Wednesday, 2 June 2010

Catalogue of disasters

Today has been a day of almost unmitigated disaster.

To be honest, the whole week's been a bit like an old silent movie, one where the Keystone Cops fall out of cars and people hang from impossibly high scaffolding by their teeth.  But with fewer impressive stunts.  In fact, the only thing that has been remotely impressive has been the volume and variation of my swearing.

Why has it been so disastrous, I hear* you ask?  Among other things, I have been clumsier than a bull in a china shop.  I think, actually, a bull in a china shop would be better able to navigate his way around the house without smashing things than I have been recently.

The Evidence:

1)  Dropped the one remaining Denby Regatta craftsman's mug** that we were given as wedding presents onto gorgeous but unforgiving granite workstop in the kitchen.  Knocked large unsightly chip from the base of the mug.  Superglued chip back in place, doing poor repair job, leaving it all still very visible and unattractive, creating Frankenstein's Mug. 

2)  Got Superglue all over hand (see above), fortunately noticing it before sticking hand to anything or anyone else.  Ran glue-covered hand under kitchen tap for ages, turning glue into concrete-hard crust which took several days to wear off skin.  Was told amusing story by neighbour about family member getting Superglue all over his hand, then sticking hand to TV Times, then sticking TV Times to face in a panic.  Laughed, but was secretly suddenly terrified of doing similar thing to self.

3)  Had long-anticipated haircut.  Failed to communicate requirements effectively to hairdresser, and now have Dusty Springfield stylee haircut with many layers and heavy fringe.  Very sexy in a 1960s way, but not entirely what I was hoping for.  Made my feelings known by saying "Hm, the fringe is a bit different than I thought it would be," and leaving a slightly smaller tip.  Yeah.  That showed her.

4)  Tried to renew car tax online, as will be leaving car parked at the airport for a month while we're on holiday, and bloody tax expires while we're away.  Found out that MoT has expired.  Booked car in for MoT tomorrow.  Arse.  More expense.  Also, why don't we get reminders when MoT expires?  There is a database with all the details on it, why not send out a letter to remind people a month before?  Bastards.

5)  Went to town with Mr WithaY to order dollars for holiday.  Had lengthy Whitehall Farce style session with Mr WithaY and I visiting different banks, building societies etc, going into back rooms, coming back out again onto the street, just missing one another. This climaxed with him going all the way back to the car park to see if I was there, and me waiting in the street, equidistant between the bank and the building society, calling him on his mobile, which was sitting at home, turned off.  Oh, how we laughed***.

6)  Whilst moving all the pictures and fragile treasures from external walls and shelves ready for the Insulation Man's visit tomorrow, managed to drop my gorgeous glass windchime, shattering it into a bazillion pieces.  Wept uncontrollably for 20 minutes.  Have completely failed to remember where I bought it from, possibly John Lewis, possible Bavaria.  Not a fucking clue.

On the plus side, I have lost another pound, making it 17 pounds in 16 weeks.  Slow but steady. 

Also, went to the tip today to get rid of a load of rubbish, and was (I think) chatted up by the man in the little hut.  He was quite a catch, if you like them gold of tooth and red of face. 

*with my sonic ear trumpet

**If anyone can let me know where I can get some more for less than £7 each, I'd be grateful.

***No we didn't.


Middle Sis said...

What is it with you and men employed by council refuse departments? Remember the Chichester dump experience? the little man of wiry grey hair and hat of many badges took a shine to you? Even assisted in hoiking the rubbish over the wall into the pit of crap.

We know how to have a good time!

livesbythewoods said...

I am a magnet for men who work in rubbish tips. It means I will never be short of a few old hoovers and some garden clippings.