Wonder woman...
I genuinely believe, that if I stepped into a telephone box and opened my coat, you just might get a glimpse of a red and gold bustier, and some rather tight starry drawers. The husband has taken to calling me WonderWoman (oh to have her cleavage - if I wore that bustier, there would be a four inch gap between the whalebone and me, and all you'd see when you peered in would be my size 7 feet) and I put this down to the fact that I have singlehandedly organised Christmas this year.
If you remember, the husband's contribution to Christmas stretches as far as buying and erecting the Christmas tree. No mean feat, but once this job is done, he dusts himself off and starts dreaming about my Christmas pudding (please note that I said this in singular, and it is not a reference to the WonderWoman analogy).
Mr W, aka the Voice of Reason, asked me yesterday at work how I managed to fit everything in. I ask myself this quite regularly, and have come to the conclusion that whereas most people like seven or eight hours sleep a night, when the chips are down I survive on around four. I like to be ahead of the game you see, and the three hours before all hell breaks loose in the morning gives me the chance to internet shop, wrap, plan, iron and do washing (only after 6.00 as I am so thoughtful...). Oh, and another thing, I also get to write some nonsense which people find quite entertaining...
So yesterday, I worked the morning at Binland, and then headed home. Within twenty minutes of walking through the front door, I had iced and wrapped my three Christmas cakes, and had used some rather ripe language when I realised that my sausage meat was still in the freezer. There was a quick change of plan whereby the sausage meat was left to defrost while I wrapped the remaining presents up and made dinner. I then went back to the sausage meat and made two plaits. The husband, who has an inbuilt sausage plait radar system, turned up in the kitchen just as I was doing the egg wash, and gave me the look which he has perfected over the years, resembling a Labrador who hasn't been fed for a week.
Seeing the way he was eyeing them up, I gave him the news he was dreading to hear...
'I'm not cooking them till Boxing Day, so you'll have to wait. They're going in the freezer'.
Weirdly, this statement resulted in a flurry of activity, with the husband walking the dogs and clearing up after dinner.
I think he's after a reward.
Possible of the sausage variety....
If you remember, the husband's contribution to Christmas stretches as far as buying and erecting the Christmas tree. No mean feat, but once this job is done, he dusts himself off and starts dreaming about my Christmas pudding (please note that I said this in singular, and it is not a reference to the WonderWoman analogy).
Mr W, aka the Voice of Reason, asked me yesterday at work how I managed to fit everything in. I ask myself this quite regularly, and have come to the conclusion that whereas most people like seven or eight hours sleep a night, when the chips are down I survive on around four. I like to be ahead of the game you see, and the three hours before all hell breaks loose in the morning gives me the chance to internet shop, wrap, plan, iron and do washing (only after 6.00 as I am so thoughtful...). Oh, and another thing, I also get to write some nonsense which people find quite entertaining...
So yesterday, I worked the morning at Binland, and then headed home. Within twenty minutes of walking through the front door, I had iced and wrapped my three Christmas cakes, and had used some rather ripe language when I realised that my sausage meat was still in the freezer. There was a quick change of plan whereby the sausage meat was left to defrost while I wrapped the remaining presents up and made dinner. I then went back to the sausage meat and made two plaits. The husband, who has an inbuilt sausage plait radar system, turned up in the kitchen just as I was doing the egg wash, and gave me the look which he has perfected over the years, resembling a Labrador who hasn't been fed for a week.
Seeing the way he was eyeing them up, I gave him the news he was dreading to hear...
'I'm not cooking them till Boxing Day, so you'll have to wait. They're going in the freezer'.
Weirdly, this statement resulted in a flurry of activity, with the husband walking the dogs and clearing up after dinner.
I think he's after a reward.
Possible of the sausage variety....
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