Pic Of The Tick For The Blog

Soon as the lights go out every night this week, we are kept awake by a high pitched whine. 

Turns out, it’s not me. 

It’s a bug.  And we won’t get any sleep until I’ve whacked it.

Every night a new bug.

I always get them over the bed – there are so many splats that when you look up, our ceiling looks like it’s covered in those luminous glow-in-the-dark stars that teenagers stick up, but in reverse. 

I tried taking a picture of a live one so you could see, but as they’ve been biting us, I’ve been more keen to destroy them before we start to look like Tom Hanks in Philadelphia.
We wondered aloud if they ever bitten someone with the Aids.
Or one of the Foot-And-Mouth cows not so far away.

Tonight, I got close enough to one to get this picture.
Kirstie heard the silence and called out from the other room.

“Whatch’ya dooin’?”  She said.
“Hang on, I’m just taking a picture of a tick on the mobile for the blog…”

There was a pause.
“You know… ten years ago, none of those words would make any sense.
Though, ten years ago, we wouldn’t’ve even known each other”

Plus I don’t think its a tick. 
It’s too big.  Maybe its a horsefly.

NEEDLE RATING…  3.9  (increased revs, grating)

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Pick a date, any date, and I’ll miss it.

Kirstie’s pissed off with me.  I’d forgotten an important date – the date we first got together. 

This is different from the date we first met. 

And the date we first went on a proper date.

And the date we moved in together.

I pointed out that this is, surely, a moving target…  how can I know which is “the date” we’re meant to celebrate. 
Which was completely floored by “you never ‘celebrate’ any of them though.”
How can I follow that logic?
To not agree on an agreed date that we can agree is “the date” to accept for anniversary purposes on the grounds that I never remember any of the dates on the shortlist for that anniversary.

NOTE TO SELF – WROTE THIS ENTRY 2 DAYS AFTER IT HAPPENED (CAN’T EVEN GET RIGHT DATE FOR THIS).  IF READING THIS IN FUTURE TO REMEMBER DATE, GO BACK 3 DAYS FOR SAFETY.

NEEDLE RATING… 3.9 (increased revs, grating)

How Long Does It Take To Make A Sofa, Anyway???

We’ve bought a new sofa for the new house.

Actually, we bought it at the end of February.

This is it – in the store.  The guy in John Lewis was really helpful (and even took my lame observation that it must be great having a job where you get to sit around on sofas all day with a good-humoured reaction that didn’t give away that he’d probably heard that a thousand times a month).
All good.

But it was only after leaving the store that we realised we’d left on the sentence “Of course, it should be ready for delivery in 6-8 weeks”.  Naturally.
Hang on.

What?
It’s something we all know – because sofas take 6-8 weeks to make, don’t they.
Is this the only retail industry that makes things one at a time, once it’s been paid for?
Like a burger order in a Wimpy restaurant?  I don’t get it.  They only make them in 3 colours. 
Would it kill them to… I don’t know… make just one extra?  Someone’s gonna buy it.  Aren’t they?

That person will be delighted they’re not going to wait 6-8 weeks to get it, and the sofa factory can get on with getting another one ready.

Maybe that’s the reason why.  It’s pretty unlikely that a sofa factory ever gets repeat business.  (It’s a fact that your average sofa factory is never going to get repeat business).

Once you get it – that’s it – they’re pretty much around for life.
Like this one.  We needed something so we’re not sitting around on the floor for the next two months.  We were down at the local tip and saw this beauty.

They charged us a tenner (don’t ask – the council has set up some kind of car boot sale style stall next to all the bins.  Sunday afternoons at the Dump are a like a community event down our way – they even queue to get in)

But we didn’t have to wait 6-8 weeks for it.

NEEDLE RATING…  3.1 (increased revs, grating)

NHS… in-Direct…

Kirstie tried registering us with a local Doctor today.

Here are some words that came up tonight – not necessarily in the right order.

Why is it… pre-requisite… Doctors assistant…  stubborn, awkward, patronising… and don’t bloody listen.
Older woman… thing… despises younger fertile thing…  looking at me like we’re at it all the time.  It’s sick, it’s bloody sick.  Why are they all the same?

NEEDLE RATING… 3.1 (increased revs, grating)

My Two Dags

Today I’m saying goodbye to a couple of dear old friends. 
Kirstie hates them.

They are my two pairs of jeans which I don’t think I’ve had that long. 
I’d say only two years in my head.  But I suspect in Denim years it equals about four.  They never fitted me particularly well, but they were comfortable and were always there for me.

Take a closer look and you’ll probably spot why she hates them.
(You can click on the pictures to get the full blown glory).

These are the ones I had to ditch recently.  They look alright.  But Kirstie’s problem is round the back.  And when she tried to explain why I should get a new pair she called the dangly bits “dags”.
It’s probably the best noun possible to describe these hanging bits, and really made me think about how many wet pavements and public toilet floors I’ve dragged them through.  God knows how much bacteria I’ve mopped up in those babies.

The other has a tear in one leg right up to the top of my ankle.  (Kirstie would say ‘calf’).  Which, being 35, obviously I thought was vaguely ‘in’.  But I never get to see this rear view, and didn’t realise quite how uneven they are…  In fact, I’m slightly shocked.

I’d try talking Kirstie round that this is just the style at the moment: all jeans look like this.
“Yeah.  All jeans under the arches at Waterloo.”
But look – the label – see, ‘relaxed fit’.
“Relaxed to the point where it looks like you’ve pissed yourself?”

OK, so some of the tears are placed a little more unfortunately than others.  I’ve never needed my jeans to offer any support down there.  (And I’d never again get myself in the position for this pose).  But these are my ‘good’ jeans. 
The ones I practically live in.

So, anyway, the photos swung me finally into going jeans shopping. 

Yes.  That makes me sound really independent and in control of my business.  And doesn’t begin to convey the eagerness Kirstie had in joining me.  (Can you be frogmarched by someone holding your hand two steps ahead of you?) 
So I got the new jeans.  Two pairs.
Which don’t drag on the ground.
Imagine my joy when I had to pull this label out of both of them. 

Thanks, River Island.

NEEDLE RATING…
3.1 (increased revs, grating)

Robert Dyas

The greatest single aspect of moving has without doubt been the excuse to spend wh-ay too much time in ROBERT DYAS.

Robert Dyas shops to me are like Accessorize and Monsoon are to my girlfriend.  Stuffed full of sockets and leads and gadgets, mainly gadgets.  Not even cool ones.  Just things like kitchen appliances no more complicated than “juicer” or “slow cooker” – things which are there solely to get the job done.

I bet Robert Dyas is a really cool guy to hang around with.  I like to think he’d offer to help hold the spirit level when I’m trying to put up the new Rotary Dryer in the garden.
But I expect he’d be too busy putting up shelves or something.

I tried putting up a light fitting last week, and managed to trip the entire ground floor lighting circuit.  I just needed some time to pace (up and down, in the darkness) and have a little think before diving in again with a screwdriver.

Trying to be helpful, my girlfriend blurted out something  – she knew what she had done the moment she hit the penultimate syllable, and you could actually see the judder in her face as she tried to stop the sentence:-
“Hey, Caroline (my sister) is coming over later.  Maybe Jeff (my brother-in-law) could take a look at it – he’s good at (realises here) el… electrical… things”

The reason she stuttered was that she realised she was effectively saying “why dont you come round Accessorize with me, and pick out some nice hair bands, then we can spend the afternoon trying on clothes “.

Guys never ask for help.
Accepting help is a last resort.  It’s, pretty much, an admission of failure of one’s gender.  It allows all the other hunters to laugh, and say, you go over there for a bit – we’ll sort it out.

I think Kirstie felt guilty – I found my drill bit in the washing up.  Maybe she cleaned it for me.
Least, that’s what I’d like to think.

NEEDLE RATING…   3.1 (increased revs, grating)