Sunday, 20 September 2009
SPILT MILK – proper
Did they cover this on Tomorrow’s World? Was I too busy trying to cope with my essay on the virtues of Heathcliff (I decided they were many and got my first A+!) to notice that pudgy nosed guy on TW telling the British audience that although the introduction of moulded polycarbonate materials to replace our humble glass milk-bottle container was the way forward (and if they smeared strawberry jam on it, it would still perform perfectly – or was that CD’s?) that if said innovative milk-bottle replacement was dropped from a height of… oh, say, five feet would almost certainly tear, split and cover every household surface within a twelve foot radius with it’s semi-skimmedness – whether you stood horror-stricken in your undies first thing in the morning or not?
Did I REALLY miss that episode?
And the first thing to cross my mind is always “I’m going to write to the manufacturers and complain”.
Yeah right. Give it an hour, lady, calm down, have another shower now you smell of freshly churned cottage cheese, and start again.
Sitting in a ‘Handwash’ car wash an hour later, I’m pretty certain the nice Slovakian/Kosovon people knew precisely that the couple in the mud-splattered blue car were definitely having a row. In any language, the wild eyes, the over-exaggerated hand gestures, the snarls, the tosses of the head and the rolling of the eyes are a universal language. Accepted in all major outlets. Including Handwash City.
‘You want inside also?’ said the nice man.
‘No,’ we both snapped. Not unless you want to referee this bloodbath and decide which one of us is in the right and suffer the aftermath.
He bowed away, Manuel-like. He knew. Oh, he knew alright.
What he wasn’t privy to, though, was the precise cause of this seemingly volatile disagreement. In hindsight maybe we should have just dragged him in and let him sort it out. Couldn’t have worked out any worse.
The Girl’s been invited to spend Christmas in New York with her boyfriend (of one year – one year – can you believe that? She’s only 15!) and his family. When she told me I was thrilled for her. Thrilled. A little envious, sure, but thrilled nonetheless. There would be financial ‘concerns’ to overcome, but, sure, why not? A wonderful opportunity that may never arise again until she’s of proper earning age etc.
Although I think it’s fabulous, Hubby thinks it’s littered with unforeseen obstacles that I should be worried about. Now. Right now – even before the whole thing’s been arranged. Whereas all I can see is a fabulous experience waiting to be enjoyed. Oh, and I’ve got to stop being the Girls’ Best Friend and start being the Mother with all the restrictions and rules that this conveys. Oh-kay.
So you kind of get the gist.
And if anyone else thinks I’m a bad mother (for yes, this is how I heard it) feel free to enlighten me.
By shutting my mouth and staring out of the side window, the air in the car managed to turn from a deep shade of blue, splattered with red to an uhealthy shade of puce.
And trudging round Sainsbury’s was almost normal.
We cooled off by the frozen foods and anything he wanted I damn well let him buy. Heart attacks in bags, deep-filled cholesterol pies and slabs of cardio-vascular artery-fluffing goodness.
Until we were spitting distance from home and I mentioned he was driving over the speed limit.
DO NOT EVER TELL A MAN (especially while he’s driving) THAT HE IS IN ANY WAY CONTRAVENING ROAD SAFETY LAWS.
Seven shades of sh*t.
Made even worse by pointing out that we already have 2 speeding fines between us this year.
We were still ‘discussing’ this two hours later (even after I’d stropped off in a cloud of “I’m going to bed I’ve had enough of today” – it was still only 2.30pm) as he continued to make clear to me that he pays enough in taxes every week (the equivalent of my ACTUAL pay I must add for sympathy) not to have to obey every effing law that’s laid down for the sake of lining the pockets of the government powers-that-be.
Oh, and then there was a ‘margins of error’ report followed by the back-up delivery of ‘ambient travelling speed’ on the roads and the dangers of obeying speed limits anyway.
Rewind 24 hours and one of my many “woo-hoo, it’s the weekend!” squeals of glee at work and I am pretty much feeling like my stuffing’s been taken out.
Thanks God for Strictly and the X-Factor – where we pretty much agreed on all points.
And his face lit up to the same degree as my heart lit up when he got a text later on from his mate asking him if he fancied a day fishing today.
And right now I’m trying to work out how I’m going to explain why I decided to put the watch he bough me for Christmas in with the second load of washing this morning.
I’ve heard there’s no point in crying over spilt milk.