Stomping on my 'smalls'.......

Following my latest domestic crisis in which my washing machine throws a wobbly - quite literally - I am left with three alternatives regarding laundry.

A. I could take it to the local laundrette, but only if I take a bodyguard, as it is not in the most genteel neighbourhood.
B. I could handwash everything, but I'm basically bone idle.
C. I could take it to my parents' house and use their machine.

D. The fourth option is to combine B and C.

I am obviously not quite as lazy as I think, as I grovel nicely and take the larger items to Ma's, but those things I want to stay white, I leave at home. (In years gone by, it was a family joke that no matter what colour our clothes, everything came out battleship grey, as coloureds and whites were all shoved in together.) So, family favour called in, I return home to tackle the hand washing.

Doubtfully eyeing the kitchen sink already overflowing with dirty crockery, my slovenly side comes up with a bright idea. Why not sling the washing in the bathtub? Excellent suggestion, even though I say so myself!

So I half fill the bath, add detergent and lob assorted undergarments in. After leaving them to soak while I go to the cinema, I return home and hit upon the notion of foot-washing my laundry instead of by hand, and so this afternoon finds me stamping on my pants in the bath. I consider it a stroke of genius because:

A. It saves me backache from bending over the tub.
B. It's more economical than the water-hungry washing machine.
C. The bath gets cleaned at the same time.
D. Not only do I get exercise from marching up and down on my undies, but I get nice clean feet into the bargain!

Now, if only I could find a more fun way to wash the dishes......

Bad Hair Day.....

Two years ago, I decided that long stringy hair was NOT a good look for a woman in her mid-forties.The decision to have two feet of it lopped off was made easier by the disposal of my then boyfriend who liked long hair - his own included - and the fact that it was falling out of its own accord. (Both his AND mine!) Too chicken to get completely shorn at one go, it took me two trips to the hairdresser to finally sever my connection to my ‘do’ of ten years. Longer in fact, than it took to get over the aforementioned BF. Far from having a “Sampson” effect, I found that taking the short cut was strangely liberating, and I wish I’d had the guts to get rid of the hair (and boyfriend) years ago. Before the chop, it took ages to dry, and got in the way so much that I nearly always tied it up. (I’m talking about my hair here people.....) Nowadays, I can just hop out of bed, simply run my fingers through it and be off to work - hopefully remembering to get dressed before I leave the house!

For a while, me and the new ‘do’ get along famously. Then the fluorescent tube intervenes. I visit my customary crimper for a trim and one of the salon lights flickers incessantly, so wary of it inducing my first epileptic seizure in decades, I close my eyes while the Scissor-Mistress performs her magic.

BIG mistake.

We cover the usual banalities that must be dealt with in such a situation - holidays, offspring and work - and eventually, I realise that she has stopped chopping away at my lustrous locks. Taking this as my cue to open my eyes and say “Great, super - thanks!”, I open my eyes. Ye Gods! WHERE’D MY HAIR GO??
Cue startled-rabbit-caught-in-headlights look. The majority of my barnet lies in piles on the floor, and the remainder clings precariously to my scalp, terrified lest it too should go the same way. Being terribly British, and not one to make a scene, I pay up before the rest falls out in shock, and hare off home to fiddle with the tufts that remain.

After hours of fiddling, I manage to convince myself that freshly-shorn Elb is funky and trendy, but still scare myself witless when I catch sight of my reflection unexpectedly. Come to think of it, I get that anyway, because I still envisage myself as a lissom teenager whilst strutting around town, until shop windows cruelly affirm otherwise by showing a fat, middle-aged frump. But I digress. Having twiddled the remaining strands of hair to look somewhat decent, I go to bed content.....

And awake to the Hairdo from Hell.

The results of a restless night have alternately flattened and spiked my locks into the most unflattering look EVER, and no amount of coaxing can get it to behave. If I comb it, it goes as fluffy as a dandelion clock. Generous application of gloop, or ‘product’ (as the hairdresser calls it) leaves me resembling a well-used toilet brush. Gritting my teeth in frustration and extremely late for work, I turn on the shower again to wash it all out and start over.....

It’s enough to make you tear your hair out............

Did the earth move......?

Birds are looking at me.

Nasty, beady-eyed little things. As I sit at my desk and look out of my window, several starlings land on the roof of a house opposite, and jointly engage in a paranoia-inducing staring session. More join them, and I look away uneasily in the hope that they will lose interest, but it seems that my neighbour's roof is the perch du jour, and yet more join their chums; so many in fact, that the original perchees are obliged to shuffle along so there is room for the new arrivals. And they all turn and gawp at me.

I am put in mind of the Alfred Hitchcock film "The Birds".

Why are they behaving so? All the houses look the same - why all sit on one, and gaze beadily at mine? Perplexed, I turn away and pretend to be Doing Something, but sneak a look out of the corner of my eye every so often. They are still looking. Then all of a sudden, the starlings have vanished, gone, disappeared. Nary a one is left on the roof, and I turn back to the computer, inexplicably relieved.

And become aware that the floor beneath my feet (well, where ELSE would it be?) is moving...... Startled, I realise that it is NOT an earthquake, presaged as it may have been by the strange behaviour of the birds, but merely that one of my domestic appliances is running amok in the kitchen. A hideous clattering heralds the imminent demise of my washing machine, and before I can hurtle down the stairs at breakneck speed, there is a loud bang and the machine continues on the spin cycle with the drum thrashing about inside the housing......

Bugger. No sooner is one domestic crisis over than another appears to take its place. I manage to extricate the shreds of clothes from the now defunct machine, and discover that the dying throes have shaken loose all sorts of yukkiness and coated the wet laundry with a foul-smelling residue, so not only do I have to rewash the lot, but I have to do it by hand! Someone up there is punishing me.........

Elb on the edge.......

I am obviously not as young as I like to think I am.

I do - in addition to my 40 hour week at my regular job - a Saturday stint in a shop, which I normally enjoy, although it’s hard graft for a sedentary lard-ass such as myself. Last week however, I foolishly offer to help out at the shop filling shelves in the evening because they are short-staffed in the middle of a half-price sale, and haven’t time or energy to replenish stocks. This results in two 12 hour days on Thursday and Friday, then an absolutely horrendous shift on Saturday, when the entire town comes to ransack the shop and spends hours complaining at the service.....

At the end of Saturday, I resemble an extra from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video, only with much less dancing. Exhausted way beyond the boundaries of tiredness, I stagger under the shower and don my jammies at 6.30 pm, swig yet another can of Red Bull - which gives me burps instead of wings - and plonk myself down for a quiet evening online. At least, that’s the plan. However, I fail spectacularly to keep up with my cyberchums’ customary banter, and I finally admit defeat, sing “So long, farewell, Auf Weidersehn, goodbyee...!” and hit the hay. Hit being the operative word here...... I don’t merely FALL asleep, but take the mother of all high-dives into oblivion, executing a triple pike and twist along the way, and am unconscious WAY before my head even comes remotely near my pillow.

Four days later, I have still not recovered, and find to my dismay that I am halfway through the week and still auditioning for “Shaun of the Dead 2”...... Not only am I permanently knackered, but I have developed an irritating tic in my eye which was bad enough when it was just the one - now the other one has joined in, but at a different speed, so I am twitching and squinting like Herbert Lom as Inspector Clouseau’s demented boss! I nearly dislocate my jaw at regular intervals, yawning so widely that local potholers are preparing to explore the depths.........

Not only do I appear to have burned the candle at both ends, but the middle’s melted too. I will have to accept - albeit ungraciously - that I am not a teenager any more, despite what my inner stroppy self tells me. Perhaps it is time to retire from the Saturday job, and take up something less strenuous like crochet......

*YAWN......*