Forty eight hours after the party, everything is getting back to normal. My extended stomach (too much fluid...mainly rhubarb gin and ginger ale) has receded, and my blood/alcohol ratio is pretty much back to where it should be. I have a feeling that this weekend will be a quiet one to make up for the debauchery of the last one, but hey, it's only Tuesday and anything could crop up.
I played a blinder on the washing and ironing front this weekend. Son number one had left all his washing hanging in the utility room, There was a lot of ducking and diving needed if you wanted to get through there and into the garage without being wiped out by several rugby shirts and bed linen, and in a fit of pique, I screwed it all up and threw it back into his linen basket, with the promise of ironing it when I got back from work on Monday. As he was staying till Tuesday, I didn't think that this was unreasonable. But then he decided to go back to his seaside abode yesterday instead, and as I was out all afternoon with my sister-in-law, Mrs H, necking back cappuccinos, he had to go back with clothes which had a road-map look about them. How I laughed (quietly...)
Over the years, I have passed one piece of advice to my children with regard to their clothes and ironing. I tell them to buy their clothes one size too small, so that their bodies can push the creases out from the inside. Unfortunately, now I am losing inches, I have had to start ironing again...
Talking of clothes, it was a sad day for the husband yesterday. You may have guessed by now that the husband is not particularly worried about what he wears, or how he wears it. Yesterday saw the demise of his 'work jumper'. I know that you are probably imagining something cheap and cheerful, but this started out as a Christmas present five years ago. A silk lined jumper to wear over a shirt, costing around £90. It was what we ladies call, 'an investment piece'. Let me take you through the life cycle of this since that Christmas Day...
First six months - jumper is only worn when we go out, and is hung up reverently at the end of each outing. A red metal poppy adorns the left breast with pride.
Second six months - jumper is worn for light duties around the house such as paperwork and bringing logs in
Second year - jumper is now worn for doing small jobs in (these are confined to the garage so don't count as real work apparently)
Third year - jumper migrates to the husband's workshop, where it spends four weeks on top of a pile of tyres in the rain. It is now officially allowed to be worn for car maintenance and manual labour
Fourth year - jumper's sleeves are starting to fray. Husband no longer bothers to remove metal poppy badge prior to washing. Basically, he has stopped caring about the jumper
Fifth year - jumper is now full time work wear, assaulted by plaster, glue and paint on a daily basis. It has a small tear at the seam and the fraying at the sleeves is extreme, and resembles Indian fringing
So he came into the lounge last night and holding it up, he said that he thought it was getting past it. Now this was the understatement of the last decade. I said to him that the jumper had been on borrowed time since February 2016, and he was to throw it away. His little face drooped, and very slowly, he turned on his heel, headed into the kitchen, and put it into the bin. I am sure that he said a few words over the bin lid as it closed. Something along the lines of, 'What the hell am I going to wear tomorrow?' but let's just hope the weather continues to be kind as he won't be needing it.
I've hidden his other posh jumpers, and henceforth, these will only be handed over on special occasions which don't involve chainsaws, logs, paint, carburettors, nail guns or glue. He will also not be able to wear them if he is with his friend Mr H, who is just as bad.
It's like having a five year old sometimes......