Tuesday, 7 December 2010

Doctor Doctor I Can't Feel My Feet..

That's because we've amputated your arms.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ok - so first up my alarm didn't go off. Lots of poking inert mop-tops with whispered panic. Violently dragging on socks and jumpers while their eyes were still shut. Trying not to wake up Mr GPants so he wouldn't tell me off for my alarm not going off. But he woke up and did That Face when I told him my alarm didn't go off. AND told me not to race just because we were late - with The Don't Race Face. Then he offered me the de-icer. 'I've got some. That's yours' I called sweetly as I raced - no I didn't... as I fluttered out the door. Squirted mine. Put it back in the boot. Decided I needed more. Boot now jammed shut. Fluttered back to the kitchen and grabbed the other bottle. Squirted more. Replaced it without detection. And away we scooted at last. Not racing. Not at all. Very difficult to race when you can only see out of one clear streak on the windscreen. ......mmmmmmhhhhh..... need more de-icer..... not going back...... just imagine The Face.

20 minutes on our way I don't think my brakes are being brake-y enough. Probably my imagination. Oooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh OK .....Mission Aborted.

Several hours later - and with mighty thanks to Jim Broadbent and his big warm truck, and his sage words about how crap my car is, I'm back home in my courtesy go-kart and coffee'd up at last. All nice and floppy. Mmmn.... It seemed like a good idea to rearrange the living room and get the xmas tree out. It seemed like a good idea to small people anyway.

Several hours later, once I (and I alone) had tidied, hoovered, rearranged the living room, I find myself cackling like an escaped lunatic in our out-house-'barn'-animal-shelter thing where we dump stuff not allowed in the house. Like Xmas. The hysteria inspired by a cacky space where the tree once lived. Until we threw it out last summer on one of our great purges. Not sure why I found this so screamingly funny. Could not stop laughing. Xmas tree denied! Hilarious.

Then our boiler decided we hadn't had enough fun yet. Put its hand to its brow and blanked out. Nice. Just as I thought my hands would never again regain feeling after expertly balancing the recycling box on the steaming tower of landfill bags. Structures that high are built to sway in the wind they are. That's science. If not art.

But all this to the merry tunes of the season. Mr GPants, grumpy about tinsel-time as the best, has (as odd as it may seem) produced another top xmas songs CD. Panic, near-death and brain-freeze all the sounds of Wizzard, Slade, The Pogues and Alma Cogan.

Gotta laugh.....


  1. God, woman, it never rains but it pours with you! And Alma Cogan to boot!
    By the way, what does Mr GPants stand for?

  2. Mr Golf Pants. Named after his favourite activity: (I have to word this carefully) Practicing his golf swing whilst wearing just pants. Except when I last shared this with the world, he took to wearing trackies. Not nearly so comedic. I'm sure when the weather picks up........

  3. Right there with you in the out-house. We too have Emin-like installation, ours of 'alcohol casings contained in crates'... keep forgetting to walk the .5 mile (slight exaggeration, but only slight) to put the bins/recycling out..

  4. It's a bit of a trek to our bins too. Sometimes I just can't face opening the gates again.... out there in the dark, cold, lonely wastes of our front 'bit'. The sound of the big lorry thing hissing up the lane and pausing for merely seconds usually reduces me to tears as I realise that's another fortnight I'll have to step over this crap. Now it's white envelopes WITH windows in the box with paper but not wrapping paper and brown envelopes WITHOUT windows in the big bin with the card and no other paper on pain of death and ........... oh fuck it - no wonder our landfill is always overflowing........