Tuesday, 16 October 2007

Domestic Bliss?

Richard is watching the rugby, (England vs. South Africa). At least he says he is. He doesn't generally snore whilst awake.

However, the second I switch the vile machine off (or turn it down) he'll open his eyes and insist he's thoroughly enjoying it.

I have no idea what these men are doing, other than running after a ball then throwing themselves into a big heap. There seems to be a lot of shoving and pushing, and a fair amount of bellowing - though I have no idea what they're rabbiting on about....

Sport is peculiar. I have never understood it - or wanted to, actually. An awful lot of people disagree with me, obviously. That's ok. If they wish to pay upwards of £50 for a spectacularly ugly t-shirt or a silly foam hat, that is entirely their choice to do so.

Imagine if knitting was promoted in a similar way to football or cricket or rubgy. Our city streets might be flooded with drunken grannies chanting, "Knit one, purl one! Knit one, purl one!"

Would crochet teams struggle to pull as big a crowd as the macrame league? Would tiddley-wicks be debated in Parliament for encouraging a nation of bad backs? Would origame be condemned for being environmentally unfriendly (due to folding all that paper)? And who couldn't sit entranced before the international finals of Snap?

Well, me for one, actually.


Our washing machine died on Sunday afternoon, when I was half way through cooking a roast dinner. I was up to my elbows in steamy carrots and soapy jeans, simultaneously needing to leap for the mop and stop a bubbly-damp Emily from eloping with soggy underwear. That’s when Ygraine decided to have hysterics because a hedgehog had walked over her patio.

Wuff wuff wuff wuff wuff wuff wuff wuff wuff gurgle slosh gurgle slosh drip drip drip drip wuff wuff wuff wuff wuff gurgle slosh gurgle slosh drip drip drip drip drip drip squealch squealch wuff wuff drip drip….

And then he asked if dinner was ready yet.

Still, I had my revenge. On Monday afternoon, the dogs and I had enjoyed a lovely long walk on the beach, paddling in puddles, wading through crisp autumnal leaves as we very slowly wended our way home through the village. Arriving home, I found Richard sat on the dustbin in the drive. Having forgotten to take his keys with him, he found himself locked out. The stone front step was cold on his derriere, so he’d laid the bin on its side and sat down to wait – for nearly two hours.

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