So There I Was...

...sitting quietly in my back garden yesterday afternoon, taking a break from clearing a bit of jungle in a corner of my garden, contemplating the nettle rash up both arms (note to self: wear a top with long sleeves in future, OR, don’t let the mini jungle grow in the first place), and also resting from shifting rocks - like you do (you don’t? Oh, just me then).

I was also taking a break from crunching snails underfoot, flicking spiders off me, thinking how ugly woodlice are, wondering why my hair doesn’t grow as fast as weeds seem to, being thankful I’m not a bird (I’d have to eat worms), wondering if it was too breezy for a barbecue later (yes), hoping I wasn't going to crapped on from a great height, seeing as I was working underneath a tree (I didn't), yada yada.

I’d been sitting there for a while, drinking my well earned John Smith’s (let me help you out - ‘geezer bird’ is the phrase you’re after), picking bits of weed off my t-shirt, when I heard part of what I assumed to be a phone conversation taking place.

As it’s so quiet round here, voices carry, but people seem to think their gardens are soundproof. And we all know they’re not. You’d think.

I wasn’t really taking much notice until I heard a laugh followed by, “do you like uniforms?”

Hello?!

With hindsight, I could have made my presence known by making a noise. But where's the fun in that?

I’m not going to relay the conversation word for word, because it was one-sided and I missed some of it as I had to dive indoors due to being overcome by a giggling fit. But some of it covered:

men’s uniform (“ooh, I like a man in uniform”) (Fireman’s? Policeman’s? Captain’s? Sainsbury’s?)

nurses uniform (1.“short” plus 2.“bed bath”) (1. I’d have thought that’s a given in those circumstances 2. Oh good grief)

school uniform (I’m not even going there)

underwear (“lacy”) (phew, coulda been a lot worse)

lettuce (wtf?? I must have missed something important, or led a sheltered life)

rabbits (ah, that’d explain the lettuce)


Who needs the radio? I’ll just sit in my back garden in future and tune in to real life Desperate Housewives!

Mahoosive Prawns

To add a little to my last posting, barbecue novice Poppercake has since declared himself, after his first barbecue consisting of a couple of burgers, to be The Barbecue King. In response I snorted and said, "in which case, that must make me a Barbecue Goddess".

In the course of our conversation, he asked me if prawns can be cooked.

Me: "Oh yes, mahoosive ones can."

P: "Mahoosive? Is that what they're called?"

Me (in an innocent voice): "Have you not heard of them?"

P: "No. Are they nice? Where can you get them?"

Me: "Oh they're gorgeous, they're bigger than tiger prawns, really tasty. Go to the fish counter in one of the supermarkets, Waitrose is probably your best bet, and ask for Mahoosive Prawns from Indonesia. They'll sort you out some, you'll love them."

P: "Cheers."

I expected a return call later, telling me he'd spoken to 'Er Indoors about mahoosive prawns and she'd put him right, but it never happened. Instead, I got a spluttering call a day later. Then 'Er Indoors took over and laughing, told me what happened.

Poppercake went to Waitrose, went to the fish counter and when it was his turn to be served, it apparently went something like this:

Assistant: "Hello, how can I help you?"

P: "Hello there, I'd like some Mahoosive Prawns please."

A: "I'm sorry?"

P: "Do you have any Mahoosive Prawns?"

A: "Er, we have tiger prawns."

P: "No, no, I want Mahoosive Prawns."

A: "Um, well, tiger prawns are quite big."

P (adamantly): "I don't want tiger prawns. I want Mahoosive Prawns, they're from Indonesia. Do you have any?"

A: "No sir, we don't sell Mahoosive Prawns from Indonesia."

P (a little impatiently): But I was told you'd sell them. If you don't sell them, do you know where I can get some?"

A: "Sir, there's no such thing as Mahoosive Prawns. Mahoosive is a way of saying really big. I think someone's been pulling your leg."


I have been promised retribution.

Rain, Snot and Cream Cheese

On seeing the weather this morning, I should have followed my instincts and stayed in bed, snuggled up with a good book. But, against my better judgement, I didn't. I really, really should have though.

I know why we're having shite weather at the moment. It's all down to a friend, Poppercake, who bought his first ever barbecue the other week. (With how-to book. Book?! It's a barbecue for gawd's sake - light it, leave it, drink beer, chuck food on, cook it, eat it, drink more beer. Simples.)

The day after he bought it, the weather turned crap and I turned my heating back on. He told me he bought some tools and a thermometer (thermometer? Don't get me started!) for it over the weekend, so what did I find when I woke up this morning? Opened the curtains, looked out of the window and it was peeing down.

Apart from the rain, everything started okay this morning. Had my coffee, fed the cats, spoke to Eldest Daughter in Australia for an hour (free - love my phone company!), then got ready to go out. That's when my day started to slip gently downhill.

The Beastie, my car, had a flat battery. To be honest, I wasn't totally surprised as I haven't used it for a week and it's happened before. You'd think I'd have learned my lesson by now, but hey, I like to live life on the edge. The Beastie is such a meaty car, it drains battery power like I drain wine.

I'm very fond of The Beastie. It's comfortable, great to drive and it goes like poo off a shovel when I want it to - not that I drive it at ridiculous speeds. 

Alright, it has been known occasionally. I was once asked, in a sort of tongue-in-cheek way (I think), if I was aware what the legal speed limit is on a dual carriageway by someone  who was following me (not a policeman), and that they'd had trouble keeping up with me in their car because I was going so fast. I was suitably contrite, but at the same time was thinking, "heh heh heh, eat my exhaust fumes!" Not very ladylike, but I never said I was a lady.

I had two choices; jump start The Beastie with Youngest Daughter's car, The Midget (0-60mph in ten minutes, give or take a few seconds), or take the battery out and put it on charge. I think I'd have blown the socks off The Midget if I'd used it for a jump start, so I traipsed to the shed in the pouring rain to get my trusty spanner and battery charger.

Did the deed with the battery, then got into The Midget and drove to the doctor's to drop in a repeat prescription.

I walked into Reception and placed my request in the box. At that precise moment, my downhill slip had just got a bit faster. Why? I'd put my shopping list in the box instead. Could I unobtrusively retrieve it? Nah. I got in the queue and when it came to my turn, asked for my shopping list back. Caused much merriment amongst the staff and also the people in the waiting area. 

Walking back to The Midget, my downhill slip began accelerating. There was a little gust of wind as I opened my umbrella and all I can say is it exploded. Really. Most of its guts lost their joints. That'll teach me for buying a cheap one. Binned it, got in the car and began my journey to Tesco.

Driving through a small town centre, I stopped to give a lorry driver enough space to reverse into a car park. While sitting there, listening to the radio, watching him manoeuvre the vehicle, my nose started running.

Could I find a tissue? Nah. I started sniffing but, to put it delicately, it got to the point of no return. Because I was desperate and thought I'd get away with it, I cuffed it, not once, but twice. Disgusting I know, but what choice did I have? I was in The Midget, not my own car, where I keep supplies.

My metaphorical journey downhill then began gaining more speed, as unfortunately for me, at the exact moment I layered my second sleeve with snot, the lorry driver turned to face me from his cab to smile and acknowledge his thanks. Oh the shame! Earlier on I remarked that I never said I was a lady, but I do have some standards. Minus one now.

With my face feeling like a furnace, I carried on with my journey. Parked The Midget in the car park - what a novelty being able to fit an entire car into a space without it overhanging - then walked to the store entrance and caught sight of my reflection. Descent downhill sped up so much, it became blurry. The rain had taken its toll.

My hair is naturally curly, but not a good curly, not a pretty curly, nor a gently tousled had-a-good-time-in-bed-like-you-see-in-movies curly. Youngest Daughter calls me Tina Turner if I let it dry naturally, but even her hair would be preferable to my unruly mop.

Unblowdried and unstraightened, my hair is a sight to behold. It scares small children. It reduces grown men to laughter. Once, I showed a work colleague/friend a photo of my hair untamed and she said, "whoa! Yeah, I can see why you straighten it".

I had no choice but to live with it for years but then - hurrah! - hair straighteners were invented. I would be willing to kiss the hairy toes of whoever invented GHD's. That's saying something, because I'm not overkeen on feet.

Since I discovered GHD's, it's a rare day for me to been seen out in public with wild hair. Today was one of those rare days.

I had Scary Hair.

I scuttled round Tesco, not making eye contact with anyone. If there were such a thing, I certainly wouldn't have been an entrant in Sexiest Supermarket Shopper Of The Day (Knocking-On-A-Bit Category). I paid, piled it all into The Midget - two bags of shopping and a bag of cat litter filled the boot, the rest had to go on the back seat, not such a novelty - and drove home.

To my haven. 

To my sanctuary.

To my disconnected guttering pissing out water.

By this time, my day was descending downhill so fast it must have reached g-force. I got the ladder out in the rain, muttering darkly to myself. Obscenities mainly. I eventually managed to reconnect the guttering, but in the process, felt water running down the insides of my snot encrusted sleeves.

Once indoors, I slung the shopping into various cupboards, made myself a ham and cream cheese roll, sat down and started to eat it.

When I make one of these, I like to be able to taste the cream cheese - I don't smear it on, I cake it on, so it oozes out of the roll while I'm eating it, and it turns into a finger lickin' experience. 

My day's descent ended with it lying in a crumpled heap, right at the bottom of that damn hill.

My phone rang. I answered it. I covered my phone in cream cheese. And my hair. It was the icing on the cake, or more aptly, it was the cream cheese on the hair. The caller was Poppercake, who enquired whether he was going to be blamed for that too, as well as the weather.

I considered it, but decided that no, he couldn't be held responsible.

"You're so kind" he said then added, "right, I'm off, me and 'Er Indoors have got a book to read".

"What book's that then?" I asked.

"Master Baster - BBQ Your Way To Success."

I fell about laughing and my day started its way back up the hill.