... because life's too short to do anything ALL the time . Creativity and positivity are my "hiraeth"

Friday, 13 January 2012

Niffs, Whiffs, Woofs and Wind

Today I discovered that hormones and power tools do not mix.

Especially when it involves the misplacing of the chuck key. As any DIYer knows, a power drill ain't much use without one. This is the first time I've properly lost it since I assumed responsibility for all the household tasks, therefore I cannot blame my man - he has played no part in it's loss.

It's those bloody lady boy plate cake stands. That was the last time I had it was when I was making them. I reckon I must have been so physically and mentally exhausted from the ordeal that I put it away somewhere safe as a result of the delirium. 

My friends think it's hilarious that I've started to take personal offence at the high winds we've had over the last few months.

This puts me in mind of a question I heard on Never Mind the Buzzcocks. It was a "which of these three ridiculous statements are true?" question and it turned out to be that in the 1980's while on tour Elton John demanded that "something be done about the wind" that was keeping him awake. Oh lord, does that mean I have to start wearing bad wigs and mental glasses now? (Sounds alright actually....)

Well, my poor out houses. My poor summerhouse has had some of her felt blown off the roof, and my poor shed's door has been blown off three times (a lot of blowing off goes on around here) so, armed with a few t-hinges, and bolts, I set out to repair said door.

But I couldn't find the chuck, then I couldn't glue the splintered bit back on, then some timber I had cut up to improvise with wouldn't glue either because it was too wet ... at this point, the dogs are all hiding under the patio set as I flail around hormonally harrummphing and slamming stuff. Steve then starts whistling which has two effects, firstly makes me want to fly into an unprovoked violent rage and obliterate up everything I see with a lump hammer, and secondly, indicates to me that there's only one outcome ... a great big PMT sulk.

The fact that a whole bag of charcoal proceeded to cascade from the unsecured bottom of it's dwelling bag aaaaaallllllll over the boxes of beautifully catalogued, washed and wrapped crockery for secret uses, filled me with joy and love for the universe and all my fellow beings. The fact that every now and again another bit falls out of my boot and crunches tauntingly under my foot and creating one more little job for me, just makes me want to kiss babies.

I once heard that women's driving is altered by hormones. They affect hand eye co-ordination, distance perception that kind of thing. It's bloody true. Well it was today. Two left hands, much cursing.

Speaking of wind (keep up) oh my days have we had a treat in this house over the last couple of days. As you know we have a Cocker Spaniel, a Springer Spaniel and a Chocolate Labrador. We're convinced that brown labradors are not called "chocolate" because of their brownness, it's to do with their obsession with any kind of food, substances edible if not digestible or ingest-able. 

I went up the farm shop the other day I bought them a lovely roasted bone each. They'd been dead good. Despite my thinking better of it.

They stink in the car, they stink in the house, they make doggie woof woofs like you wouldn't believe, but they're so good at teeth cleaning it just has to be done. Making their tea, I remembered that I'd accidentally left out a load of Stilton and Broccoli soup. Well I'm not going to waste it even though I knew I'd pay a whiffy price for it.

3am and there's doggies dancing with their legs crossed and a very grumpy Betty. So, I let them out to "attend to their ablutions", and I think to myself "may as well leave the back door open or I'll have to get back up again in a couple of hours".

Labrador's a little down in the mouth when we get up. Panting, dry nose, looking sorry for himself. I try to  give him a cuddle to make up for it but I just can't bear it. The stench is permeating through his pores. And his paws (fnar fnar - see what I did there?!). It's only when I'm going about my daily business that I discover that the big brown get (he does actually answer to that name) has only gone and broken into my pantry shed and eaten his bodyweight in dry dog food by knawing a snout sized hole in the bag.

Airwick will do well off us this week, the big brown get.

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