.
I'm sorry about this week's article having very minimal content. You see I've been very busy.... achieving absolutely nothing.
Strange, but true, I'm afraid. And it's not by choice. I don't PLAN to achieve nothing. I always AIM to get loads of things done, written, designed, managed, created, etc etc
But some days there's just no….. Excuse me......
“Hello? Yes. This is the editor speaking, How can I help you sir?... Sorry MADAM… How can I….. Oh I see. You have a problem with your neighbour's vicious Rottweiler? Barking? All day? My goodness that must be terrible for you ma'am. Yes I understand. Days of Our Lives? Yes I agree that's not good enough. It can't be easy watching TV whilst your neighbour's dog is barking non-stop. 22b Hyacinth Close. No, ma'am I cannot come and take a photograph of the dog… or your neighbour. Pardon me? First it was the overhanging tree, now it's the dog? No, I must admit, I can't hear it barking through the phone… yes… I'm listening… no I still can't hear… No I am NOT deaf ma'am. Ok I'll try the other ear... Sorry still nothing I'm afraid. Perhaps if you…OUCH!!!! WOW THAT IS LOUD! Does it really bark like that all day? … oh that was YOU barking… like the dog…. So I could tell what it's like… no please don't do it ag… OUCH! Madam PLEASE STOP BARKING AT ME! I think I get the idea now, but I still cannot come and take… Your husband? No I don't think I need to speak to… Hello sir. Yes, I gather so… a dog…. On and on and on, yes…. It's madness, on and on and on, all day long….on and on and on and... Are we still talking about the dog sir? Oh good. And have you asked your neighbour to put it away? No? I see, you don't want to be on bad terms with them? But you think I should take a picture and publish it, to stop the dog barking? I see sir. Oh… and you want me to keep your name out of it sir. Absolutely sir. Ooh, hang on, the line is going funny… perhaps it's the noise of the dog……..”
Where was I? Ah yes, I was achieving nothing. Nada. Nix. Nil. It has simply been one of those days when you can't …. Pardon? Call for me?
“Hello? How can I help you? Yes I am sitting down. Mmmm, I do have a pen… yes and paper. Who is speaking please? Oh. You wish to remain anonymous. Ok. What is the problem sir? No I promise I cannot trace your call. Yes, no police involvement, I have got that. Sir? SIR! I cannot understand you properly if you whisper. Please repeat that. No I will not show my notes to anyone. Yes, alone. Promise. No-one else in my office at all. The door IS shut sir. Oh, that's just the radio sir. Yes. Promise. Now, could you repeat what you said please? Pardon?..... Sir, do you perhaps have your handkerchief over the mouthpiece? No I do not have voice recognition on my computer sir. Once again I promise. Ok…… go ahead….. mmmmm, ……. I see…….. …………………… …………………………………………….…………………………………………………… I see. If I could just check that back with you sir?:- What you are saying is that the speed humps on the Island are not built to the exact CSIR regulatory standards? Two centimetres too high? As much as that eh? And the wrong angle…… Well, sir, I am so very glad you have let me know. I am going to take this tip-off directly to our Inferior Roads Investigation reporter, and ask if he and his team can look into it. Absolutely sir. Heads will roll. Thank you sir….goodbye.”
Have you ever had such a day? I'm sure you have. No sooner have you sat down to try and get some work don….. Yes? Who is here to see me? Does he have an appointment? Oh dear....It's just that I'm trying to get some work done…. Ok I'll see him, but if I am not done in twenty minutes call me on my cell phone alright?
“Oh helloooo, it's so nice to see you again. Yes, not since last year when you came to visit Sedgefield. Oh a holiday again? Yes it is nice here isn't it…. Sorry, what was your name again? Oh yes, Mrs Schnickkelgruber, of course I remember now. Well thank you so much for popping in and seeing us, it has…. Oh pictures of your grandchildren? How many? Twelve? That's so nice. Mmmmm . And this is the oldest……………… ……………………………………………………………………………………And (finally) this is your dog? What a nice looking fellow he is Mrs Schnucklegrinder…. Oh I'm so sorry! I really didn't know. Three months ago… well I'm sure it will get easier as time passes… 'Kennel in the sky' and that sort of thing? Oh dear, would you like a tissue? Yes that is old for a Labrador. Bowel failure? Oh … and it…. Ooh! That must have been….. Oh well Mrs Schnafflebearer, it was wonderful to see you again I am so sorry to cut you short but as you can hear my cell phone is ringing …..”
Hello? Thanks for doing that I thought I was going to be kept busy for…. Oh it's you again ma'am. I see. You have your cell phone by the fence so I can hear the dog barking. Yes I think I can hear it now….. It sounds like a small dog …. Pardon? If it's not the neighbour's dog then…? Oh it's YOUR dog, barking at the dog next door. But the neighbour's dog has a more annoying bark. Ok I see. No, I haven't changed my mind about the picture… sorry… I can't hear….it seems you are breaking up…….”
Really, I have barely had time to even turn on my computer all day. It has been a madhou…. Yes?! Did I not say hold my calls? I didn't? Well I thought it I'm sure. Ok put her through…..
“Can I hel………….. I'm SO sorry that you are so disappointed with us ma'am. Oh? Sorry isn't good enough? Well I'm sorry about that too. Pray do tell - what particular evil did we perpetrate this time? Ma'am I can't hear if you shout, it distorts the phone. You say we spent your doctor's game thong? I don't under….. OH! We spelled your daughter's name wrong. I am so sorry. I do apologise, sincerely, from the bottom of our entire staff's collective heart. Could you enlighten me as to which article this tragic literary abomination appeared? I see, let me check…. I have it in front of me now … it says “Pictured left are Girl Guides Rita Hopwith, Shirley Templeman and Harriet Grizwold receiving their badges..” Oh… Shirlea is it. With an 'a'. Yes ma'am I understand that we got it wrong. No, no birth certificate needed at all. I accept the blame. Wholeheartedly. I was wrong. I was erroneous. I was a bad, bad, BAD editor. Heads will roll, ma'am. We don't let an 'a' instead of a 'y' go unpunished in this newspaper. I will go and plug in the electric chair and sharpen the meat hooks immediately. Pardon Ma'am? A printed apology in the next paper? Do you really think that necessary? Of course you do. Yes, I can only imagine the anguish we have caused. Mmmmm, HUGE repercussions. I don't know how she can possibly carry on living a normal life. Could I not perhaps just send you a picture of our proof reader torn in four by wild horses? Yes ma'am I AM taking you seriously. Of course. My address? You want to talk face to face? Well, er… that would be fine, Ma'am. You are most welcome to pop in…22b Hyacinth Close … HYACINTH yes, like the flower - and don't mind the dog, his bark is worse than his bite…. You can just come right in and give him a big old hug….Yes ma’am, a hug...
.
Wednesday, November 28, 2012
Thursday, November 15, 2012
MY WIFE'S BURNING DESIRE TO COOK
.
I was thinking the other day, that our house is quite strangely laid out, from a nasal point of view. Sorry. That probably won't make any sense until I explain, and luckily I have a bit of time on my hands and some free space that need's filling.
Mostly in my stomach.
Perhaps let me start at the very beginning (with thanks to Julie Andrews for her impeccable advice in this regard).
I mentioned, probably quite a few years back, that Mrs Ed is not a very good cook….. Well, things have changed since then. Indeed her non-cooking talent has gone from strength to strength. Now she is a TERRIBLE cook.
In her defense, I should have realized there was a problem all those years ago when we first got married. I looked deep into her good eye, clasping her hands in mine across the packing-case-used-as-a-diningroom-table and uttered those three magical words ….
“What's for dinner?”
Of course she lovingly replied with three special words of her own
“You tell me.”
It's gone down hill from there.
She tries to cook, but the strange thing is that because of how the rooms are situated in our home, we can only smell the carnage she is currently smouldering in the oven when we go upstairs to my kids' bedroom. Needless to say, neither of my children like to hang out there when Mrs Ed is involved in any sort of culinary prowess - the smoke inhalation is just too uncomfortable for them.
Seriously. You know it's bad when your teenage children sign a petition… along with 27 of their friends… and the neighbours from four houses either side.
Really. Our poor children grew up thinking that all clothing SHOULD smell of campfire. Indeed at age 6 my son had a very embarrassing time when he first stayed over at a friend's house. It started when he put on his pyjamas and the boy's parents screamed and threw a bucket of water on him.. Worse yet, he came home absolutely famished the following day, having simply refused to eat the scrambled eggs they gave him for breakfast.
“Dad it was a funny yellow colour,” he explained later “Not black like it's supposed to be.”
I have a theory. There is a saying “Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.” and I think this is what happened with Mrs Ed. You see, my own mother, Mrs Ed Senior (God rest her soul), was never a good cook. Oh she could boil. She was very good at boiling. Boiling food is, many will say, a prerequisite for being British. It was what the empire was built on. We ate everything boiled.
So ‘memorable’ isn't a word that springs to mind when thinking of home-cooked (home-boiled?) meals.
Actually there was one time when Mom served up a delicious vegetable soup. So delicious my father remarked excitedly that it was the best he had ever tasted.
“How would one make such a delectable dish as this?” he waxed lyrically (no, he wasn't cleaning his ears). My mother proceeded to describe how one would prepare the vegetables, dicing then spicing them before quickly sautéing to seal in the flavour. Thereafter, she continued, one would roast them for twenty minutes with a sprinkling of coriander and a dribbled dash of lemon juice, whilst preparing a vegetable stock with a subtle hint of garlic on top of the stove. This would then be all added together, stirred in the wok with pre-browned onions, then very gently blended. The final addition of a thick dollop of sour cream would bring out the best of flavour.
A few minutes after this vivid description had been dished out, I happened to wander into the kitchen... where I found an empty tin of Heinz Vegetable Soup. The instructions read 'Boil; for five minutes then serve.' I think my mother's ability to baffle made up for any lack of culinary expertise!
So for my first few years I grew up ignorant of any alternative to boiled food. But once we had left the muddy island and relocated to African soil, I had the pleasure of tasting tidbits of other cultures' cuisine, and I realized there must, in fact, be alternative ways to prepare vegetables, eggs, mince, steak, puddings etc etc.
So when Mrs Ed and I started becoming serious (her father handed over the first envelope of money) I did not rush into any sort of proposal until I had embarked on some serious RBM (Research Before Marriage). Can you imagine my excitement over the next few months as I sampled dish after dish of her mother's kitchen genius?
It was a dream come true! I was about to embark on a life-long journey with, genetically speaking, a potential domestic goddess.
But remember what I said earlier? “Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.”
Mrs Ed's mother COULD. Sadly it follows that Mrs Ed's Mother did not TEACH. Mrs Ed, therefore, did not LEARN.
Anything.
About cooking.
Not a sausage.
Or even a well-meaning turnip.
I can't really blame her, if I had grown up surrounded by such wonderful food I certainly wouldn't have offered to try my hand in the kitchen, it would spoil everything!
So Mrs Ed has an empty section in her brain - right around the 'Preparation of edible meals' lobe. Actually, it's not entirely empty.
She did, after a few extensive lessons from my own mother, learn how to boil… after a fashion. But this, I discovered later, was only to support her real passion:- Gardening. I believe her theory is that if something is in a pot on the stove with enough water around it, it can be left to its own devices whilst she gets on with her digging, planting, pruning, trimming, replanting, fertilizing and watering.
She's right to a degree, but even the biggest pot filled with a handful of vegetables floating on top of 20 litres of water will eventually burn dry.
“Did no-one even notice dinner was burning?” Mrs Ed will harrumph soon after coming in from a 'quick bit of gardening' (normally about 11pm). I rush up stairs to resuscitate any unfortunate children who may have succumbed to Cajun-Brussel-Sprout-Vapour poisoning, whilst she follows her usual 'dinner rescue recipe' :
1) Put the pot on outside kitchen window sill (next to other damaged pots) until it stops glowing red.
2) Fill another pot with water.
3) Put another handful of veggies or other unfortunate foodstuff inside.
4) Bring to boil for three hours or until burnt (whichever comes last).
5) Repeat process until husband gets off couch and opens can of beans.
.
I was thinking the other day, that our house is quite strangely laid out, from a nasal point of view. Sorry. That probably won't make any sense until I explain, and luckily I have a bit of time on my hands and some free space that need's filling.
Mostly in my stomach.
Perhaps let me start at the very beginning (with thanks to Julie Andrews for her impeccable advice in this regard).
I mentioned, probably quite a few years back, that Mrs Ed is not a very good cook….. Well, things have changed since then. Indeed her non-cooking talent has gone from strength to strength. Now she is a TERRIBLE cook.
In her defense, I should have realized there was a problem all those years ago when we first got married. I looked deep into her good eye, clasping her hands in mine across the packing-case-used-as-a-diningroom-table and uttered those three magical words ….
“What's for dinner?”
Of course she lovingly replied with three special words of her own
“You tell me.”
It's gone down hill from there.
She tries to cook, but the strange thing is that because of how the rooms are situated in our home, we can only smell the carnage she is currently smouldering in the oven when we go upstairs to my kids' bedroom. Needless to say, neither of my children like to hang out there when Mrs Ed is involved in any sort of culinary prowess - the smoke inhalation is just too uncomfortable for them.
Seriously. You know it's bad when your teenage children sign a petition… along with 27 of their friends… and the neighbours from four houses either side.
Really. Our poor children grew up thinking that all clothing SHOULD smell of campfire. Indeed at age 6 my son had a very embarrassing time when he first stayed over at a friend's house. It started when he put on his pyjamas and the boy's parents screamed and threw a bucket of water on him.. Worse yet, he came home absolutely famished the following day, having simply refused to eat the scrambled eggs they gave him for breakfast.
“Dad it was a funny yellow colour,” he explained later “Not black like it's supposed to be.”
I have a theory. There is a saying “Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.” and I think this is what happened with Mrs Ed. You see, my own mother, Mrs Ed Senior (God rest her soul), was never a good cook. Oh she could boil. She was very good at boiling. Boiling food is, many will say, a prerequisite for being British. It was what the empire was built on. We ate everything boiled.
So ‘memorable’ isn't a word that springs to mind when thinking of home-cooked (home-boiled?) meals.
Actually there was one time when Mom served up a delicious vegetable soup. So delicious my father remarked excitedly that it was the best he had ever tasted.
“How would one make such a delectable dish as this?” he waxed lyrically (no, he wasn't cleaning his ears). My mother proceeded to describe how one would prepare the vegetables, dicing then spicing them before quickly sautéing to seal in the flavour. Thereafter, she continued, one would roast them for twenty minutes with a sprinkling of coriander and a dribbled dash of lemon juice, whilst preparing a vegetable stock with a subtle hint of garlic on top of the stove. This would then be all added together, stirred in the wok with pre-browned onions, then very gently blended. The final addition of a thick dollop of sour cream would bring out the best of flavour.
A few minutes after this vivid description had been dished out, I happened to wander into the kitchen... where I found an empty tin of Heinz Vegetable Soup. The instructions read 'Boil; for five minutes then serve.' I think my mother's ability to baffle made up for any lack of culinary expertise!
So for my first few years I grew up ignorant of any alternative to boiled food. But once we had left the muddy island and relocated to African soil, I had the pleasure of tasting tidbits of other cultures' cuisine, and I realized there must, in fact, be alternative ways to prepare vegetables, eggs, mince, steak, puddings etc etc.
So when Mrs Ed and I started becoming serious (her father handed over the first envelope of money) I did not rush into any sort of proposal until I had embarked on some serious RBM (Research Before Marriage). Can you imagine my excitement over the next few months as I sampled dish after dish of her mother's kitchen genius?
It was a dream come true! I was about to embark on a life-long journey with, genetically speaking, a potential domestic goddess.
But remember what I said earlier? “Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach.”
Mrs Ed's mother COULD. Sadly it follows that Mrs Ed's Mother did not TEACH. Mrs Ed, therefore, did not LEARN.
Anything.
About cooking.
Not a sausage.
Or even a well-meaning turnip.
I can't really blame her, if I had grown up surrounded by such wonderful food I certainly wouldn't have offered to try my hand in the kitchen, it would spoil everything!
So Mrs Ed has an empty section in her brain - right around the 'Preparation of edible meals' lobe. Actually, it's not entirely empty.
She did, after a few extensive lessons from my own mother, learn how to boil… after a fashion. But this, I discovered later, was only to support her real passion:- Gardening. I believe her theory is that if something is in a pot on the stove with enough water around it, it can be left to its own devices whilst she gets on with her digging, planting, pruning, trimming, replanting, fertilizing and watering.
She's right to a degree, but even the biggest pot filled with a handful of vegetables floating on top of 20 litres of water will eventually burn dry.
“Did no-one even notice dinner was burning?” Mrs Ed will harrumph soon after coming in from a 'quick bit of gardening' (normally about 11pm). I rush up stairs to resuscitate any unfortunate children who may have succumbed to Cajun-Brussel-Sprout-Vapour poisoning, whilst she follows her usual 'dinner rescue recipe' :
1) Put the pot on outside kitchen window sill (next to other damaged pots) until it stops glowing red.
2) Fill another pot with water.
3) Put another handful of veggies or other unfortunate foodstuff inside.
4) Bring to boil for three hours or until burnt (whichever comes last).
5) Repeat process until husband gets off couch and opens can of beans.
.
Thursday, November 1, 2012
.
Mess… and rubbish....
Why is it that I am, apparently, so useless at identifying them? That's according Mrs Ed of course.
You see, she believes that I am the most untidy, hoardingest (yes, she swears that word exists) person she has ever had the misfortune to meet, never mind marry. Actually 'person' is my word. She prefers to use 'fool'. Or sometimes idiot.
I don't know why she lets herself get so upset over something(s) so small, but she does. It starts quite slowly, but once she gets into that “I refuse to live in this pig sty any longer” frame of mind, well, neighbours start putting up 'for sale' signs, our dogs start howling and chewing off their address tags, and my family overseas message to ask what all the noise is about.
I would like to pause here to state, quite categorically, that we do not live in a pig sty. Yes, there may be one or two little nooks in the house, and of course my daughter's bedroom, that may fit this description, and indeed we may even have a small population of farmyard animals dwelling somewhere under piles of clothes and empty pizza boxes, but as soon as the fumigator has visited we should be all clear for 'totally non-pigsty' status.
It is probably equally important to point out that Mrs Ed is somewhat inclined to exaggerate. Inclined like Kilimanjaro's uppermost slopes. This is evident in most of our every day discussions. (Once again, I use the word 'discussions' loosely, they are more like barked statements from her side, and muffled, non-committal, some-pretense-of-listening grumblings from mine.)
Really. After all this time in wedlock (funny how they use the word 'lock' - 21 years is a life sentence in some countries) I still find it quite surprising how she frivolously throws around phrases like
“WHY is it always ME that HAS to do EVERYTHING?”
- which anyone would instantly see is an overstatement. Just last week I switched the kettle on for coffee, AND on Sunday I cleaned the bath! (she will insist, of course, that 'lying in a foam-filled tub for two hours, occasionally twitching a knee whilst reading a good Terry Pratchet novel' does not constitute cleaning it, but that is just a matter of her opinion of course.)
So you can understand that when the question of 'how much rubbish she is forced to live with' comes up, I might not be the first to employ the services of a waste removal skip, or indeed burn the house down and start again (yes, she actually suggested that last week, soon after she discovered the half eaten egg roll in my son's sock drawer…. Admittedly he hasn't been home for a month or two).
The problem is the definition of 'Mess' and 'Rubbish'. For example, our dining room table presents a grey area, one which catches Mrs Ed's eye as soon as she steps into our poor, unsuspecting home.
“I am sooooo sick and tired of people dumping their rubbish on the dining room table as they walk in!” she bellows at the top of her lungs.
“Oh? Do we have a dining room table?” I ask, from a reasonably safe distance.
“YES WE DO!” she barks, not in the least appreciating my hilariously comical come-back, “AND IF IT WASN'T FOR RUBBISH LIKE THIS (she lifts up a pair of running shoes) AND THIS (a motorbike carburettor ) AND THIS (a jacket I took off in July) AND WHATEVER THIS IS (a neat stack of carefully cut bits of wood - the start of a very clever potato-growing stand which I fully intend to finish any year now) WE MIGHT BE ABLE TO SEE THE DARN THING!”
Now, if you have managed to reach this point without dozing off, or rushing to the nearest pub to drown our collective sorrows (mine's a Bosun's Bitter, please) you may be forgiven for thinking that my good wife has a point.
Pray, do read on.
“Ahhhh,” I say, the inflection depending on whether
a) I am merely considering a carefully crafted answer, or
b) she has actually crossed the kitchen floor and struck me across the scalp with the carburettor.
“Ahhhhh…. And what about the… er … other stuff….?”
Honestly, you have to admire my courage.
The 'other stuff', in case you were wondering, is all Mrs Ed's. Which is why it escapes the “Mess/Rubbish” labels, of course. It includes pots of paint, bits of canvas, tubes of oils, brushes, bottles of thinners, paint-spattered palettes, old newspaper… and that's just on the 'north quadrant' of this glorious 'Oh how wonderful it will be to eat meals together' piece of furniture. The other sections of wonderful oak veneer (aside from the three square centimeters occupied by my 'rubbish') are covered with a deep crust of magazines, several handbags (overflowing), half a dozen scarves, pens, pencils, crayons, books, gardening gloves, knitting needles, some sort of crochet kit and a basket full of apparently important hair accessories.
“What of it?” challenges my dearly beloved.
“It's a load of absolute trash, which has no other place but the bin, along with 90% of the other stuff you leave all over the place. The fact that you haven't checked yourself into the Home for Demented Housekeepers is beyond belief and quite frankly I'm thinking of having you committed!” I respond telepathically. Fortunately she doesn't pick up this mental message, only my verbal reply which is slightly less detailed:
“Uhhhh,…. Oh.”
And so it is in every room in our house. Take our bedroom for example. On any day one will only find the smallest, neatest pile of goods next to my side of the bed. Three novels. One untouched self help book entitled 'Men are from Mars, Women are just Nutcases'. A Yamaha DT Workshop manual opened up to the 'Carburettor' Section. Five odd takkies ( used to 'discourage' Mrs Ed's putrid pooch from climbing onto our bed). A clock radio with extra large snooze button. And a heavy wooden knobkerrie in case of break ins (I use it to prod Mrs Ed awake so she can go downstairs and investigate.)
But cross over to 'The Dark Side” (I call it that because the mountain of mess actually blocks the light from the bedroom window) and you will see something entirely different next to HER side of the bed.
Apart from the mangled heap of open magazines, there is a flotsam and jetsam of books - anything from 'Mills and Boon- The Steamy Selection' to 'The ABC of Life Insurance Claims' to 'The Art of Course Brick-laying' to 'A Compendium of Untraceable Poisons”.
Amongst these are a dozen crumb-filled sideplates, a clinking cacophony of coffee cups, layers of 'just in case hell freezes over' pajamas, carrybags of make-up and face creams, a hairdryer, another hairdryer, curlers, a veritable pharmacy of pill boxes and capsule jars, and, of course, 27 half rolls of toilet paper.
Yet this morning, once again, I woke up to find a distraught Mrs Ed popping a war dance about the 'unnacceptable pile of rubbish' that is mine.
“How can you let it get like that?” she sobbed “I can't live with such chaos any longer, I'm going to HAVE to call in the family for an intervention!”
Luckily I was stunned to silence, so we were able to hear the muffled whimper coming from somewhere underneath the rubble on her side of the room. It seemed our daughter has been sucked in through a portal in the cosmo magazines…..
“Mmmm mommy?” she whispered “About that intervention..... Could it be today?"
Mess… and rubbish....
Why is it that I am, apparently, so useless at identifying them? That's according Mrs Ed of course.
You see, she believes that I am the most untidy, hoardingest (yes, she swears that word exists) person she has ever had the misfortune to meet, never mind marry. Actually 'person' is my word. She prefers to use 'fool'. Or sometimes idiot.
I don't know why she lets herself get so upset over something(s) so small, but she does. It starts quite slowly, but once she gets into that “I refuse to live in this pig sty any longer” frame of mind, well, neighbours start putting up 'for sale' signs, our dogs start howling and chewing off their address tags, and my family overseas message to ask what all the noise is about.
I would like to pause here to state, quite categorically, that we do not live in a pig sty. Yes, there may be one or two little nooks in the house, and of course my daughter's bedroom, that may fit this description, and indeed we may even have a small population of farmyard animals dwelling somewhere under piles of clothes and empty pizza boxes, but as soon as the fumigator has visited we should be all clear for 'totally non-pigsty' status.
It is probably equally important to point out that Mrs Ed is somewhat inclined to exaggerate. Inclined like Kilimanjaro's uppermost slopes. This is evident in most of our every day discussions. (Once again, I use the word 'discussions' loosely, they are more like barked statements from her side, and muffled, non-committal, some-pretense-of-listening grumblings from mine.)
Really. After all this time in wedlock (funny how they use the word 'lock' - 21 years is a life sentence in some countries) I still find it quite surprising how she frivolously throws around phrases like
“WHY is it always ME that HAS to do EVERYTHING?”
- which anyone would instantly see is an overstatement. Just last week I switched the kettle on for coffee, AND on Sunday I cleaned the bath! (she will insist, of course, that 'lying in a foam-filled tub for two hours, occasionally twitching a knee whilst reading a good Terry Pratchet novel' does not constitute cleaning it, but that is just a matter of her opinion of course.)
So you can understand that when the question of 'how much rubbish she is forced to live with' comes up, I might not be the first to employ the services of a waste removal skip, or indeed burn the house down and start again (yes, she actually suggested that last week, soon after she discovered the half eaten egg roll in my son's sock drawer…. Admittedly he hasn't been home for a month or two).
The problem is the definition of 'Mess' and 'Rubbish'. For example, our dining room table presents a grey area, one which catches Mrs Ed's eye as soon as she steps into our poor, unsuspecting home.
“I am sooooo sick and tired of people dumping their rubbish on the dining room table as they walk in!” she bellows at the top of her lungs.
“Oh? Do we have a dining room table?” I ask, from a reasonably safe distance.
“YES WE DO!” she barks, not in the least appreciating my hilariously comical come-back, “AND IF IT WASN'T FOR RUBBISH LIKE THIS (she lifts up a pair of running shoes) AND THIS (a motorbike carburettor ) AND THIS (a jacket I took off in July) AND WHATEVER THIS IS (a neat stack of carefully cut bits of wood - the start of a very clever potato-growing stand which I fully intend to finish any year now) WE MIGHT BE ABLE TO SEE THE DARN THING!”
Now, if you have managed to reach this point without dozing off, or rushing to the nearest pub to drown our collective sorrows (mine's a Bosun's Bitter, please) you may be forgiven for thinking that my good wife has a point.
Pray, do read on.
“Ahhhh,” I say, the inflection depending on whether
a) I am merely considering a carefully crafted answer, or
b) she has actually crossed the kitchen floor and struck me across the scalp with the carburettor.
“Ahhhhh…. And what about the… er … other stuff….?”
Honestly, you have to admire my courage.
The 'other stuff', in case you were wondering, is all Mrs Ed's. Which is why it escapes the “Mess/Rubbish” labels, of course. It includes pots of paint, bits of canvas, tubes of oils, brushes, bottles of thinners, paint-spattered palettes, old newspaper… and that's just on the 'north quadrant' of this glorious 'Oh how wonderful it will be to eat meals together' piece of furniture. The other sections of wonderful oak veneer (aside from the three square centimeters occupied by my 'rubbish') are covered with a deep crust of magazines, several handbags (overflowing), half a dozen scarves, pens, pencils, crayons, books, gardening gloves, knitting needles, some sort of crochet kit and a basket full of apparently important hair accessories.
“What of it?” challenges my dearly beloved.
“It's a load of absolute trash, which has no other place but the bin, along with 90% of the other stuff you leave all over the place. The fact that you haven't checked yourself into the Home for Demented Housekeepers is beyond belief and quite frankly I'm thinking of having you committed!” I respond telepathically. Fortunately she doesn't pick up this mental message, only my verbal reply which is slightly less detailed:
“Uhhhh,…. Oh.”
And so it is in every room in our house. Take our bedroom for example. On any day one will only find the smallest, neatest pile of goods next to my side of the bed. Three novels. One untouched self help book entitled 'Men are from Mars, Women are just Nutcases'. A Yamaha DT Workshop manual opened up to the 'Carburettor' Section. Five odd takkies ( used to 'discourage' Mrs Ed's putrid pooch from climbing onto our bed). A clock radio with extra large snooze button. And a heavy wooden knobkerrie in case of break ins (I use it to prod Mrs Ed awake so she can go downstairs and investigate.)
But cross over to 'The Dark Side” (I call it that because the mountain of mess actually blocks the light from the bedroom window) and you will see something entirely different next to HER side of the bed.
Apart from the mangled heap of open magazines, there is a flotsam and jetsam of books - anything from 'Mills and Boon- The Steamy Selection' to 'The ABC of Life Insurance Claims' to 'The Art of Course Brick-laying' to 'A Compendium of Untraceable Poisons”.
Amongst these are a dozen crumb-filled sideplates, a clinking cacophony of coffee cups, layers of 'just in case hell freezes over' pajamas, carrybags of make-up and face creams, a hairdryer, another hairdryer, curlers, a veritable pharmacy of pill boxes and capsule jars, and, of course, 27 half rolls of toilet paper.
Yet this morning, once again, I woke up to find a distraught Mrs Ed popping a war dance about the 'unnacceptable pile of rubbish' that is mine.
“How can you let it get like that?” she sobbed “I can't live with such chaos any longer, I'm going to HAVE to call in the family for an intervention!”
Luckily I was stunned to silence, so we were able to hear the muffled whimper coming from somewhere underneath the rubble on her side of the room. It seemed our daughter has been sucked in through a portal in the cosmo magazines…..
“Mmmm mommy?” she whispered “About that intervention..... Could it be today?"
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