It wasn't me...

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In yesterday's meanderings, I touched on the fact that I was being very strict with myself with a 'get on with it' kind of attitude.  In my mind, I see Wilma Whiplash telling me this, dressed in thigh length leathers and carrying a bullwhip.  However, life is cruel, and these days the more precise image would be of Nora Batty in a pair of American Tan support stockings, carrying one of those very useful gadgets which enable you to pick something up from the floor without bending down.  Life can be very cruel sometimes.

So today, I am nursing a hangover courtesy of the Italians down the road.  Mrs H is more Italian than a dish of carbonara prepared by Gina D'Campo so any invite to their abode always ends up with the same ending and last night was no different.

As you know, the husband was learning how to ride a bike using one wheel with Mr H yesterday (still struggling to work out how this could be useful, but I'll carry on working on this as I believe that there is a purpose for everything) and when he arrived home pumped up with enough testosterone to give Arnold Schwarzenegger a run for his money, he said to me, 'Come on, we are going down for a beer with the Italians'.  'Right.' I said.  'I'll get my cardigan as it will be late when we walk back'.  

'You won't need that', he pooh-poohed, 'it's only one quick beer'.

Fast forward five hours, and the husband and I are staggering back home from the Italians.  He is freezing as he hadn't bought a jumper with him (I was too squirrelled to gloat) and  I was using all of my concentration to keep to the road and not end up in one of the ditches which run along side it.  

I wouldn't mind, but I only had two bottles of cider, so having spent most of the night prowling around the house searching for a miracle to make me feel human, I did feel a bit cheated this morning.  

But...

I have since found out that the Italians don't think that a can of Thatchers (my drink of choice - classy bird that I am) is actually cider, but more like Appletiser.  The stuff they served last night had enough alcohol content in it to keep the hands of Britain virus free till Christmas, and when I compared that to a can of Thatchers in the fridge, it would appear after several frantic attempts with my calculator ('That can't be right, do it again!'), that I drank the equivalent of four pints of cider last night rather than the genteel two bottles which I had quaffed.

The only good thing to come last night is that the husband completely forget that I had admitted to driving across the front lawn yesterday morning in an attempt to squeeze past the Wobble Box.  

This is the husband's version of the frustration I feel when I get into my car after he's driven it, and I find:

a)    An empty sausage roll bag

b)    An empty bottle of water - usually rolling around in the foot well

c)    An empty petrol tank

d)    All of the above

So I'll live with it.  When he notices it, I'll blame it on the Yodel driver...

 



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