Nerts to that!

It’s been a day of mishaps, one way and another.

Husby and I are used to merrily abusing our child-free days by staying up far too late (wait, wasn’t I meant to be doing something about that for Lent? Oh crap). Last night was no exception. In spectacular style (having had a brief nap before being taken out to dinner by our lovely friends) we managed to be only just going to bed at 3am. And at 3am you don’t shower. You have what one friend eloquently describes as a ‘whore’s bath’ with a wet wipe in the morning.

Let the beratings begin.

I know it’s not healthy.

I know the internet will still be there in the morning, relatively unchanged.

I know that my playlist on Youtube will still provide plenty of awesome songs another day.

I know there is absolutely NO good reason to start another game of Match 3 Jewel (my new addiction)

I know I’m going to be like a ‘biled shite’ in the morning. (actually, today I managed to grab a cup of ‘Esspreschoc’ from the cafe at college, so I coped for the morning)

I know that my hair is going to be shiny and move as one, and it will be an un-take-off-able Hat Day.

The spirit is (occasionally) willing and the flesh is incredibly puttylike, in this instance. It gets to a point where the thought of getting up off my bum to clean my teeth and get changed is like an unscaleable mountain. At which point I think ‘should’ve gone to bed WAY before now’ and return to the relative ease of staying awake and Doing Stuff Online.

So that was the foundation for this day of ‘Oops!’

A good friend came round once I was home and we went for an hour’s power-walk. I felt pretty good after that because we had some really good chat-time and some good exercise and I was feeling pretty achieve-y about it until I decided that before I started packing (to move house on Saturday – yes, three days time) I would have a little sit-down.

Fatal mistake, as an hour later I was pretty much face down, slunched over the keyboard, sleeping and listening to Mavis Staples singing ‘Jesus is on the Mainline’ and vaguely singing along in my head.

Husby then offered a cup of tea and it was rude to say no. I was meant to give him a lift (doing my Wifely Duties) and though time was ticking inexorably away I figured there was time for a cuppa. And some toast, because I was cold and hungry and sleepy and hey, I wasn’t getting dinner til after Husby returned from his meeting.

By the time I got round to it, I had 10 minutes left and managed to pack the sum total of one box. Not much of a dent in the job as a whole. Bah humbug.

On the way back from taxiing Husby to the other side of the city, I popped into the flat and checked for possible ‘Kitchen’ boxes to unpack first thing on Saturday whilst waiting for the furniture to arrive. Having explored all the cupboards, pulled out numerous boxes and had no joy, I remembered that they’re being looked after at the home of the friends who took us out last night. That’s not going to happen then.

I checked through the pile of junk mail which had accumulated and excitedly unearthed the snotty letter from the TV licensing people demanding that we register the address before they sent round the sheriff (or someone) for being delinquent TV thieves. Back home I logged on and cheerfully let them know that as we won’t be having a TV, they can take a flying jump.

Then I waited. Husby’s meeting was due to end at 8.30, at which point he may want a lift back. So I sat, greasy-haired and probably a little smelly and waited. 8.30 came and went.

By 9pm I decided I simply must get clean, so I hoped he wouldn’t ring and went to shower. Ahhhhhhhhhh. You know that awesome feeling you get from being squeaky clean when you’ve really left it a little too long between showers? Amazing.

Still no phonecall. Back to the sofa, this time in pyjamas, only to sit on someth…wait..NOOOO. Husby’s phone. That’ll explain a lot.

Still, there are call boxes.

9.20pm and I’m sooooo hungry my stomach’s talking to my backbone about whether or not my throat’s been cut, so I cook. Cooking takes a while and just as I sit down (literally, food in dish and fork in hand) the house phone rings.

Husby: Hello. I’m lost.

Me: What?

Husby: I’m at a pub. I couldn’t get a lift so I walked, but I went wrong and ended up going in circles. Can you come and get me?

Me: Ok, I’ll be 10 minutes.

Husby: Ok, I’ll just go in for a drink – I’m dying of thirst.

Me: *tersely* Well don’t be too long – I’ve just served tea and I’m hungry.

Husby: No, I’ll look out for you – I’ll be ready.

So I go and put shoes on over my slipper socks and a coat over my pyjamas and off out to the car. En route I think of a Brilliant Idea – to check the electricity meter and see if we need to put some more money on it. Yep – £0.43 is not going to get us far. Grab a meter card and away.

Husby’s waiting, chagrined, in the pub. Off we zoom, me explaining my Brilliant Idea on the way. We arrive at the one shop where we can top up and I park while Husby goes in with a serendipitous £5 discovered lurking in my purse. As I wait, my brain ticks. S-l-o-w-l-y.

OH @%&£! The gas has a card, the electricity has a key! Ohcrapohcrapohcrap. Abandon car, rush into shop (forgetting that I’m still in pyjamas) and yell “Stop! That’s the gas card” just in time to watch Husby collect the receipt and see his face fall as he realises what we’ve done. Then the shop closes.

So if this post ends abruptly, you’ll know we’ve run out of

Just kidding. We‘re still OK for now. Hope there‘s enough for another cup of tea later though or things could get nasty!


4 thoughts on “Nerts to that!

  1. Key/card meters are a pain in the posterior. I do hope your new place doesn't have them. Hurrah for a billed meter and monthly direct debits. Also, hurrah for online banking, which enables you to sort out said direct debit in the middle of the night if you want to.

    (I probably shouldn't be giving you even more reasons to be on t'internet in the small hours…)


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