I am extra bad tempered, I am sick to death of estate agents and conveyancing. The novelty of living out of boxes is well past it's sell by date and so am I!
My half packed house has become normality now. I don't even notice the floor to ceiling mountains of boxes, anymore. I did pack things into some sort of workable, organized chaos. Much to my husband's relief, I can find everything, other than him of course.
He is turning into his late father, who was famous in his market town in the Midlands for popping out to catch the 4 pm post, only to return 3 hours later grinning urbanely and often found chewing fresh herbs, to cover beer or whiskey fumes. His long suffering wife's detection systems had long since been overwhelmed by the obvious gold spot mint mouth freshener and he had moved on to chewing whole bunches of Parsley in order to avoid detection, which was with her of course impossible. Her side of the family had taken the pledge and such male behaviour was frowned upon, actually most things were frowned about, especially her first glimpse of me 23 years ago. It did not help that I had stepped off the back of a motorbike where I had been frozen into a sitting down position and had to be thawed out and undressed to reveal suspect rebellious clothing in the middle of her kitchen.
My husband does not need detection systems, as he did marry rather a naughty girl, who when not ill likes to join him in wild adventures which includes sampling wine at nearby houses or indeed anywhere for that matter. Although I can't tolerate alcohol more than twice a week, which is a total bore. However I am currently extra bad tempered and sulky. He has gone off to Glastonbury Festival for a week, and it is not suitable for us to all go this time with school and exams and my current health problems.
I did help him pack, this was against a back drop of "shoosh dear I managed perfectly well before you came along" or "do I need a jacket of any sort?" etc. I packed for my true love with military precision, however he was in charge of what went in his tent, in terms of bedding. His arrival last night on site triggered a mournful phone call home to explain that he had no camping mats or anything to sleep on, perhaps he can lie on the unnecessary pillow I made him pack, or the blanket I sneaked in.
This is not an unusual state of affairs. The the year before last he went on his own, again I was 'shooshed' to oblivion over the packing. Off he went to an arranged meeting point at the festival, to find our friend Hairy Legs, and offer the promised ground sheet to the tent they were sharing. Ground sheet is not a very kind description really of the blue semi porous builders cover that he thinks is a ground sheet. I had made many attempts for a number of years to throw it away, to howls of his dismay. Blotting paper with holes would be a more appropriate description, certainly no resemblance of being water tight, That year the inside of their tent filled up with a lake of water, again he had not taken a sleeping mat, and had to squeeze onto our his friend Hairy leg's mattress barely made for two. Hairy Legs is an expansive man, neither small in height or width and snores as badly as my husband. Two middle aged gentlemen spent a number of nights hardly daring to move in a tent resembling a stagnant inland lagoon.
So.. he is all set up there now, ready to play music and apparently with things borrowed his tent is in order. This will last until night three, and then the normal, 'I can manage perfectly well dear' will turn into quite the opposite. Morning tent tidying will become ancient forgotten history. It normally goes like this, clothes left all over site, instruments left out in the rain, car keys dangerously placed, and phones perched on the very stump used to split logs. Actually it was as if he left before he left. The afternoon before, I was informed in a tight and unconvincing tone that he had lots of things to do before leaving including a mountain of accounts over due by ten weeks. I of course made room for this and got on with my things, and then heard the predictable sound of a man who endlessly buys concertinas and mouth organs making a horrendous noise with a hastily summoned musical friend. Experimental music is not my thing and I am sure all that polish would help start a good bonfire. Nothing remotely resembling work was completed and his office desk is festooned with toppling piles of over due reports, accounts and unanswered letters with deadlines. He will arrive back from Glastonbury grinning like one let of a leash, wearing a week of stubble and mud and will announce how busy he is, before being bad tempered for at least a week.
A few days before the commotion of him leaving. I felt woefully middle aged. I had been summoned for my first breast screening procedure. I huffily took the bus, snorting with indifference as I read the helpful literature, and on arrival, stamped up the stairs to the make shift lorry clinic. An endless, but very well behaved queue of women greeted me, all in a similar mode, having been summoned by the power of their post code, all awaiting a delightful xray, Once inside I was greeted by some over smiley radiographers who would not have been out of place working in a Russian Steam room. 'It won't hurt much dear'. Well having one's breasts forceably ironed between two plates while the rest of your body is contorted into certain shapes is not my idea of an afternoon out. However I did see the point of getting it out of the way. I left the facility feeling pleased to have got it out of the way with my cheeks smarting - both sets!
My lovely husband then met me for lunch partly to help me get over the indignation of what had gone on, and also due to his plans to go away. I was most amused to notice that he ordered a starter which consisted of a mountain of cous cous with some wilted vegetables draped over it, complete with a snobby balsamic glaze I was further entertained with his next course which was practically identical, but just a much larger mountain of cous cous and something completely unidentifiable aside it. I did ask if he wanted two identical meals, his reply was not convincing.
I should not have laughed too much as actually I caused myself some unflattering karma. Having arrived back home, I went to sit in the garden and devour a home made chocolate brownie. Despite my gradual weight loss, the chair turned into firewood beneath me. This was the second one in a week, the day before I had sat on one, which had done the same, I ended up flat on my back with a mountain of cottage cheese on my stomach and rice cakes in my hair. However ever cloud has a silver lining in this house. I detest the garden furniture as it is dangerous and clapped out and he had halted my fantasy about having a bonfire with it rather than moving it to the new house. My plan is now back on the agenda.
Yesterday in a fit of new conveyancing panic, I felt well enough to go outside and strim my front verge, which is quite an achievement for me to manage some gardening during a flare, (thank you LDN, it does take the edge off). As I patrolled up and down the front of the house, looking menacing with the machine and my ski glasses on. I saw a woman approaching me who looked as if she was walking on hot bricks at catching sight of me. A snobby monstrous creature, who likes to tow her dogs backside along outside my house and is blissfully unaware that I know she lets it regularly take a dump there. This reminded me of a very naughty secret campaign I started many years ago when living in London. So many people in used the square I resided in to walk their dogs and leave their mess behind, with no thought to clear it up that in the dead of night I resorted to extreme surveillance. Armed with binoculars over a number of days and nights, I went into detective overdrive. I managed to work out which dog was doing which pile. and who their owner was. Armed with cocktail sticks I enjoyed for a couple of weeks making small homemade flags. Once I had matched owner and dog with each pile, I stuck a flag in which said the following. This shite was done by 'Fido' who's lives with their owner at No, etc, well done, what a perfect mess etc. After a couple of week there were no more dollops for many months. I also took the trouble to label the ones done by dogs who's owners lived many streets away in rather nice houses, they got a mention too.
This did at the time co incide with me sending the council a photograph of myself and children having a picnic in the local park, inside the designated dog run. It was at that time, the only place in the area free from roaming dogs, that was safe to sit with children. Mind you this was the early 90's things have changed now. The park is no longer owned by dogs, however they are most welcome.
Tonight, I am looking forward to my husband ringing with scandalous tales of his adventures with our joint friends, and to balance it out I have had a nice invitation around to a local farm to sit with a friend and shriek with laughter. Every time I feel remotely jealous of my husband's festival fun, I bring to mind a picture of a so called friend who is there, who likes to lecture me from a very uneducated perspective on all my diseases and that of my children, he loves to tell me about gluten, ( I am 100 percent gluten free), he does so neurotically with a bottle of gluten laden beer in one hand and a sandwich in the other, whist telling me he knows best and never touches the stuff. His conversation in whining tones usually about as interesting as paint drying in a municipal karzi. It does take all types, the rough with the smooth and he does need an awful lot of attention, people who need this go to extreme lengths.
I look forward to writing more soon. I am feeling very Thyroidy today... and hope to get a good night's sleep.
The sulk goes on.
ps This petition is doing GREAT, don't just SIGN... Pass it on. ONLY people power by us all will bring about choice and change! epetitions.direct.gov.uk/pe...