I'd Hit That

If you had to make a list of things you shouldn't do when you meet your friend's husband for the first time, you'd probably want to include throwing yourself at them wouldn't you? It is a fairly obvious point to make. It is also a point I chose to ignore this weekend.

We had spent a lovely afternoon on the beach, paddling in the sea (surprisingly warmer than anticipated), laying around sunbathing and playing a rather bizarre game of rounders in which there appeared to be no teams and where the bases were, in fact, flip flops. It was lovely.

When we decided we had had enough (ie. when it got a little too chilly to continue the pretence that this was a good day to spend on the beach), MJ and her lovely husband AJ offered me and Mr B a lift home. They have a very old version of a VW Golf, which they like to pretend is a much newer model with no power steering (designed to improve muscle tone), no central locking (a brand new security feature) and a large dint down the side (a key feature of the "go-faster" sports model).

When we arrived home, MJ and AJ got out of the car to say good bye and give us both a hug goodbye. As I went to hug AJ, I stumbled, stood on his foot and flew forward, head-butting his chest and making a rather large fool of myself. 

I literally threw myself at him. I blame the sports car ... I just couldn't resist. 

Disaster

Something awful happened to me yesterday. It's so awful, I'm not even sure I can share it with you, let alone write about it. Ok, ok, I'll tell you, but don't judge me too harshly ......

I joined the gym.

I went to the gym with a couple of friends from work MJ and MD. MJ is a member of the gym and had somehow convinced me that we were going to have a nice leisurely play around on the machinery, a relaxing swim and then do a lot of sitting around in the steam room and / or jacuzzi. It would be prudent of me to inform you that both MJ and MD are fitness fanatics.

I know what you're thinking ... I was stupid to believe that, but believe it I did.

The "leisurely play around" turned out to be 40 minutes on the cross trainer, followed by some floor exercises led by MJ which can only have been designed to kill me. There's no other excuse for them. This morning, I can barely move. The plans for relaxing post-workout sauna somehow went by the wayside and, in place of this, I willingly handed over a huge chunk of my wages to join the gym. I signed up to a six month contract and was even happy about it.

This morning (whilst I am aching from head to toe) ... I am somewhat less enthusiastic.

Sweet-ness

Mr B and I decided early this evening that we had a bit of a nom for sweeties, so we went out and bought an extra large tub of pick and mix to munch whilst we watched a few episodes of "Friends". As we were about to embark on our fifth or sixth episode, the following random (and slightly amusing) conversation took place:

Me: Are we really going to watch another episode?"

Mr B: "No"

*switches off the TV* 

Me: "Are you going to come and give me a hug then?"

Mr B: "Yes"

*Mr B moves to kneel in front of my armchair and continues shovelling pick and mix into his mouth*

Me: "You know, Mr B, shovelling sweets in your mouth is not actually giving me a hug?"

Mr B: "I know"

Me: (looking at the tub of sweets) "Did you also know that you have eaten most of the sweets we bought?"

Mr B: (whilst laying his head on me in a very pathetic manner) "I know. I wanted to stop about an hour ago. Now my jaw hurts and I don't feel very well."

Me: "Well why didn't you just stop?"

Mr B: "I don't know."

This is why Mr B should not be allowed pick and mix. 

Situation Desperate: We're Not At Rothay Any More

Whilst away celebrating our first anniversary, Mr B and I stayed in a lovely hotel in Grasmere, in the Lake District: Rothay Garden. You must go and stay there immediately. Along with a fantastic location, awesome accommodation and lovely staff, Rothay has one of the best restaurants ever. Fact. During our visit, we were thoroughly spoilt every time we ate. Breakfast became a meal with several courses, instead of the usual Frosties we had at home. Evening meals were a four-course work of art. 

So, you can imagine how disappointed we were to have to return to a life of cooking for ourselves and relatively unattractive meals with only one course. This was made worse by our first post-Rothay experiences.

On the depressing route home from Rothay, we paid a brief visit to a relative (who shall remain unnamed), where we were offered a cup of tea and cake. I gratefully accepted the offer of tea and cake, only to regret this decision when the aforementioned relative paused to chop the penicillin colonies from around the edges of my piece. This was shortly followed by a disastrous Sunday lunch with another relative (who shall also remain unnamed). The lunch consisted of some kind of unidentifiable roast (possibly roast of wellington boot), vegetable mush (caused by severe over-cooking of the vegetables) and similarly over-cooked new potatoes all smothered in mildly gravy flavoured water. This delightful meal was followed by a second course of something pastry flavoured with super lumpy bumpy custard. Yum. 

Situation desperate. We are plotting our permanent return to Rothay just as soon as we win the lottery.  

TV Widow

I am officially a TV widow: my husband has banished me to bed so that he can watch "Luther" on the TV. I kid you not. Mr B would have you believe that he did nothing of the sort, but I fear the evidence is somewhat stacked against him.

Picture the scene:

I have spent most of the evening curled up on the sofa in a blanket feeling slightly tired. At approximately 7.30pm, we decided to venture out to the supermarket to purchase an inflatable bed. (I should probably pause here to explain the inflatable bed, but I am not going to because the reality of the situation will be far less interesting than whatever you are imagining). On route, Mr B looked at me with a rather cheeky grin on his face and asked, "will you be going to bed early tonight? Because if you are, I can watch "Luther" on real TV and not on catch-up and that would be good". Mr B never watches anything even remotely violent or anything involving dead bodies whilst I am around, ever since he made me watch "Messiah" on the TV when we first moved in together. I did not sleep for a week. Mr B made me a deal that he would stay awake until I went to sleep, so as to ensure I did not get murdered in my bed. He didn't sleep for a week either. This was not good. Anyway, I digress. After Mr B asked this, I replied, "do you want me to go to bed so you can watch it?" Mr B pretended to look wounded that I would even suggest such a thing, then tried to pretend that it was all concern about how tired I looked (and pointed out the exact size and colour of the bags under my eyes) before eventually replying (looking and sounding ever so slightly dejected) "weeeeeeellllllll, no, it's okay I'll just watch it on catch-up". This last comment was said with the least amount of feeling you can possibly imagine and followed by the saddest face you ever did see (complete with big brown puppy-dog eyes). How do you resist that? So, I said I would go to bed and Mr B did not protest one little bit. Therefore, he has banished me to TV widow-dom.

I am mortally wounded.

As I was being banished, Mr B handed me the laptop and said "you're going to blog about this aren't you?"

Yes, Mr B. Yes, I am.

Thyroid Trouble

Here is a short but amusing anecdote from the other day. I guarantee it will bring a smile to your face. If it doesn't, please send the men in white coats round to pick me up immediately, because it made me laugh for hours!

The Monster in a mere 20 minutes after her start time one day last week, carrying a shopping bag full of food. She proceeded to empty out of the aforementioned bag: two king sized bags of Doritos, a large bag of Haribo Tangfastics, a king sized Twix and a can of full fat Coke. Within the first half an hour she had polished off the first bag of Doritos, all of the Haribo, the Twix and most of the Coke. She then advised me (half way through the second bag of Doritos) that she was going to the doctors that evening to have her thyroid checked out. I asked if she was feeling unwell. She said she wasn't feeling unwell but she thought she better get it checked out because (...wait for it...) she was struggling to lose weight.

I managed to wait until she left the room five minutes later before I rolled around on the floor laughing.

Doing A Shirley Valentine

When I was a little girl ( a very long time ago), my mum often used to say that she was going to "do a Shirley Valentine" if we didn't behave better ("us" being me and my three younger siblings). I always used to think this was either something lovely (as in bake us a huge cake or buy us a puppy) or something really sinister (like chopping all our toes off whilst we were sleeping). It took me many years to discover the truth: that "doing a Shirley Valentine" meant going away on holiday and forgetting to come back (and talking a lot to a rock, but that is not the point I am going to dwell on here).

I often think about "doing a Shirley Valentine" and not returning from my holiday. Just recently, in fact, I was enjoying my first anniversary holiday so much that I did not wish to return to my normal life at all. I would have been quite content to remain there until all our money ran out and the hotel kicked us out (both of which would have been much sooner than I would have liked). However, I would never actually "forget" to return from my holidays because I have responsibilities to come home to, like work.

One of my colleagues, on the other hand, does not seem to take this responsibility terribly seriously. She is quite prone to "doing a Shirley Valentine". Last summer, she went to the airport to catch her flight a day after it had left. Clearly, hotels in Greece are not particularly bothered whether you are actually a paying guest who has a reservation at the hotel or not. This year, she is on holiday again, and discovered that her flight does not arrive in the UK on Sunday, as she thought, but on Monday instead. She is meant to be back at work on Monday, so she sent a text into the office: "I thought my plane landed on Sunday, but it lands on Monday so I won't be back to work after all. Thought I should let you know". Generally speaking, when you fly out on a Monday for a week's holiday, you expect to fly back on a Monday, no? Apparently not in Shirley Land. We are currently taking bets on when she will return.

As a result, I plan to send the following text from my next holiday: "Dear all. I thought my holiday was coming to an end, but it is not. I am "doing a Shirley Valentine". I do not know which day, week or even year I am going to return. Thought I should let you know".

A Little Piece of Heaven...