Coooeeee! Back On The Chain Gang
Strangely, wonderfully, I am alone in the house. It’s quite thrilling in its very unusualness and I feel I should be painting watercolours in the nude or seducing the postman with rum trifle and the kind of talk that drives postmen* wild, to really make the most of it.
But instead I’m celebrating by writing a post. It’s been a while and I’ve been missing me blog pals. The last couple of months have been eventful, good and bad by turns and then twists and if this summer had been an equine intestinal disease (say, for example, um) then it would have been gangrenous colic with perfectly good bits of bowel being strangled by other twisted, crappy parts.
But I shall skip lightly over the bad bits like Prezzo Bush over the hot coals of reality (He does seem like a happy, untroubled guy with all that collecting brush and cycling – perhaps I should emulate him more in day to day life – not sweating the big or the little stuff; it’s a sort of genius when you really look at it) and give you a brief brief on the better bits of butter:
We are buying a bar! Well. We are going thirdsies on our local watering-hole with two other couples and it is all but a fait accompli. The role of Problemchild/Husband is chiefly one of investor and another partner will be salaried to run the place but it has always been a dream of the ProblemH’s to own a bit of a bar – the bit where the taps are – and to be able to stroll in and act like a big-shot now and again. He’s worked hard in life – he deserves a bit of fun. I, for my part, am starting to explore a kind of Peggy Mitchell (brassy, boobsome, bawdy bar owner in the British soap Eastenders) role for myself. In preparing for this, not a double entendre goes unentendred and I have purchased some enormous spangly earrings I can’t quite bring myself to wear yet, but I will. But not in daylight – the spangly, spangly glare would burn holes in our good patrons’ retinas. Role-play’s grrrrreat!
We have had my lovely, dear old friends and their unborn baby to stay in their last holiday hurrah before the baby’s born in December.
My sister-in-law also visited which was nice and then she and the ProbHub went on a driving tour of the American West together: Yellowstone, Yosemite etc.
I turned the girls’ playroom into a nice quiet room for reading and music and homework and pyooting, with no telly in it. I’d call it a library ‘cos I lined it with books but I don’t like that for some reason, and so it has become The Quiet Room. I love it. I don’t watch telly much beyond the news and The Daily Show with John Stewart and have been spending many, many, long, happy evenings pootling around in there undisturbed. Much ebaying was done to purchase bookcases and a big sturdy table for the girls to do art on and stuff, and hundreds and hundreds of miles driven to pick them up in avoidance of horrific postage charges.
I paid for a woman to help the girls learn to swim because I thought someone who had done it before would be better than me. We spent an hour every day in an intensive two week course learning to splash and flail but nothing really as coordinated as swimming. Basically, all that was achieved was that the girls no longer have any fear of the water but also, crucially, cannot swim in it. Fear is good! Nofear is badbadbad! The woman kept telling them how well – “Great!” “Brilliant!” – they were doing so now they are convinced they can swim. BUT THEY CAN’T AND THIS IS DANGEROUS!! I have since taught them how to tread water on my own for peace of mind, but i think I should have had a go myself before shelling out for some other random housewife to teach them. Is it normal to teach front-crawl first? All that coordination of breathing to the side, dipping the head under AND arms and legs seems a lot for a first stroke? I learnt treading water then breast-stroke and, although my front crawl is technically and aesthetically rubbish, I was water-safe after a week or so of being taught. How did you learn?
Thanks for the emails, peeps. I’ve been missing all your chat but life’s been a bit unsettling as we all know life is wont to be occasionally. But onward!! I am looking forward to catching up with all your sparky selves. Any hints on becoming a blousy bar matron type with a big mouth but a heart of gold? I’ve already perfected Cockney ferlosofy and patter: “You dahn’t do it to your owwwwwn!” for family values and not sleeping with your relatives’ spouses (see Peggy Mitchell, Christmas episodes 1995-2005 Christmas being apparantly a particularly dangerous time for that); “It’s moy name abahve vat door!” for theories of ownership, agency and territorial marking (pee) (Peggy Mitchell: numerous episodes); “Oi do lahve a good ole Eastend knees-up” and “Oooooh, you are a saucepot! You’ll ‘ave me blahshing in a minute, you will. Ooooh!” for the sociological mores and speech-patterns of the jolly female Walford publican at play. (Angie, Pat, Sharon, Peggy: every episode since 1985).
Now. How about y’all? I’ll be round visiting people later in no particular order except that fatmammycat is first. Fatmammycat is always first, so it was and so it ever shall be. Amen.
First though I need to have another go with my spanglies and find someone real I can drop my aitches at. Perhaps, if I’m lucky they’ll let me practice calling them a Diamond Geezer or a Veri’ubble Duchess.
*Ladies, I think you know what kind of postman I mean: the kind of postman that always rings twice…**
**I have no idea what I mean by that and what’s more nor should you, you hussies!!