No am still not smoking – bar that one v. drunken evening but glossing over that…
Something kinda weird’s going on. For over a decade He-who-must-be-adored has begged, cajolled and pleaded with me to give up the ghost of London living and move to pastures greener. Personally have never had any such desire nor need. Why drive long distances when you can live within a stone’s throw of everything. Bar greenery. Greenery? Preenery has always won hands down for me.
Animals? Painimals! What’s the point? More so since having the dustbin lids – who needs extra bods to cater for?
But that was the old me. The Me BEFORE we spent a week looking out on a big fat green fix, caring for animals, collecting fresh eggs and generally being at one with nature. Of course I don’t miss bully boy Grumpy George Goat. Yet my marriage gave me a good grounding on his type so he with the big horns and stampy foot was easy enough to suss out. I paid lip-service to his position and fed him first. That kept him quiet long enough to sort the others out. Though I’d never turn my back on him. Those horns are huge.
Am also sad to see the back of the blonde dog. Even if her thinking herself human was a bit trying. In hindsight (such a wonderful thing) giving her bar-b-q left-overs may have contributed to her rejecting dog food and wanting to sit up at the table with us. But Supersis is home (Hurrah) so too goes the blond dog.
Do I thank or bemoan my country cousin who let me housesit? Ever since we hit London all I can think about it moving to pastures green. Have I had too much fresh air? We were v busy but would that cause my attitude to age three decades in a week? It was just pure bliss to see green from every window. And London is just so….London like.
Returned from work today to find a transit van parked in my drive. Confusion reigned as I racked my brain for some forgotten arrangements of works. After five minutes a chap in an EDF t-shirt came and told me the van was his. Get this: he said ‘the police told me to park here’. My response to his bollocks was not something of which I am proud. But you could safely say I left him with no illusions as to my thoughts on his parking and bare-faced codswallop. He drove off at high speed. Of all the cheeky bloody London chappies I’ve ever met, I think he takes the biscuit.
Talking of which, now I’ve got all that extra time in the mornings, Gorgeous Boy with the broken arm appears to be working me overtime. He can’t do socks. Or shoes. Or chopping of own food. Or even deciding what food he wants. Or generally much in the way of anything helpful. You don’t realise just how independent 9 year olds boys usually are. Not sure if it’s the sympathy vote he was going for last night or if it’s something altogether more grown up… Youth club: often he goes in his uniform, or if I beg, a clean t-shirt. Last night the hair was gelled. The ‘special’ trainers were out. And a smart (of a branded sportswear fashion) clean outfit was chosen. Off he trundled. Grinning. Obviously no information was forthcoming but I’m working on it. Shoe time in the morning might be a good moment for a grilling.
My Tweenager is nearly a Teen. Her first pair of heels have been purchased in anticipation of the major life-time event. Hopefully she’ll have practiced before her birthday to lose the funky chicken walk whilst reducing the danger of breaking a limb. Had a brief chat with her about the vague possibility of a move. She can’t see beyond the local bus map. Her combination of heels and a push-up bra make countryside seclusion seem something of a grand idea to me.
The reality of having to tidy this house in order to sell it probably puts a move into no-brainer territory. Unless I get some superydoopery Mary Poppins energy from somewhere and do that spic spot thang. We can but dream.