- I'm sure you'll be fine
- Hundreds of men get it done every day
- Men just like you, yes
- Every day
- It's just a little op
- You're not depriving the world
- I'm sure we'll survive without your genes
- You don't stand out
- You're not a ginger marvel
- You couldn't sell it for millions
- I just don't think anyone would buy it
- I did get it free
- I am lucky, yes
- And grateful
- It is a good product
- Millions of women won't be protesting
- You're very welcome to freeze some
- I really don't think so
- I don't think the surgeon will be intimidated
- Well she'll have seen it all before
- Why wouldn't it be a she?
- Surgeons are Shes and Hes
- They are
- She will be able to cope
- It won't all be too much for her
- She won't need a hand
- Yes she'll be used to lifting heavy objects
- I really don't think we need to warn her
- I'm sure she's seen plenty of ginger foxes
- Yes ones with biceps
- Please stop demonstrating the biceps
Tuesday, 21 May 2019
Wednesday, 8 May 2019
Tuesday, 30 April 2019
I think it’s high time we looked further into the deep and binding relationships that Husband forms. He’s choosy, choosing only three of the best male specimens that beer money can buy. Obviously I’m talking about Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head the Best Friends a Man Could Ask For, which are my sentiments exactly.
I would be disappointed in you all if you suspected in any way that Husband first met his dearest friends anywhere other than the pub. Because he did, quel surprise. Actually there was a tiny surprise in that Husband decided to try a different pub. This is like me trying a different bra, unheard of. The ones I know are comfy, familiar and serve things up on a tray.
So there we were, hesitating slightly at the entrance to this new territory, wondering whether the locals would welcome us, not sure whether we’d like it. We entered like any self respecting English couple; sideways, heads bowed enough to avoid eye contact but not enough to fall over something and Cause a Scene. We headed in the direction that our quick glances reassured us was the bar.
And there he was. There in all his glory, surrounded by a choice circle of chums, was Pokey; side on to us, standing sloppily near the bar, head tilted back, balancing a pork scratching on his top lip. This scene in its entirety would have been enough to get Husband hooked; you could see his heart beating out its special tune of man-love for this pork scratching balancing midget with a medallion round his neck. But being Pokey he went one better and flicked his head, and by result the scratching, into the air and caught it in his mouth.
Husband roared the kind of approval I’d hoped for at childbirth and marched across the pub floor to shake Pokey’s hand, simultaneously winking at the bar man for a beer and tapping his top lip to indicate a fresh supply of pork scratchings. English reserve forgotten in the height of this euphoria, Husband declared his love for Pokey in one sentence:
“That, my man, deserves a drink”
Which it did, obviously. Husband had come home. What more could you ask for than a salty meatskin snack, a new best friend, a pint and a wife to drive you home. Nothing dear readers, absolutely Nothing.
Except of course, like City Slickers Two, Pokey got better with a sequel. Just as Husband was about to present Pokey with a fresh challenge, a long, pale arm reached into the throng and placed, rather gracefully, a scratching on Pokey’s waiting, trembling lip. It had the touch of the lover about it, as Bucket Head loomed into sight.
“Ere we are Pokes” yelled Bucket Head, “three in a row”
Pokey dutifully flicked and caught his scratching while Husband looked on, falling in love with every bead of perspiration on Pokey’s brow. Clutching his own bag of scratchings, eager to be the person to present Pokey with his next top lip challenge, he stepped forward uncertainly.
“here we go” said slightly self consciously, placing the snack on Pokey’s top lip, quivering at the excitement of it all.
Pokey paused, flicked, crunched. And history was made.
Obviously being the observer of this instant crush filled me with glee. Honestly, glee. What else would I like in my life than another Husband, one whose hygiene rating scored below a rat’s scrotum. What else indeed. I probably should have stopped there, counted my blessings that there was only Pokey and adopted him immediately. This being the preventative measure of him being attached to any other male in the world who would follow him anywhere.
This was stupid of me obviously. There were three of them.
We had yet to be introduced to Stu, he’d been in the toilet looking for pound coins for the fruit machine. He came through to the bar, shoes sticking to the floor as he stuffed his way into the circle of friends.
“This” said Pokey throwing his arm round Husband’s neck, “is Stu”, Husband shook Stu’s hand as Bucket Head nodded wildly, affirming helpfully that this was, in fact, Stu. Fabulous.
There they stood, three goons and Husband, the pork snatching crumbs on Pokey’s face glistening in the gloaming of the pub lighting; Stu wiping his pound coins on his t-shirt and Bucket Head patting Husband’s arm in wonder, as if he’d just won a pet cow.
Husband looked at me for the first time since we’d arrived.
“We’ve GOT to invite these guys back to ours” he said enthusiastically, “I can show them my mini putter”
“Quite” I said, which in a pre-agreed ‘safe word’ discussion, Husband understood as no, not in a million years.
“Brilliant” he said and patted Bucket Head on the shoulder,
“Get your coats lads, you’ve pulled” he guffawed, delighted as Stu spat out his beer
“I don’t think I’ve got room in the car” I said, “perhaps we could leave Pokey” (I am banking wildly here that no Pokey equals no Stu and Bucket Head).
Husband looked askance at my lack of Quality Man detecting skills.
“He’s the BEST ONE,” he boomed spilling beer froth up his nostril, forgetting that he was in booming distance of Bucket Head, who looked mournfully at his beer. He seemed resigned to appearing the lesser talented, Pokey being the Pork Scratching balancer and all, and Stu earning so much money from the toilets.
Husband ushered the three of them in front of him like naughty children and shuffled them towards the door of the pub, out into the cold night air and the quiet of the night.
“Phwoar” yelled Husband, doing that rub of the hands up and down the arms thing that people do to show they’re cold, “don’t worry” he said to Pokey, maternally, “it’ll be warm at home and you can be first to have a go on the putter.”
Warmed with promises of putter play the four men marched into the night, towards a night, nay a lifetime, of guffawing, insults, beer, pork scratching catching and slightly sticky hands while playing the fruit machine.
Dear readers, it was Love.
Tuesday, 23 April 2019
- Anyone in?
- Oh hi dad
- Are you OK?
- Oh good
- No it's just
- You look a bit weird
- Sitting on your own
- Behind the breakfast bar
- Kind of strained
- And sweaty
- Oh good lord Jesus christ
- Hi mum
- I didn't see you down there
- No, no
- Stay there
- Don't get up
- Oh Christ
- Don't do that
- On the Princess Diana tea towel
- I'm just going to go
- I'm not a prude
- Or embarrassed
- Crikey dad
- Leave the buckle
- At least until I'm gone
- No it's fine
- I'll see you later
- Please remember to wash the tea towel
Sunday, 21 April 2019
So Isla turned fifteen, it has been Delight-ful, D.Light.Ful. Yes siree; so filled with light, and fun, and smiles, and glee and all round appreciation for the work and toil its has taken to get her to half of thirty. Oh Joy of Joy.
In other news, sarcasm has arrived in our house. Isla bought her in like an old sweaty friend who you never really liked and you SWEAR you didn’t give your new address to but she’s turned up on your doorstep and is now taking up the biggest bit of the sofa and complaining that it’s cold.
The kind that drinks your wine and wonders loudly why the bottle’s empty and eats the last twiglet while you’re uncorking the third bottle.
The one who sleeps alone in the spare room and uses every single guest towel from the cupboard and opens the emergency mini toothbrush and Colgate set and the wrapped bit of soap and steals the tampons.
The friend who eats crisps in the shower and can’t figure out why the drain’s blocked and stands there dripping on you while you poke it out with your index finger.
So obviously we’re delighted that she’s come to stay.
It’s a little galling that Isla is better acquainted with our visiting guest than us, I mean I’ve been practising for YEARS. I’m dead sarcastic, I know it doesn’t show or anything, but inside I’m thinking sarcastic things.
The other day Isla was walking in boots that were unlaced and I pointed it out. Just nicely, you know, in the manner of a human being.
‘Uh thanks mum, like your laces are never undone”
Which they have been in the past of course, and I didn’t trip over and break my head and have three months learning to count again because another human being pointed it out to me in the manner of a human being and I bent over and did them up.
Also, yesterday she boomed down the stairs:
Where’s that shopping I left in the car?
Did you bring it out of the car? I asked in a needing more information, mild mannered way
Well then it’s still in the car, I said logically.
This earned me a hair toss and a look that said your logic is old fashioned and out to get me, you dark overlord of the night. Lend me fifteen pounds to get over it.
So it really is very very nice that we have a fifteen year old living in the house, and of course Husband, dog and eleven year old. Very very nice indeed.
Sunday, 14 April 2019
- Oh hello
- It's nice that you remembered
- No no party, just a cake
- Next Saturday
- What would I like?
- I don't really need presents
- What do you mean oh good?
- Have you nothing in mind?
- You're what?
- Say that slowly
- How are you leaving your head to medical science?
- For my birthday
- I know I said I didn't really need presents
- But for my birthday
- I'm sure it will be very interesting
- And full of useful information
- You have kept it pristine
- They will love your cake recipes
- You do have a lot of good ideas
- I'm just not sure I want your head for my birthday
- Unless it's imminent
- Honestly it was a joke
- I am taking it seriously
- You're right it's just like adopting a goat
- Except this is your head
- I'm sure they will have seen nothing quite like it
- I'm glad you're excited
Wednesday, 10 April 2019
- Just remember what we talked about
- I’m only reminding you
- In case you forget
- You promised to be nice
- As in say nice things, don’t insult My Mother
- Because it’s her birthday
- And they’ve agreed to come here for lunch
- It is a big deal
- They haven’t been here since you showed her that rude cucumber
- The rude one
- Yes the one you waggled
- It was the way you waggled it
- Well sort of up and down
- And suggested lube
- So it’s a big deal they’re coming
- What special present
- From you
- Oh that’s SO nice
- Thank you so much
- It’s a what
- A burqua?
- Full face?
- You can’t give My Mother a burqua for her birthday
- It will not improve her looks
- It won’t help you eat
- I’m sorry about your nausea
- You simply can’t
- Dad won’t agree
- What do you mean he went halves?
Tuesday, 9 April 2019
So Twizzle is incontinent.
I should just leave it there really.
It only adds to his charm obviously.
Also he is allergic to his own fur which means a slight medicated fungus smell to the entire soft furnishing collection in the house and all garments that reach below the thigh. (Husband’s mini skirts are all ok then, har har).
The thing is, he wasn’t that incontinent until we got chickens, just when My Mother visited, it was kind of their special thing.
Obviously, we have a glorious and majestic history with pets in the Millennium Housewife household, Twizzle being the pinnacle of our reign with his humping and biting party piece.
Chickens we thought, would be a wise addition to the family. Don’t they live outside? Check. Practically look after themselves? Check. Provide money saving opportunities by supplying eggs? Check. Cost very little indeed? Check.
We had this wonderful, Good Life dream of owning a few chickens; little chooks that will toddle around the garden and give us lots of fresh and wholesome eggs. Fluffy birdies that cluck when you throw them corn and peck at bits of vegetables gratefully and in a humorous manner. An educating experience for the kids, one that includes regular cleaning out and Responsibility.
Yup, chickens were the way to go. Easy peasy.
To date they have cost us a million pounds.
Firstly they require quite a lot of things to live in and keep them safe from foxes. Then they don’t like a lot of the things you have paid to have built to save their lives and lay eggs in places that you didn’t build for them to lay eggs.
So then you have to get other things like RABBIT HUTCHES so that they feel comfortable laying the free eggs that you’re hoping they’ll lay.
And they do lay free eggs. When it’s warm and light and dry. We live in England. They lay eggs about three days a year.
Plus, one of them got an inverted vent, which means its bottom went inside out. All of the pages on the Internet which had encouraged us to have chickens showed helpful pictures of steaming the chicken's bottom over warm water, much in the manner of a facial. Then gently putting your finger up the chicken’s bottom and turning the outside bottom inside.
I will type that again: putting your finger up the chicken’s bottom and turning the outside bottom inside.
Which fell to me. Husband said that he’d try but the girth of his fingers would be uncomfortable for the chicken. Quite.
The worst bit was that it didn’t work the first time. We gave it longer on the steamer the second time and I was encouraged to poke a bit further up. We held our breath as the outside bottom seemed to stay where it should be, on the inside bottom, for a few seconds.
And then it popped out again, like a pink, accusatory turd.
It was at this bottom popping out moment that Twizzle humped the sideboard and managed an eye line with the chicken’s bottom having a facial over the sink. And then he froze, witnessing the outside bottom poking inside exercise. And yelped when the thing popped out again.
A which point he wee’d all over the floor and hasn’t stopped.
Then the chicken cost us £150 at the vets for a steroid injection to get the bottom to go in again, and we couldn’t eat any of the eggs because of the steroids.
So now we have four chickens, no eggs, a rabbit hutch and an incontinent dog.
Any thoughts on hamsters?