I Heart Nepotism

Words fail me…my kitchen is finished.  Photos to follow.

Words don’t really fail me, of course; you know that’s not my style.  So here’s an update:

Tim the Tiler laid my kitchen floor yesterday.  A real jobsworth, he told me about every neighbour of mine – and there were many – who had abused him or complained, so that he was forced to down tools and walk out, never to return.  Suitably appalled, I plied him with tea, one sugars, the whole day, and kept my mouth shut.  He did a lovely job.

I have just re-read the Harry Potter books for the nth time and last night I started on the movies.  I had forgotten how long they are, though, and was up way past my bedtime as a result.   I was woken this morning at the debauched hour of 8:20 by Matt the Finisher.  Matt is the boss’s nephew and that is usually a bad omen but he is an impressive young man.  Not in looks: he is wearing a pyjama-stripe hoodie and is possibly malnourished, but his work ethic is outstanding.  He has sealed every worktop, socket and tile, including the ones behind the appliances; put back the vent cover, even though the vent was hidden and could reasonably have been forgotten; replaced two windowsills and a bathroom shelf; took out the toilet and sink and over-sink tiles and called in the decorator to re-do that wall because he wasn’t satisfied with how it looked; scraped cement mix off the kitchen wall that the floor man had left behind; and moved my fridge freezer and freezer back into the kitchen.  I could go on, but I think you have the idea.  The electrician who came yesterday warned me MtF was particular: he had come to move one socket because it was slightly higher than the two it was by, and when I said he could leave it as far as I was concerned, he shuddered and gave me to understand that Matt wouldn’t like it….

I can’t fault a man who is going to leave me with a perfect kitchen and bathroom and do it all on one cup of tea.  He wouldn’t take more because it interfered with his work time.  Nepotism rocks.

*

The decorator was the same man as last time.  He asked if he could get some water for his bucket:

Me: Let me just move these breakfast dishes out of the sink.
Him: I thought you’d be finished by now.
Me: (Apologetically) I overslept this morning so I’m behind on my chores.
Him: No, no – I meant your refurb.

*

I found this interesting – the recommended tags for this post included Nepotism, the People’s Republic of China, Government, Robert F. Kennedy, and the American House of Representatives.  It would appear that even the internet is jaded about politics.

And The Award For Greediest Retailer Goes To…

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…Tesco, for showing the first Christmas advert (toys).  Every little helps the largest supermarket in the country fill its overflowing pockets.  The advert tells us that Christmas has come early this year; they’re not kidding: in Morrisons, Christmas decorations have been stacked next to Halloween goodies (or baddies?) for half of September.  Don’t get me wrong – I love Christmas and the run-up to it; but it would be nice if it started on December 1st instead of October 1st.  It’s like getting nine boxes of Maltesers for your birthday: you can have too much of a good thing.  

<Short pause while I recover from my hysterical laughter>  

*  

Malteser Watch, Day 2  

The Laughing Housewife is now in possession of ten boxes, her Blonde Friend having made an afternoon birthday visit.    

Make that eight boxes, TLH & HBF having got stuck into the wine.  

*  

The kitchen is coming along.  Work has halted for a few days but the tiling will be done next week.  The story so far:  

   BEFORE  

  

  

  

BEFORE THE AFTER  

  

  

The fitters told me we have one of the biggest kitchens on the estate.  We appear to have been lucky in having a sympathetic designer.  The long counter, according to the fitters, is the longest they’ve put in on the estate (they had to take out the window to get it in the house).  I have a small under-counter freezer that will go where those bags on the right are now, and the designer must have been in a good mood because he gave me the extra bit to cover it; the counter should have stopped at the end cupboard.  He also gave me a bin space: the counter should have stopped at the washing machine.  My fridgefreezer will go where the butcher’s trolley is now.  

*  

The Big Tent prompt this week was to step outside and do something different, then write about it.  This wasn’t a week where I could do that, so I am sharing a pair of poems I wrote for my OU Creative Writing course, back in 2006.  They are technically still within the parameters of the prompt, because they are about two people doing something they wouldn’t normally do.  They tell the same story from the perspective of both participants. 

A Cardinal Sin 

I’m sick of being a one-man band;
Tired of playing the solo hand;
Self-confidence flagging;
Can’t go around begging.
I feel like a walking gland. 

A mate of mine gave me a card.
‘Every man deserves a reward.
No sense feeling fearful;
They’re discreet and cheerful.
It’s time to let down your guard.’ 

He reckoned I would have a ball.
Desperate, I gave them a call.
Got to be worth a crack.
She’ll be good in the sack…
…She’s standing out in the hall. 

Nervous, I invite her in.
Cash up front so we can begin.
We soon get down to it
But I know I blew it,
Aware that this is a sin. 

In no danger of a rebuff,
But I still blushed; this step is tough.
The girl’s foreign body
Left me feeling shoddy.
Perhaps I was a bit rough. 

Got out of her fast as I could.
Shudder to think it wasn’t good.
She said I was a stud
But I know I’m a dud.
Why did I join the priesthood? 

* 

Prostituted  

The Man
invites me
in. 

Devils dance inside of me.
Mere vacillation…
Impelled,
I breach my barricade. 

Invasion.
Submission.
Profession. 

Perdition. 

  

   

  

I’ve Got A Cloth And I’m Not Afraid To Use It

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Exciting developments!  The units and counters are in and covered in dust; I have a night of cleaning ahead.  Hooray!

The Glum Housewife

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The plasterer has been and gone and all that remains of him is dust. 

Tory Boy has been to London and back and gone on ahead to Lancaster and all that remains of him is a mound of dirty washing and a room full of necessaries. 

The Hub has been to Painsville and back because the anti-inflammatories are now against the law and his chest infection has acquired squatters’ rights.  He was going to drive TB to uni today but he’s too unwell; he will follow with the necessaries when he can.  He will drive only; I will load the car and TB will off-load it.  The Hub also has a banging migraine, compounded by guilt at letting his son down. 

Spud Bud has gone to tea with his best friend because he’s bored with microwaved meals.  As are we all: home-made potato hash warmed up on Wednesday; Chicken Tikka in a box yesterday – tasty but anathema to me: I can’t see a frozen meal without getting a nervous tic.  I might be a lousy chef but at least it’s all home-cooked inedibles.  There’s bound to be some nutrition in there somewhere. 

The electricians left my stove connected but it was a waste of time because I made the mistake of cleaning it before they arrived and I think water leaked in somewhere and now the power trips if I put any of the rings on.  The oven still works but I’m taking bets on how long it will be before I kill that too. 

I don’t have any kitchen units or counters and my washing machine and dishwasher are not plumbed in.  So, a weekend of sitting around doing nothing is in order.  Woopdeyawndo.  On the plus side, my magazine pile is now down as far as May: Chico is predicting England will win the World Cup and the country is anxious that Rooney might do himself an injury before it starts. 

Today’s silver lining, sort of: I have discovered something astonishing – I am not as dirty as I think I am.  I find that I cannot write in a mess and the house is upside down inside out messy at the moment, so I sit at the computer playing games and can’t enjoy even that because it’s not as much fun without the pressure that I should be doing housework or writing.  I haven’t written a poem in days and I miss it. 

Signed, Self Pitying of Stockport 

  

  

  

Tilly Enchanted

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Now that the contents of my kitchen are spread around the house like an oil slick, with every room – including all three bedrooms – doubling as a cupboard/larder/cook’s depository, I have nothing to do except recover from a week’s worth of cleaning.  I can’t believe how much dust there is in the world.  I can’t believe how much of that dust is in my house: I sliced through one dust bunny to find thirteen rings.  The grime was behind the fridge, the washing machine, the dishwasher, the microwave…I don’t know whether to clean more often or just throw away my appliances.   I discovered my lost cd player under a seal of grease and dirt.  I don’t want it to happen again so I have decided to give up cooking; my friend Becky says the simplest solutions are the best.   

The weatherman having promised today was the last warm day of the year, I took the dogs for a walk along the Mersey – though famous for Liverpool it starts in Stockport, about five minutes from my house.  It was wonderful: bumble bees buzzed in the sunlight; butterflies tangoed around my shoulder; a weasel winked as it crossed my path, then crossed back again; a blackbird gave me a command performance; a squirrel scolded the dogs; and berries in the bushes bobbed in the breeze.  As I tripped amongst the fly clouds hovering over the dog turds and flattened slugs, and avoided slipping on a mouse corpse, I felt like Stockport’s own Disney princess.  It’s quite possible that feeling will continue through the night because I’ve lost a tin of peas and my mattress is looking rather lumpy. 

  

View from a footbridge

 

My kitchen refurb began at precisely fifteen hundred hours this p.m. and ended at precisely fifteen-twenty hours.  Three men came in, laid protective floor covering, ripped out the counters and cupboards, and left.  The council promised my refurb would start on Wednesday 22nd September, and they didn’t let me down.  What they didn’t say was that they’d be working in twenty-minute increments.  It’s going to be a long, long month. 

Note the famous Stockport viaduct in the background and the famous Stockport rubbish in the trees

 

K Minus One

 

 

 

 

 

 

Smotherly Love

It’s all a matter of perspective:

For me, fatigue + aches + sleep problems = CFS/ME. 

For the doctor, sleep problems = fatigue + aches. 

Tory Boy is absolutely fine and just needs a regular bedtime and a regular getting up time.  Funny how a child accepts from a stranger what he won’t hear from his parents.  See what happens when that child leaves the care of his doting mother?  Hysteria on the part of the woman who gave birth and lost her waist to him.  I wasn’t gaining a son, I was losing the ability to fit in to a size eight.  Oh, alright: twelve.

My son’s health is of secondary concern to me now that I’ve had the best news I’ve had in years: I’m getting my new kitchen & bathroom in September!  The Hub’s veiled threat to the council to call in the big gun (our MP) obviously did the trick because the prettiest lady and the handsomest man I e’er did see arrived at my house yesterday to give me the news and help me choose colours.

I was walking the dogs when they called and the Hub faced a dilemma: he couldn’t get hold of me by phone so should he send them away or choose the colours himself?  Deciding he would rather live with my displeasure than with broken legs, he chained them to the sofa and was debating the relative merits of speckled over mottled and light beech over dark beech when I got back.  He is my favourite person in the world – after the council’s golden couple, of course.

He was my favourite person, until he started casting aspersions on my approach to housewifely duties: I was washing the floor last night and he asked me why I was bothering when I was going to have a new one in six weeks.  Plaster cast, anyone?