets, thrush, and having to drink disgusting yoghurt drinks in order to ingest the aforementioned ‘good bacteria’.
Laundry. Not doing this would mean that eventually family would be driven to such practices as turning their pants inside out, wearing those hugely unfashionable items at the back of their wardrobes (thus giving everyone a laugh) and the accumulated piles of dirty clothes randomly accruing around the house would cushion the impact of bodies hitting floors when people tripped up on the accumulated piles of dirty clothes accruing randomly around the house.
Going to work. Absconding from work would save many a poor person’s manuscript from being read and rejected so a huge amount of writers would not have that particular heartbreaking disappointment.
Writing poems, bits of novels and blog. If I never did this countless folk would be saved vast segments of their lives by not reading my outpourings (and leaving them more time to do nothing).
Going to bed. If I didn’t go to bed I wouldn’t have to get up (tricky space-time continuum question here re not getting up next morning and therefore being able to do nothing).
Activities that could be replaced with Doing Nothing with some detrimental effects to the world -
1. Going to tango class. If I didn’t dance then countless men would not be able to hold me in the ‘close hold’ let alone the ‘balancero’. This would not only disappoint the countless men but countlessly disappoint me.
So 7 to 1 to Doing Nothing. Bush – eat your heart out.
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