Thursday

With a title like THURSDAY I imagine I'll probably be the cause of an internet meltdown as hundreds of thousands of devoted followers log on to see what's been going on in Mothers Ruin life today, this most stupendous of Thursday's.

And at that rate, by default, probably the satellite dishes in the sky will melt a bit from being over-fired-at and there'll be official communications chaos as NASA and MI6 and the FBI and even some slightly mad modern day Nazi group try to work out (independently of each other and therefore waste Billions of $'s over nothing) what is going on in the sky above North London and why have all the internet connections jammed?

And then their little electronic sniffy noses will start wagging towards the beige-carpeted 2nd floor study on the side of a hill in Haringey where the houses look like they may well roll down the hill and gather in a jagged heap on Green Lanes. Hm. We're smellin' something unauthorised in here...

And the helicopters will hover and their search lights will point in through the ready-made John Lewis curtains and catch the back of a mid-30's amateur blogger who doesn't understand the power of the internet, in fact doesn't understand a lot of things, like how come big ships don't sink and how do airplanes get in the air, and why are there no naturally blue foods? And as the Nazi's knock on the front door with their squeaky black leather jackets all rubbing up fetishly against each other in the narrow porch, Mothers Ruin will be sipping her still awfully horrible Green Tea trying to detox and not realising that her house, two children and husband, snails slugs and tiny green beans are in fact surrounded by 100's of lethal killing machines ready to pull the trigger on this offensive Destroyer of Free Communication. What do you plead Mothers Ruin? Um, well, I guess I didn't realise the impact that using the word THURSDAY would have on the entire worlds internet systems. Send her down, Ignorance is INEXCUSABLE. And get her children into Geek School as soon as possible.

fat useless and lethargic

Fat and lethargic could aptly fit how I feel in that post-holiday-blues-come-down period. But I'm cheered by a nice weekend of seeing all my favorite people - in-laws nieces godsons best-est friends - maybe it was helped by lashings of rose and crisps and sun but I definitely don't feel as rubbish as I did 4 days ago. The fat bit is a natural fallout after spending two weeks binge eating runny French cheese.

The useless applies aptly to our recent temporary lodger Mr H - a sex-mad foul mouthed rude coarse mind-bogglingly twattish South African who has finally moved his god-awful motorbike from our front garden. He said he'd do it the day after he moved it into our front garden (flinging gravel left right and centre) and that was over a month ago. I was beginning to wonder whether his brain had made a return journey to South Africa and crashed into the ocean with the frozen urine they release 30,000ft above the sea but thankfully Mr H's brain is still intact and so is his sense of responsibility so his god-awful motorbike has now been moved to some other suckers front garden for probably another month. As a socially responsible citizen I wonder whether I should send an anonymous letter to warn them of their lodgers' tendencies to neglect.

I occasionally wondered, whilst Mr H took refuge under the sheets of our spare room, whether he had a small crush on Husband? It is possible that someone, after all, male or female, could fancy him. It was the sideways glances across the sitting room as they watched the cricket highlights together, or, Mr H returning home each night after work with a 6 pack of beer which he'd ply Husband with, whilst offering to massage Husbands gammy post-cricket knee injury... I don't recall past lodgers plying husband or me with anything except dirty washing and tension in the morning whilst we queued for the shower. What was going on behind the shut door of our spare room and why did Mr H refuse to let me hang up his washing when I needed to use the washing machine? Shamed by the number of pairs of pants or pj's had he had to wash over the weeks?

The thought is rather distasteful I agree.

Luckily he's now out of our hair and has taken his crush, motorbikes, beer and dreadful language to someone else's house. Good luck to them. (And, I learnt just recently, that Mr H's landlord is a man whose wife and kids have gone abroad for a few weeks, leaving him ALONE with Mr H... Is she mad? It's like a remake of Single White Female, but with a psychotic South African Man instead of the psychotic American Woman... what happened in the end..? Strike up the creepy violin music...)

JOKE!
Mr-very-brilliant-H! We loved having you to stay. Please come back and ply us with more beer and laughter and silly drawings for Mol and calling Liz Bob (I'M NOT BOOOOOOOOOOB she shouts with glee...) and telling us crazy stories about life in the beautiful South Africa and trying to persuade us to book overpriced flights to Cape Town in December for Christmas (I reckon if you'd stayed like just one more week you'd probably have clinched the deal...)... And Finally. Thank you for babysitting for us last night. You are a top lodger and a gold star goes on your resume.

back to mundaneness

One load of washing (whites today. colours tomorrow. if weather permits).
One clean dishwasher.
Three rose bushes deadheaded.
One small plot of grass - cut.
One trip to Sainsbury's. £43 into John S's pocket, one pack of chipolatas and family packet of Walkers Baked Crisps and some bananas.
Readjusted to left hand drive quickly on Green Lanes.
English tea.
Fresh milk (real cows in England).
Humous.
Damp cellar.
Snails.
Oh. How easy it is to forget life as we knew it before The Holidays. And how totally scarily easy it is to just slip right back in to the same old, same old... Pass me the wine someone.