Words from a Bird. Day 137...
After the rugby club dinner on Friday night, testosterone has been the recurring theme of my weekend. The husband had decided that we should go and check our allotment, as there would be weeding to be done. Armed with forks, trowels, a strimmer and a mower we headed over there. After ten minutes of heavy labour in the sunshine, the husband, clad in work trousers and boots, stripped off his t-shirt. Looking at me sitting on the ground, pathetically prodding at a rather aggressive looking dandelion with my hand fork, he said, 'I'm just hot. Don't get any ideas...'
Oh bless the man. Much as I adore him, any ideas that I may have had at that particular time would probably have included a large gin and tonic, a manicure (my poor nails are not attached to green fingers) or a deckchair. I think I managed to get this across with one look over the varifocals.
Both sons have been in residence this weekend, with son number one bringing home with him several males of varying sizes to stay (makes a change from his washing I suppose). The male guests were here to do manly pursuits with son number 1, mainly golf (nothing manly about that, in my opinion) and water-skiing. I know two of these lads quite well, having met them on several occasions, so we are quite relaxed in each others' company. The two new ones were polite and charming, as befitting those wanting to be housed, fed and watered for the night.
Coming down the stairs on Saturday morning, with arms full of dirty washing, I happened to glance through the open door of the guest room, where the boys were chatting. You can imagine my surprise when the picture which greeted me involved a naked pert behind, its owner deep in conversation with the other boy who was still in bed.
Desperately trying to drag my eyes away (failed miserably, so just sunk my face into the dirty clothes I was carrying) I said in a muffled voice, 'I'm going to try really hard to pretend that I didn't just see that'. Thirty six hours later, I was still trying to rid myself of the picture which tattooed itself on my eyeballs without much success.
As the weather was just above freezing on Saturday night, the husband fired up the barbecue again and started foraging for animal remains to incinerate. It was at this moment that I informed Master B about seeing his derriere that morning. I told him that I would probably have to blog about it, as the writing would be cathartic in my healing. Various song titles were suggested for this, but my favourite was Peaches.....(did you know that every blog since Day 12 has been a song title? You'll go and look now, I'm sure). The boys meanwhile, tired of discussing bottoms, had moved on to talking about the session of water-skiing which was booked for Sunday.
'Where are you going for this?' I asked son number one.
'To the Cotswolds' was his reply.
'Aah', I said sarcastically, 'The Cotswolds. Famously known as the epicentre of Europe for water-skiing...'
'Is it?' asked son number one, thoroughly impressed.
Of course, when you have to explain a joke, it stops being funny. I gave it three minutes before I stuck a fork in a sausage in a fit of pique.
I suppose that it was just as well Master B had his pants on this time...