Thanks For The Memory, Now Die

Welcome to Tracy at Gardening Obsession. I have perused your posts and I am now very green with envy. Unfortunately, I fear this greenness will not spread to my fingers. My sister inherited our mum’s green fingers, while I inherited (Mum, please, please don’t take offence at this) mad hair.

It’s weird the things that can jog a memory.

Last night, I was in bed (you can stop that right now, it’s not that sort of memory – my family read this. I might not be averse to traumatising strangers, but I’d like to be able to carry on looking my relatives in the eye) and a fly dive bombed past my nose while I was reading.

I hate flies in my bedroom.

They seem to take great delight in being irritating gits and get pleasure in zooming past saying “nah-nah-na-na-naaah, look at meeee, I’m here to wind you uu-up. Then I’m gonna wait til you fall asleep and I’m gonna explore your mouth while you’re snoring” (although I don’t actually snore. Unless I’m passed out drunk. Or my hayfever and/or asthma is playing up).

Wait.

Nice image I’m presenting of myself here – a sneezing, wheezing alcoholic with mad hair, a potty mouth and an imaginary lady bits disease (see the previous post and comments if you’re confused). The facts are:

1. Yes, I like a drink, although not to excess (very often).

2. Yes, I have mad hair, getting madder as I get older.

3. Yes, I like swearing. Tough shit.

4. NO, I DO NOT HAVE DISEASED LADY BITS (unless you’re The Widower reading this, in which case my lady bits are extremely diseased).

I wanted to clear that up (no pun intended) because that’s how rumours start. But, I wonder what would happen if I did a personal ad:

Sociable, breathless female,

with interesting hair, a wide & varied vocabulary

& who has imaginary secret garden malady

WLTM…

Bet I’d get loads of replies. Loads.

I’ve lost my train of thought now. Where was I? Oh yes. Flies.

A fly in my bedroom is not tolerated. It gets got. And I do not rest until it is squished and flushed. Last night, the second the fly flew past my nose, it signed its death warrant. I was on a mission.

The OK magazine was grabbed from under the bed (a.k.a. What’s Katie Price Up To Now? a.k.a. Who Gives A Shit What Katie Price Is Doing Now, a.k.a. Why Did I Buy This Bloody Magazine?) and the fly hunt commenced.

As I was leaping around the bedroom muttering, “I’m gonna get you, you bastard,” I suddenly had a flashback to many years ago, which made me laugh and gave the fly a temporary stay of execution.

Significant Other and I were in bed (give it up, it’s still not that sort of memory), and there was a fly.

Wearing my buttoned-right-up-to-the-neck and floor-sweeping winceyette pyjamas, plus neck-to-toe fleecy dressing gown (not really, but I’m so not going to say what I was really wearing, otherwise you’ll be making up your own memory), I seized a newspaper and leapt into action.

I was jumping about all over the place, desperate to swat the fly.

Let’s just say that at first, Significant Other was enjoying the entertainment.

Until.

In one of those slow motion moments that you can do nothing about, my arm swept down and whacked him across the head with the newspaper.

Oh, how he laughed.

Oh, how I laughed.

Or rather...

Oh, how he swore.

Oh, how I tried not to laugh.

Trying to contain my sniggering, I apologised profusely while he rubbed newspaper print off his head and picked his glasses up from the floor.

Luckily enough, Significant Other saw the funny side and I was forgiven.

“Aww, cheers mate,” I said to the fly last night.

Then I squished it and flushed it.