Prof Pickford
7 years ago
Monday, December 31, 2007
Saturday, December 29, 2007
Diddle, Diddle Dumpling
You know how it goes -
Which, thinking about what I want to say is actually completely irrelevant. But hey, it's typed already, and I am not seeing all that effort go to waste.
Anyway. There we are with all our bedroom packed into bags, and said bags distributed about the house - spare room, understairs cupboard, attic, Kit's room - and the list goes on. And I have to get ready for Jeremy's company Christmas Do. 'Formal', it says on the invitation. 'Formal'. When last did two syllables strike such icicle terror into my heart? 'Formal'?!? I haven't done 'Formal' in - ooh, about eight years. 'Formal'? I haven't got 'Formal'! And even if I had 'Formal' I wouldn't be able to find it, becasue it's an a bag in the attic or Kit's room or under the stairs or in the spare room or - and the taxi has just arrived anyway, so these black velvet trousers held together by some sartorially criminal string, under some far-too-ethnic dark grey linen jackety-thing, are going to be topped (topped? surely not) by the only pair of not-my-every-day-shoes I can find, which are brown.
Jupiter Optimusque Maximus, not even Jeremy was going to let that one go. Taxi in the driveway, J in his tuxedo, and he starts tearing the place apart for the bag with my shoes in, a fruitless task as I am only too happy to repeat to him at three second intervals. In the end, I 'find' the pair of bronze and gold strappy peep-toe wedge sandals I wore to the wedding in South Africa, which I think are completely out of the question, and they are voted infinitely more suitable than my brown penny loafers.
Remind me - did they ever find the genes responsible for shoe management? Because I've lost mine, and am posting a reward for their safe return.
That, or my husband has more in the way of shoe gene than me. Gah.
Diddle Diddle Dumpling my son John
Went to bed with his trousers on
One shoe off and one shoe on
Diddle Diddle Dumpling my son John
Which, thinking about what I want to say is actually completely irrelevant. But hey, it's typed already, and I am not seeing all that effort go to waste.
Anyway. There we are with all our bedroom packed into bags, and said bags distributed about the house - spare room, understairs cupboard, attic, Kit's room - and the list goes on. And I have to get ready for Jeremy's company Christmas Do. 'Formal', it says on the invitation. 'Formal'. When last did two syllables strike such icicle terror into my heart? 'Formal'?!? I haven't done 'Formal' in - ooh, about eight years. 'Formal'? I haven't got 'Formal'! And even if I had 'Formal' I wouldn't be able to find it, becasue it's an a bag in the attic or Kit's room or under the stairs or in the spare room or - and the taxi has just arrived anyway, so these black velvet trousers held together by some sartorially criminal string, under some far-too-ethnic dark grey linen jackety-thing, are going to be topped (topped? surely not) by the only pair of not-my-every-day-shoes I can find, which are brown.
Jupiter Optimusque Maximus, not even Jeremy was going to let that one go. Taxi in the driveway, J in his tuxedo, and he starts tearing the place apart for the bag with my shoes in, a fruitless task as I am only too happy to repeat to him at three second intervals. In the end, I 'find' the pair of bronze and gold strappy peep-toe wedge sandals I wore to the wedding in South Africa, which I think are completely out of the question, and they are voted infinitely more suitable than my brown penny loafers.
Remind me - did they ever find the genes responsible for shoe management? Because I've lost mine, and am posting a reward for their safe return.
That, or my husband has more in the way of shoe gene than me. Gah.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Where was I . . . ?
Golly. A week spent telling Jeremy IT'S JUST A COUGH, I don't need to go to the doctor, everyone in the village has one just like mine . . .
On my return from SA, I sloped off in to the spare room, on account of not wanting my coughing to keep him awake, assuming the cough would get better. Ha ha ha no. Cough just as bad (NO! IT's GETTING BETTER!) and J has had to join me in the spare room as we are in the middle of having a new bedroom installed. Ye Gods and Little Fishes, it's appalling how much rubbish you accumulate even in a bedroom which, while a very important room, obv., is not actually used for that much of the day.
And I never leave enough time to do a proper packing-up job, so in spite of all my intentions of sorting as I packed, a Monday morning deadline meant that no, the crap got packed along with the regular stuff. *Deep Breath* well, I here and now resolve that nothing is going back into our brand new bedroom that a) is not useful (or beautiful, Mr Morris) and b) doesn't have a place to live.
I know I know - this means I am doomed to another large black plastic bin bag full of stuff I can't decide about. Gah.
On my return from SA, I sloped off in to the spare room, on account of not wanting my coughing to keep him awake, assuming the cough would get better. Ha ha ha no. Cough just as bad (NO! IT's GETTING BETTER!) and J has had to join me in the spare room as we are in the middle of having a new bedroom installed. Ye Gods and Little Fishes, it's appalling how much rubbish you accumulate even in a bedroom which, while a very important room, obv., is not actually used for that much of the day.
And I never leave enough time to do a proper packing-up job, so in spite of all my intentions of sorting as I packed, a Monday morning deadline meant that no, the crap got packed along with the regular stuff. *Deep Breath* well, I here and now resolve that nothing is going back into our brand new bedroom that a) is not useful (or beautiful, Mr Morris) and b) doesn't have a place to live.
I know I know - this means I am doomed to another large black plastic bin bag full of stuff I can't decide about. Gah.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
