Tag Archives: Pragmatists

11.6.11 – For The Last And Final Time? *

11 Jun

*Of course it would be the final time if it was the last time, but since when did I let tautology get in the way of a dramatic title?  We haven’t all been Freshly Pressed yet, you know.

Today’s topic is brought to you courtesy of Six Word Saturday:

I’m bored with the number posts.

Regular readers know that since 1.1.11 I have been blogging on the year’s fun numbers.  At first, on the first day and it being the first time of the year, it was amusing.  But we are half way through the year and it’s become repetitive.  Look, I’ll show you:

I bet you dozed off before you reached the end of that list, didn’t you?  I know I did.  It’s natural; real, even.  It would be odd if you didn’t.

I didn’t bother writing a 6.6.11 post and no one noticed.  That left me positive that the number posts are past their prime.  I don’t mean to be negative, but I think these posts are beginning to sound as if they’re written by the numbers – when was the last time I  showed you a funny You Tube clip or sunny photo of the Queen to illustrate them? 

I figure the best solution is to ask you, my faithful and beloved readers, to work once again; it’s the rational thing to do. 

Here’s a poll:

When Defeat Is Victory

7 May
Dunkirk Beach

Image via Wikipedia

I can think of two examples: Dunkirk, and Tory Boy’s first time on a ballot paper.

The two are not comparable, of course: I have nothing but admiration for the men at Dunkirk and those who spent days ferrying them to safety.  I once met a Dunkirk survivor.  He lived next door to my Nan, and took my teenage self in for a cup of tea because she was out when I arrived.  I spotted his certificate and he told me all about it.  I very much regret not keeping a notebook back then, because all I remember is the dim light in the flat and the certificate in the frame.

I admire my son, too.  He was asked to stand as a candidate where he lives, in Thursday’s council elections, knowing that he would not win.  He did stand; he didn’t win; he didn’t mind: it was his duty. 

He did rather better than might have been expected, though; of the three Conservative candidates, he polled the most votes:

Party

Votes

Elected

Liberal Democrat 202 Not Elected
Labour 1131 Elected
Conservative 467 Not Elected
Conservative 407 Not Elected
Green 731 Not Elected
Labour 931 Elected
Liberal Democrat 130 Not Elected
Liberal Democrat 98 Not Elected
Labour 1085 Elected
Green 522 Not Elected
Green 419 Not Elected
Conservative 303 Not Elected

He laughed when I congratulated him.  It was an alphabet accident: of the three, his name came first on the ballot paper. 

Makes you despair of the electorate, doesn’t it?

Anyway, well done, Tory Boy: I’m so proud that you were willing to fall on your sword for the party.

The Laughing Housewife Is Decorated For Services To Housework

21 Mar
Dried green paint

Image via Wikipedia

I’m sorry: my fingers misread my thoughts.  That should read: The Laughing Housewife Is Decorating As Part Of Her Indentured Servitude.

The house was re-wired fourteen months ago.  I need to paint the ceilings, particularly around the light fixtures.  You might think it has taken me a long time to get to it but you have to factor in:

  1. I walk the dogs a lot.
  2. In that time I have painted and/or papered the lounge, downstairs hall, upstairs hall, Tory Boy bedroom, downstairs toilet, one side of the bannister.
  3. I play computer games a lot.
  4. I couldn’t do anything while the kitchen and bathroom were refurbished.
  5. I spend all day writing blogs, reading blogs, writing comments on blogs, reading comments on blogs, replying to comments on blogs.
  6. In Tilly Bud Time, fourteen months is nothing: it took me six years to finish decorating the hall, by which time I had to re-paint the woodwork and the paper was two different shades because the stuff that had gone up first had faded to a dirty hand print colour.

I only have to paint two ceilings, so an afternoon should do it.  By which I mean it will take at least a week.  There’s the shifting, the carting, the cleaning, the dusting, the wall prep, the equipment to dig out of the loft, the sheets to cover everything, the arguing with the Hub because I’m exhausted and in a bad mood, the long bath to soak away aches and pains and plan his assassination, the cleaning up once I’m done, the long bath because I should have cleaned up before I took the first long bath and now I’m dirty again from cleaning, and the lying on the couch in the recovery position while my grateful family bring me cups of Earl Grey tea and apologies because they forgot to buy me a thank you box of Maltesers.

I’m telling you all this not to show how industrious I am, which I am, but to apologise in advance if I don’t comment on your blog or reply to comments on mine for the next few days.  I planned to start the decorating today and I’m already a day behind because I’m going out tonight and I can’t paint, cook and weep at an amateur production of Hamlet all in one day.  I’ll start tomorrow.  Or Wednesday.

Discovering The Truth

5 Mar
What's wrong with capital letters?
Image by hugovk via Flickr

THIS is the weekly theme from Viewfromtheside’s Blog. 

I was going to go with my Dad’s cancer diagnosis or my Mum’s issueI’vedecidednottotalkaboutafterall: something grim for a dull Saturday.  BUT as I was typing I had a real revelation; here it is:

I discovered the truth about why all newspaper articles start with the first word in capital letters.  IT’S not to catch the reader’s eye or make a bold point: it’s because the typist’s fingers are too quick for the brain.

THINK about it: how many times have you had to go back and re-type the first word of every sentence?  I do it all the time. 

THAT’S one puzzle solved.  TWELVE million to go.

The Million Dollar Question

19 Feb
Eiko and her credit card

Image by eikootje via Flickr

What would you do with a million dollars, tax free?

I was going to be flippant, as usual: pay off my credit cards and buy a box of Maltesers with the change.  But then I had a think about the things I really want that money can buy.

Yes, I would pay off my credit cards but there’d be plenty of change.  I would sleep a little better at night.

Money can’t make the Hub well, but it could make his life easier: a hot tub for his aches and pains.  A taxi service for the boys and me so we didn’t have to stretch his limited energy reserves.  There would be enough money to pay for the things he likes doing, which would raise his endorphin levels, which would help him to feel a little better.  Small but significant changes.

I’d pay off Tory Boy’s student debt and put enough away for Spud’s when the time comes.  Give them driving lessons and a Berlitz language course.  They’d have all they need to face life then, because they’re already smart.

Redecorate our bedroom.

I’d see certain people right, as a thank you for their kindness to me/us.  Something for charity as well.  The Hub has this dream of winning huge amounts so he could set up a trust that would help people who couldn’t find money elsewhere: like the person who needs life-saving treatment in another country or the old man who can’t afford to bury his wife.  The awful things we read about in the paper.

I can’t think of anything else.  With the love of a good man and two fantastic sons, I’m rich enough. 

Wait!  I forgot one: with all that dosh floating around he wouldn’t be able to stop himself buying more crap: I’d buy the Hub a warehouse.

This Is An Amended Post

15 Feb

free counters

Because it wasn’t meant to be a post at all. 

I read Sarsm‘s post with excitement this morning, because I have always wanted one of these flag counters on my blog.  ‘It’s all straight forward enough’ she assured me, bless her heart. 

Of course it wasn’t: she didn’t know the greatest technept in the world was about to mangle it.  I don’t know how to make the email contact details whateveryoucallit so that you can click on it to contact me instead of having to copy _ ) ( * where is the stupid plus sign on this stupid foreign keyboard!!? copy + paste my email address.  I have outdated widgets on my right; and I would love to add the postaday2011 widget to my blog but I can’t get the hang of it, despite following the WordPress instructions to the letter.

By the way, you might come across this post while I’m halfway through updating and it won’t make much sense: that’s because I had forgotten it was a published post and when I went to save there was no ‘save’ button so I used ‘update’ and, despite the fact that this is post number 667, it was only then I realised that the published post would be amended publicly.  Furthermore, if you are unfortunate enough to be reading this now, you get to see the magic in action as I fix spellings, change font colours, rearrange sentences.  Like sausages and laws, laughinghousewife posts should not be viewed in the making.  I can only apologise.  Because I certainly can’t work a blog.

I obeyed Sarsm and clicked on her flag counter.  I was taken to a page that should have been dressed as a cartoon witch because it curled its elongated crone fingers at me and crooned, ‘Get yours!’  Taking one careful step at a time, I did.

The result was an email in my inbox: ‘[New post]thelaughinghousewife’.  Yes, I subscribe to my own blog.  I don’t want to miss anything.  You’re mocking now but I have been proven (and in this blog that’s pronounced ‘proo-ven’, not the fancy-schmancy BBC ‘pro-ven’ that does my ‘ead in) right: how else would I have discovered that the Flag Counter people sent my flag counter in a new post?

That’s right: I have my very own flag counter.  Not on the right, under my ancient widgets, inflated blog roll and stats; but in a post.  A post I am going to have to find every time I want to check flags.  Fine for the next week or even month; but after that?  I’m up to three posts a day: you do the math.  And while you’re at it, tell me this: what have Americans got against the letter ‘s’?

To increase my already massive frustration (be glad if you’ve come late to this post because all pretend expletives have by now been deleted), I have to enable Publicize Yahoo!, Facebook and Twitter again; and change my password.  That took me forty minutes because I couldn’t figure out where to do it so I reverted to my tried and trusted method of click everything until something looks useful.

I have just heaved the most massive sigh and you know why?  As I’ve been updating this post, the flag counter has been updating the number of views and it’s wrong: as of this moment I have had 106 page views, according to the flag counter; but only 46 hits. 

I broke the flag counter.  Which has reciprocated by breaking me.  This is thelaughinghousewife signing off for the final time: I’m off to India to be recycled as a washing machine.

 

Is My Marriage Going To Last? Let’s Ask The Washing Machine

11 Feb

Haven’t washing machines come a long way?  First there were rivers and rocks.  Then came washboards and buckets and mangles – my Nan had those; as well as a roof maiden.  I remember them in her kitchen. 

Next came the twin-tub washing machine to make a woman’s life easier (it was always a woman): I’m sure my Mum liked nothing better after a full working week and her two part-time jobs, to stand on a Saturday afternoon in our kitchen and schlep pile after pile of dirty clothes into one drum for washing; schlep them out of that drum into a basket while she washed the next lot of clothes in the same water (always wash cleanest to dirtiest); and the next; and the next.  Or maybe she used the sink and rinsed them in there by hand; before schlepping them into the second drum for spinning; finally, she would schlep the whole soggy pile into the garden to dry, or on to the radiators as it usually wasn’t; and then start all over again.

My mother didn’t complain because it beat using a washboard; and my Dad would help with the lifting if he wasn’t working.

I remember the day we got our first automatic washing machine and a tumble dryer.  Once installed and in use, we all sat on chairs in front of the washer and admired it as it spun round and round and round and…you get the idea.  Dad, my brother and I soon got bored and cleared off, but Mum sat for ages.  I have always thought it was because she never got when a joke stopped being amusing, but as I write this it suddenly occurs to me that it was probably her first sit-down in months and she was making the most of it.

My parents sold the appliances when we emigrated to South Africa, and I remember they got £50 for the tumble dryer and bought my brother a grey leather jacket with it.

When the Hub and I married way back in the last century (1985) we had no money and we were given a twenty-two-year-old twin tub washing machine by the parents of his best man.  We honeymooned for a week in Cape Town and flew back on a Monday night, arriving home at around three in the morning.  I woke up in the late afternoon to find the Hub slaving over the ancient washer and our dirty clothes all clean and drying on the line.  When a man does that on the first proper day of marriage and brings you breakfast in bed as well, you know you’ve got a good ‘un. 

We gave away the twin-tub when we moved to Jo’burg, and the last I heard it was still working.

*

This post was inspired by my reply to a comment from nrhatch on My Dream Vacation and Viewfromtheside’s Blog’s Weekend Theme prompt, invention.  Pop across there if you want to see variations on the theme.

*

And finally….

You all enjoyed the searches so much, I thought you might like this one from today:

cartoon talking toasts that are funny

And you think I’m nuts.

The Cvillean

The adventures of little read writing Hood

Guernsey Evacuees Oral History

An Overlooked British Evacuation

Janie's Place

Welcome to the Great White North....

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