In da club...
Boy was I glad to see the end of this week. What with the football, the weeping colleagues (just the male ones as the female variety were quite cock-a-hoop) and the incessant watering of myself as well as the allotment, my garden, and a neighbour's garden (a greenhouse, thirty tubs, four cacti, seven bowls of hedgehog water and a scoop of mealworms each day....in the hottest fortnight on record). Throw into the mix some rather frustrating conversations with someone who shall go unnamed, I was very glad to leave Binland on Friday afternoon.
But there have been good things too. And isn't that what life is about? There's no point having good things if you don't have the bad to compare them to.
I spent a lovely two hours with the Mother on Thursday discussing plants, allotments and beetroot, and I'd like to think that the highlight of her afternoon was digging up a couple to take home for her dinner that night. Or maybe it was the contraband tomato I smuggled out from the neighbour's greenhouse? Worrying, I did text her yesterday afternoon to see how the beetroot was received. There's been no reply, so if she doesn't tip up at family breakfast this morning, it may be that I was a little overzealous with the bug exterminator spray. Time will tell...
And there was other exciting news..
'This has got your name all over it', said the husband, laying a small parcel on my lap last night. Wondering what on earth I'd forgotten I'd bought, I opened the box, only to find that it was the welcome pack from the Caravan Club. I'd joined on the advice of every person who has ever owned a caravan or motorhome - it's the law apparently, and it means that pitches will be cheaper, shower blocks well tested and most importantly of all, it tells you which sites have banned children. Not that I dislike children, but the Wobble Box is a means to get away from ours, so it seems questionable to choose to be surrounded by everyone else's.
And so it was that the husband came back into the lounge an hour later to find me stretched out on the floor, with a map of the UK spread out on the rug, looking at places we could consider staying now we have Charlie, The Wobble Box. 'We do have sat-nav you know', he said with a sigh, doing a complete 360 degree turn and walking out again.
But the most exciting bit of the parcel was a sticker. Two actually. One for your car, and one for your Wobble Box. Waving them in the air at his retreating back, I said, 'We have to stick these on the caravan somewhere'.
'I don't care where you put it, as long as I can't see the bloody things', he muttered.
I do hope he's not having second thoughts about this, as I'll have to learn how to tow it otherwise.
The last thing I pulled was a muscle in my calf last year....
Or was it the bedroom curtain?
He'll soon get used to it. Once I show him the toilet cassette, that should swing it...