I have been taken over by the male of the species in the house. Both sons are now here, and coupled with the husband, who although very much in touch with his feminine side is most definitely male, and the two dogs, I am living in a blue world.
I have recently noticed that the tumble dryer seems to go on at inopportune times. The boys have taken on board my request that it should not be used over the summer as it is so expensive, so choose instead to leave it running for an hour or two while I am at work, thinking that I'll never find out. Stupid boys. I'm a mum, and it's my job to know everything, even the things I rather I didn't.
They always make a schoolboy error because they leave their clothes in the tumble dryer, heated to temperatures of Amazonian extremes, the elastic on their pants almost liquid and their socks small enough to fit the dogs. There's also the matter of the tropical rain storm which has hit the inside of the utility room window. Dead giveaway.
But my favourite? It's when they hang their wet washing (the stuff which can't go anywhere near the tumble drier as it cost them more than a tenner) on top of my almost dry clothes. I've got one of those inside laundry airers, and yesterday I came home to find it groaning in pain, such was the weight of wet joggers and sweatshirts draped over my almost dry work trousers. As I untied the rope, and gently lowered the dryer, I'm sure that it shed a tear. Mind you, that was probably condensation from the tumble dryer...
The other thing which puzzles me is how the fridge can be so bereft of food when I have spent double my normal weekly bill at the supermarket. I've put this down to the two boys opening a small stall at the end of the road, selling our food to various passers-by so that they have some money to spend on beer. This is what happens when you're a student/between jobs/unemployed (call it what you will). All that education and you resort to selling anything which isn't bolted down or chained up to make a quick buck. I'm counting on son number one's bedroom being empty by the end of the month as times get more desperate.
But enough of complaining...
Somebody asked me yesterday why I do 'that blogging thing'. It was on the tip of my tongue to tell her that 'thing' was right up there with all the other loves in my life (halibut, sunshine, raspberries, my children, new knickers and of course, the poor husband) but I showed a little restraint, saying that I did it just for pleasure.
As you know, I don't get paid for doing what I do, nor do I put adverts on my blog, because the last thing I want while you're reading is for you to be distracted by an ad for incontinence knickers. This is the problem with adverts; they are geared towards you and your audience. Mind you, this says as much about you as it does me!
So this set me thinking. Why do I do it? I suppose that I have always had a mahoosive love affair with words, and being able to string a few together with the view to making total strangers giggle really appeals to me.
But in my perfect world, an editor of a woman's magazine, having chortled at my blog for a few weeks, will email me one day asking me to do a weekly column, and WILL PAY ME.
But until that day, while you're still giggling, I'll keep doing 'that blogging thing'...