I had planned on taking my car to see the Consultant yesterday morning. I already know he's gonna tell me that the oil haemorrhage is terminal and suggest that I have her put down peacefully. She's been a loyal old thing and somehow I'm not quite ready to give up on her just yet ( Who am I kidding? If I'd just started a new job with a healthy car allowance like Mrs Roger, I'd not be looking back as I left the scrap yard for the Audi dealership).
My plans were scuppered by a sudden snowfall. It started the previous afternoon and naturally took me completely by surprise, despite the fact that severe weather warnings had been given for much of the country and I'd heard a rumour that a milk bottle had been found frozen on a doorstep in Withernsea a few days before.
We had nothing but glorious sunshine yesterday and everything was melting really fast but I thought it better not to make any unnecessary journeys. I should really have done some cleaning. I had finally flushed the potential new boyfriends down the sink with a few squirts of Domestos and my knicker draw wasn't completely empty so I sat at the computer and did some work instead. Proper work. The sort I get paid for.
There was so much of it to do that 5 hours had passed before I realised that I still hadn't washed my face, scrubbed my teeth or removed my egg-stained pyjamas. I beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom before the neighbours complained and the Environmental Health Dept broke down the door looking for the dead body. I stayed there for the next 2 hours, topping up from the hot tap whenever the water dropped below scalding, reading the latest Wildlife Trust magazines. I didn't hear the Message Alert signalling a text from Dynamo Dean. By the time I got out of the bath and discovered that his team had a match in my home town that afternoon, it was too late to go watch, or even catch him for a drink. I had time only to dash to Tesco for some hold-ups and then back again to await my lift to the Round Table Dinner Dance.
I have no idea why I agreed to go. There were 19 of us on our table. Guess who was the 19th! I'd taken 70 quid with me for the ticket, drinks and the taxi home. I was hoping there would be enough to cover Jack's school lunches until Easter too. That illusion was soon shattered when I was confronted with raffle tickets and the communal wine kitty. I had a generally rather nice time, some tasty food, a good boogey and was almost persuaded to buy a van from Mark on the basis that it was really just like driving a car with the added advantage that I couldn't take more than one passenger at a time and could always pick up some delivery work if things got really tight.
I was stopped by a man in a dinner suit as I was leaving, wanting to know what on earth I was doing there. He'd been watching me all night and he just couldn't tell how I fitted into the dynamics of our group, apparently. Fortunately, he was dragged to a waiting taxi by his friends before he had time to expand on his thoughts. He'd probably only have asked me what a pregnant lady was doing salsaing with her friends' husbands in any case.
Here's that hideous old troll that looks a bit like my Grandma again with friend and salsa-challenged husband. Being a Scot, his homage to The Proclaimers was truly rather magnificent however.
My plans were scuppered by a sudden snowfall. It started the previous afternoon and naturally took me completely by surprise, despite the fact that severe weather warnings had been given for much of the country and I'd heard a rumour that a milk bottle had been found frozen on a doorstep in Withernsea a few days before.
We had nothing but glorious sunshine yesterday and everything was melting really fast but I thought it better not to make any unnecessary journeys. I should really have done some cleaning. I had finally flushed the potential new boyfriends down the sink with a few squirts of Domestos and my knicker draw wasn't completely empty so I sat at the computer and did some work instead. Proper work. The sort I get paid for.
There was so much of it to do that 5 hours had passed before I realised that I still hadn't washed my face, scrubbed my teeth or removed my egg-stained pyjamas. I beat a hasty retreat to the bathroom before the neighbours complained and the Environmental Health Dept broke down the door looking for the dead body. I stayed there for the next 2 hours, topping up from the hot tap whenever the water dropped below scalding, reading the latest Wildlife Trust magazines. I didn't hear the Message Alert signalling a text from Dynamo Dean. By the time I got out of the bath and discovered that his team had a match in my home town that afternoon, it was too late to go watch, or even catch him for a drink. I had time only to dash to Tesco for some hold-ups and then back again to await my lift to the Round Table Dinner Dance.
I have no idea why I agreed to go. There were 19 of us on our table. Guess who was the 19th! I'd taken 70 quid with me for the ticket, drinks and the taxi home. I was hoping there would be enough to cover Jack's school lunches until Easter too. That illusion was soon shattered when I was confronted with raffle tickets and the communal wine kitty. I had a generally rather nice time, some tasty food, a good boogey and was almost persuaded to buy a van from Mark on the basis that it was really just like driving a car with the added advantage that I couldn't take more than one passenger at a time and could always pick up some delivery work if things got really tight.
I was stopped by a man in a dinner suit as I was leaving, wanting to know what on earth I was doing there. He'd been watching me all night and he just couldn't tell how I fitted into the dynamics of our group, apparently. Fortunately, he was dragged to a waiting taxi by his friends before he had time to expand on his thoughts. He'd probably only have asked me what a pregnant lady was doing salsaing with her friends' husbands in any case.
Here's that hideous old troll that looks a bit like my Grandma again with friend and salsa-challenged husband. Being a Scot, his homage to The Proclaimers was truly rather magnificent however.
posted by Cherrypie at 5:43 pm
1 Comments:
I love the words:"scuppered"- is that like "Slithered"?
"knicker draw": In my town, knickers are a sort of underwear, do you use large panties in some sort of lottery over there? And "Tesco for hold ups"- that's either you robbing a gas station at gun point, or you went to a convenience store called tesco to buy a push-up bra? Either way, from my perspective there seems to be a strong lingerie theme.
love it.
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