Sunday, 24 July 2016

All by myself...

The husband, looking for any means of cure for the hangover from hell (I am blaming son number two for this for keeping him plied with Peroni on Friday night) headed off for a full English fry up yesterday morning.  When I say 'full' I am talking about the plate, as you couldn't have squeezed a Rizla paper between the bacon, sausages, fried eggs etc which the husband forced down.   

I was prepared for no dinner last night as he was still feeling full, and for the sewing machine being brought out of retirement to let his trousers out.  He never learns, that man...

While he was eating this, I headed off to Marlow for my normal Saturday breakfast, preceded by a wash and blow in my favourite salon.  My normal stylist was on her holidays, so I had a man do it this time.  He was of advanced years, with all of his hair being on his chin rather than his head. He had a spectacular beard, which skimmed his clavicles (look this up, it's not as rude as it sounds) and he was 'King of The Blow Dry'. What he could do with a Boars' Bristle Brush was nobody's business, and I left there looking groomed and glamorous.

This lasted for approximately two hours as I was back at Mrs S's cottage yesterday afternoon doing a little more painting, in preparation for the big move in August.   Unfortunately, she had put me in charge of painting fireplaces this time, which meant a skinny brush and some rather gloopy black paint.  Having come home yesterday covered in white paint from head to toe, I had decided that rather than ruin my clothes any more, I would wear less, as skin is much easier to wash than clothes.  Mrs S, looked me up and down when I arrived.

 'You look nice.  Go and get changed and we'll get started'. 

'I am changed', I said.  'All ready to go'. 

'But your shoes..' she said, 'they're very new'. 

'No matter' I said.  (Why would I care about the brand new Converse pumps I was wearing?  They belonged to daughter number two. You see, what goes around, comes around...

So let's fast forward another three hours.  Mrs S had made the fatal error of leaving me alone while she went to collect my god-daughter (the gorgeous Ms Nat) and of course, without any adult supervision, this is how I left her house...

My hair, previously looking like something out of a glossy magazine, still looked like something out of a magazine, but more one that illustrated bad hair days of the rich and famous.  I looked like an explosion in a mattress factory, and I questioned whether it might have been a better idea to cancel the expensive hair do from earlier.

The decision to wear shorts, although made with good intentions, meant that my legs looked like I had horrendous varicose veins thanks to the black paint, and there was a pervading whiff of latex about me courtesy of the gloves which Mrs S supplied me with.

And as for the Converse pumps....

Well, let's just say that they won't be making their way back into daughter number two's wardrobe.

I may stop laughing about this by Tuesday...
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