Consider me a camel today. Bear in mind that my back is broken and the straw that broke it was about the size of a very old fashioned tv.
The sky is black this morning. That spooky rainy kinda black the sun tries and fails to poke it’s nose through. But it’s snuggly here in the library. I’ve got myself a fairtrade hot chocolate and parked myself as far away as possible from the man who, before, standing a tad too close for comfort in the pouring rain, admired my polka dot pink umbrella, told me he suspected I had very warm blood and accompanied this revelation with a dirty wink. (I swear I could get into trouble in a monastery). But never mind- I am more than happy to deal with the odd book sniffing lech if it means I can escape the horror that is my house today.
All is not well in Chez Brocante. It’s nothing major. The roof is still on and the plaster hasn’t crumbled. No it’s worse than that. Yesterday afternoon I returned home from an onion buying mission, walked over to the television, in the dim hope of happening across Duffy probably still begging for mercy, pressed it on. And nothing. Nowt. Nada. Somebody call the fire brigade!
So I got down on my hands and knees and did professional looking things with unidentified wires and nothing, nowt, nada. Stopped and had a cry. Poured myself a stiff gin, got out my pink girly toolbox and changed some random fuses. Because I can. Awarded myself a medal, curtsied to the queen and went to switch on the tumble dryer and nothing! Nowt! Nada! Desperate circumstances call for very desperate measures so I took the fuse out of the juicer in the faint hope that maybe all the fuses I’d changed thus far were dodgy, inserted said fuse into tv and ne fait rien. Ran into kitchen for carpet cleaner after noticing stain left by red wine knocked over by man I adored as a teenager on Saturday night (This is what kind of lush I am: I let stains fester for days on end). Clean in a manic fashion. Notice I have been somewhat waylaid in addressing the matter in hand. Stop and reflect that this IS WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH MY ENTIRE LIFE and collapse in a heap on the fake Aubusson where son and father of my child find me sprawled half an hour later.
To cut a long story short the tumble dryer was the cause of all the trouble. After sacrificing my beloved television to the God of all things electric it staged a miraculous recovery and is drying vests as we speak. All well and good, but I am now the proud possessor of dry underwear and three portable tv’s none of which are working, a screeching child in cold tv turkey and worst of all a fridge full of warm food, because the fuse I removed from the juicer plug actually belonged to the the fridge plug….
Oh yes, oh yes, oh yes. Welcome to hell. It’s exhausting being fabulous.
So it is a lifetime of self improvement and plucked eyebrows for me. No Apprentice. No Emmerdale. No Horrid Horrid Henry (Thank you!). Last night I read The Making Of A Marchioness from back to front and tonight I’ve got a homemade Chicken Korma and Life’s Too F**cking Short lined up….
Wonder if Mr Warm Blood knows anything about geriatric televisions?
Mummy I’m moving in.