Posts

Read 'em and weep...

Image
Eighteen minutes.
That's what it said on the box.
I should have guessed that it was going to be trouble, as the erection time had already increased by 50% by the time the husband had re-read the box.
The awning, ladies.  I'm talking about the awning...
I had told the husband that because we couldn't have a run through at home (the awning arrived forty minutes before we left yesterday) that he should look on t'internet for a video of how to do it.  Well he did, but as it was speeded up (think Benny Hill final credit chase) I'm not too sure it was much help.
Having dropped Charlie's legs and connected up, the husband tipped the awning out onto the floor and started to attach it to the Wobble Box.  Did he follow the instructions?  What do you think ladies?  Why men think that they know better than a booklet of written instructions and pictures is beyond me, and it soon became apparent that the allotted time for putting up the awning was optimistic.  I suppose I have to…

Blowin' in the wind...

Image
The husband greeted me yesterday with the words every girl wants to hear.
'I've bought you a present', he said.  This was announced with a big smile which aroused my suspicion immediately.  Mentally discarding my birthday, Christmas and our wedding anniversary as date inappropriate, my interest was piqued.  It's very rare for the husband to get me anything outside of the recognised present giving days, and gifts which tip up unannounced tend to be given for a reason, and not always a good one.  Gifts like this have included:
A set of induction saucepans - great, but I already had two sets so these were surplus to requirement. (It turned out that they were also surplus to requirement on the site he was working on at the time, hence the re-gifting)
A new hammer - bought after he 'borrowed' mine and 'forgot' to return it.  In the year since the hammer was bought, this has also done the long one-way walk to his tool box.
A CD of Hits of the 1970's - this wa…

Ever present past...

Image
Sunday was Miss R's birthday party.  A party filled with presents, balloons, cake, excellent food and drink, and a smattering of heavy rain to ensure that everyone left at a respectable time.  I think that had the rain not made an appearance around 8.00pm that we'd all still be there now.  Huddled around her picnic table underneath an umbrella with all of us cocooned in various blankets and wraps, and alternating bacon sandwiches with a glass of Aperol Spritz and a mug of tea.  
There's nothing better than spending time with people you actually like, and Sunday was no exception.  It was one of those 'past, present and future' parties where all aspects of your life come together as one.  The past was represented by our dad who is always good for a trip down Memory Lane.  His tales normally start with, 'Do you remember that time you....knocked your sister's tooth out/p*ssed the Greeks off/lost our Sunday roast/stole your sister's boyfriend?'  You know …

I can't stand the rain...

Image
The bloody rain's back then...
I suppose that this is a blessing of some sorts as it means that my hosepipe will get a well earned weekend off, and the flowers won't be looking at me through the kitchen window, wondering whether there will be any chance of me getting off my derriere and giving them a drink sometime before the next millennium.  Talking of watering flowers, I haven't had any feedback from Mrs B next door as to the complete transformation of her front garden while she's been away.  I would imagine that after two glamorous weeks away, that she will have more than enough washing to do, and perhaps hasn't had the opportunity to do a full horticultural inspection as yet.
I finally got round to cleaning Charlie out yesterday afternoon. Armed with a bin liner and some sweet smelling multi surface cleaner, I gingerly opened the door.  Oh dear Lord....it is amazing just how much detritus eight adults can make over five and a half hours, and I soon realised that…

Champagne Charlie...

Image
Last night was the second of many Charlie Fridays.  
At one point last night, I did wonder whether it might be worth contacting those lovely people at Guinness to see what the current record for the number of people in a caravan is.  Luckily, some of the neighbours had made plans, so there was a bit of to-ing and fro-ing going on throughout the evening.  Most of this was made up of popping back to various homes to make sure that abandoned children weren't killing each other/watching porn/raiding the cocktail cabinet but all in all, it was another successful evening in the Wobble Box on the drive.
After looking at a picture on facebook which had been taken at 6.30pm, a friend of mine suggested that we name the caravan 'The Speakeasy'.  As I said to her, at midnight when we finally served an eviction notice to all the remainers, renaming it 'The Sleaze Box' might have been more apt.
I've not been out there this morning yet to clean up, but yet again, the empty gin b…

Them bones...

Image
Blimey, this week has been a slow one.  
The husband reckons it's because I have started a countdown ('seven more sleeps', 'six more days at work', 'one more Monday') for when we are next away in the Wobble Box.  Such is the level of excitement that I have taken to gripping myself firmly on the shoulders (figuratively speaking of course) and saying 'Calm down woman.  It will come round soon enough'.
So I have been keeping myself busy after work each afternoon, trying to Keep Calm and Carry On as they say in all good card shops.
Yesterday afternoon found me semi-clad on a bed being slathered in warm oils by some strange bloke who insisted on keeping his tie on, whilst listening to some Classic FM.  
Don't you just love the osteopath...  
Having spent a brutal afternoon digging up beetroots on Wednesday, my neck, never the happiest of body parts after a car accident many years ago, finally decided that it'd had enough.  Both shoulders were hurling …

Purple haze...

Image
Yesterday was designated Beetroot Wednesday.
As you all know, I have a fairly unhealthy addiction to the venerable beetroot, and I decided this year that pretty much all of my allotment would be taken up by vegetables which I enjoyed eating.  This will explain why four of my six beds were taken up with the little purple horrors.  There would have been five, but Donald Trumpkin breached the defenses a couple of weeks ago despite my intervention with a pair of stiff secateurs.  There is a very pathetic row of beetroot plants being smothered by Donald's ample foliage, but maybe they'll muster up the strength to beat him back eventually.
So.  Yesterday.  Armed with a Bag for Life, two dogs and a fork, I wandered over to the allotment to dig up a few of the beetroots.  Back home I had the vinegars and chillies ready and waiting, and as I had sterilized 48 jars on Monday, I was ready to rock and roll.
I'll be honest with you, out there in the open, they didn't look that big wh…