Sunday, 27 January 2013

Number 3 - In Which Familiar Is As Familiar Does.

Is it true that familiarity breeds contempt? I wonder this as I sit across from Him*, surreptitiously watching as his finger goes so far up his nostril, I'm fairly sure it's reached eyeball. He's a nose-picker. He also leaves clothes on the floor where he undresses, leaves everything he's used to make a meal out on the side in the kitchen, and leaves food wrappers strewn all over the house like he's a grimy student. Things I knew in the beginning but chose to overlook as "true love" worked its magic. Or, both being in our thirties, we settled.

I wonder what about me fills Him with contempt? I leave the door open when I pee (but not when I poop, I'm not that gross). I am oblivious to dust. I also have a propensity to be haughtily superior (for superior, read smug) with tests of intelligence such as University Challenge, Only Connect and Mastermind. I am also very good with tech; gadgets, computers, car engines etc. I can't help it if I'm clever. But I shan't apologise for it either. But I probably shouldn't be such a show off about getting the Connecting Walls right on Only Connect.

So I wonder: is there a point after we've been with someone for so long, that the little things they do make us want to hurl a car at them? I remember reading an article about the superhuman things people do when flooded with adrenaline; one woman lifted a car off her child after an accident or something. And I'm fairly sure that a hefty surge of adrenaline flows through me now as I watch him take out his finger, examine the end and then jam it up for another go. And the car on the drive is not that heavy. I could probably lift it. At least I could have before my slip the other day knackered my back so that every time I move I grunt like a pig, or groan like a pensioner.

*Him refers to The Man With Whom I Live. Not God. I'm not all that down with the G Man. Still not quite convinced he's real. A bit like Santa.

Wednesday, 16 January 2013

Number 2 - In Which People See My Knickers.

I enjoy snow. It has an equalising, purifying quality about it. I enjoy the fact that I can go upstairs to bed, close my curtains (whilst catching a glimpse of next door's garden in all its organised perfection, compared to my patchy grass and higgledy piggledy bushes), and wake up to a thick blanket of white stuff that makes all the gardens in the area identical. And then, for about a day, I can feel a bit smug that my garden looks just as wonderful for once, and I didn't have to do anything.

I also enjoy being the first to trudge in the snow. I feel like an intrepid arctic explorer, carving a path to places unknown with my Hunter wellies, despite them being a tad tight on my calves due to the annual Christmas-Pigout. But, like all explorers, I expect a bit of discomfort as I encounter strange new worlds. I'm fairly sure Ranulph Fiennes didn't complain about his fingers dropping off, so I shall not moan that my wellies are causing friction burn which looks a bit like horizontal hickies across the back of my calves.

I went to the City today to assess several canteens and restaurants to make sure they are complying... snore.... zzzzzz. God, sometimes this day job bores the tits off me. Anyway, it was ostensibly for my job, but really it was just to have a float around the Sales and see if there was anything pretty worth buying with what's left of my Christmas money (most of it having been spent on post-Christmas grocery shopping). I was contemplating popping into John Lewis when my Hunter wellies snagged on something on the pavement (probably ice, but who knows) and sent me arse over tit onto the ground. There was an horrendous ripping sound and as sure as ice is ice, the arse of my trousers ripped and as I stood up the creepy busker outside M&S, along with most of the rest of the City Centre, caught an eyeful of my knickers. Righto. Laughing off calls of "Eeh, are you all right?" with a breezy it-happens-all-the-time-I-am-a-professional "Oh, I'm jolly super, thank you!" I hot-footed it into the sanctuary of John Lewis, took my coat off, tied it around my wait and dashed up to Ladieswear, whereupon I grabbed the first pair of trousers that I thought I could squeeze my shamed arse and hickied calves into. Into the fitting rooms I dashed, and when satisfied that they sort of fit, they were purchased and worn all the way home on a very long, tedious and cold bus journey.

I haven't worn them since. Nor have I worn the traitorous Hunters.

Tuesday, 1 January 2013

Number 1 - The First.

I suppose I ought to clarify. I do have a view of a park, but I'm not really a princess. Well, my dad called me princess when I was younger, but he's not a king. In fact, he's a massive wanker, so I don't think it counts. But, in my head (which is where I tend to live about 71% of the time) I think I probably could be a princess. I'd be a cool one, too. Cool in that I am hardly ever "papped" (I rarely leave the house), and when I do leave the house, I look like a chubby fishwife. Quite the change from the coiffured, designer-label wearing royalty with legs like gazelles and hair like Rapunzel from Disney's Tangled.

But of my little abode, I'm pretty regal. The dog thinks so. And he is never wrong. Apart from that one time when he ate another dog's poop, but we don't talk about that.

Things on my mind today: it's cold and thermals make me itch. I'm hungry. Christmas/New Year TV is much more entertaining when you're a little bit tipsy.

That's all for now folks. Apparently, it being Christmas and all, I am expected to mingle with other humans, by being something called "sociable." It's a fad. It will never catch on.