Calm to Chaos

Dad’s gone back to sunny Cornwall, after a week of laughter and boozing, and I’m now left to fend for myself.  He made some lovely dinners – now it’s back to the oven chips.  Drat.

Anyway, I thought I’d throw myself into getting some work done on the house.  The plumber has fixed the leaks in the bathroom, and the new window and doors are being fitted right at this very minute – bloody noisy too.  Got Carpenter Dave coming next week to fit my wooden doors – it will be so nice to take down the sheets in the doorways.  I’ve asked him for locks on all the doors –  now I must organise a reason to use them. Heh heh.

Mad Rellies

My mad Uncle Steve rang up today to confirm a restaurant reservation with my Dad.  I wasn’t ear-wigging (honest) but I did hear this:  “What’s that?  Oh right.  How do you spell that?  C…O…C…K..”  At this point, all he could hear was my sniggering from the kitchen.  I bet Steve chose it on purpose.

Drunk in Church

Michelle & Richard’s wedding yesterday was lovely.  I was called up during the speeches and given some flowers for altering a bridesmaid dress at the last minute.  When Richard mentioned my name, I was looking around for another woman thinking, “oooh, who’s got the same name as me?”  I feel a bit guilty because I kinda classed the alteration as my wedding present to them, and then they gave me a big bouquet.  Does this mean I have to buy them a pressie now?

And Debbie is a disgrace.  She was up extremely late the previous night, drinking heavily, and turned up at her sisters wedding looking, shall we say, rather worse for wear.  She was singing all the hymns out of sync (which got me and Deeny giggling until a stern looking ‘Church-y’ bloke kept giving us the evil eye) and I overheard her conversation with the Vicar on the way out.  This is how it went:

Debbie:  Hello Vics, I am an atheist but that was a lovely service

Vicar (cheerfully):  There’s a spirit in you somewhere

Debbie (surprised):  Can you smell it?

You can’t take her anywhere.

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Mad Son Disease

In case you didn’t know, my 14 year old son is mad.  Bonkers.  Completely bananas.  (Dorty says she blames the ‘parentals’).  He split some of his drink on his sheet at bedtime tonight, and is now asleep wearing a blue frilly shower cap (presumably to protect his head from deadly blackcurrant squash).

Bed Head

I’ve wanted a fabulous bed for ages so decided to treat myself now it’s just me in it.  I’ve bought all this gorgeous bedding, and managed to find a superb mattress for only £400 which was delivered today.  And I can’t get it up the stairs on my own.

A Stimulating Evening in SE25

That would be Penge.  Spent the evening at a party at Kimmy’s.  The usual – tequila, dancing, fights with the neighbours, the police etc etc.  And I hadn’t even got round to playing MY music yet.  Damnation.

M25 Muppets

It seems that there are certain people at the Highway Dept – y’know, the ones in charge of the motorway signs – who are really really really bored at work.  I had to travel on the M25 between Junction 12 and Junction 4 today, and someone is definitely playing silly buggers.  First, a sign is lit saying 40 mph limit, then half a mile later, another says ‘end’.  A mile later, another sign says ’60’, then another saying ‘end’.  Then, another sign saying ’40’, then ‘end’ again.  Repeat about another five times.  Of course, there was no hint whatsoever of any actual reason for these speed limits.  All it does it cause havoc as everyone slams on their brakes to adher to the limit (after building up a bit of speed after the last ‘end’ sign).  Then, of course, everyone gets used to driving in lanes, rather than to motorway ‘rules’, so it ends up with a kind of reverse driving system, with everyone undertaking each other, so the ‘slow’ lane has become the ‘fast’ lane.  Absolute chaos – and very dangerous.  I suppose some little twat operating the signs is having a laugh – yeah, very funny.  The Muppets would do a better job.

All Too Easy

Whilst on the red wine last night, me and my Dad agreed that if it wasn’t for the fact we’d end up obnoxious, fat, alcoholic sex maniacs, we’d be obnoxious, fat, alcoholic sex maniacs.

Cornish Pasty (on holiday)

That would be me.  The pastiest ‘Lindin-er’ on the beach.  Usually I settle for pale and interesting (which sets off my black hair nicely), but now I am surrounded by tall tanned surf-boarders, so I feel a bit like Morticia at a Californian beach party.  On the plus side, I get called ‘my lovely’ a lot.  Proper job.

Gits v Arnie

Why are some men such untrustworthy gits?  This question was harshly reinforced today by the patter of a double glazing salesman that came round.   He gave me all the petter about not starting off at a ‘silly’ price then knocking money off, then proceeded to do just that.  I swear that sometimes I have got a big sign saying ‘STUPID MUG’ on my head.  What these alpha dog type men don’t realise, is that I know exactly what they are doing, but I’m just not letting them know that I know (and, anyway, from my perspective the sign reads GUM DIPUTS which totally negates the power, in my view).  I’m mostly always polite, friendly and honest, but this can be seen as a sign of weakness to be taken advantage of.  But, I tell you, I can be steel when pushed hard enough.  Needless to say, said salesman went away without a sale, although he has rang me a total of four times in the last seven hours, each call more desperate than the last and, of course, offering me more money off each time.  I obviously confused him.  Poor submissive weak little woman resisting the steamrollering of the ruffy tuffy DGS (not to mention dashing his obvious high hopes of the commission).  Women like me don’t need to parade our strength.  It’s hidden under our skin, rather like the Terminator.