See? I am finally back from the Lake District, with a sunburnt nose and gravel in my shoes and a mysterious collection of post-cards that I can’t remember actually buying. Though I do remember buying four boxes of toffee. Oops. They’re for work, really, I swear.
I actually arrived home on Saturday night. We were very tired, so we ate and slept.
Sunday involved laundry, and the supermarket, and more laundry, and then we very bravely opened the used sock bag and hurled the contents into the washing machine as fast as possible while holding our breath and set the dial to ‘boil for a week’. And of course the Rugby World Cup had started, so I watched three matches in a row. Poor Canada. Poor Samoa. Poor Portugal. (I always root for the losing team. Because).
Monday I was absolutely going to go online and catch up and talk to everyone and update the blog and so on and so forth. Really, I was. Only, first I tried to get hold of the Fees office of the soon-to-be-mine University and eventually, very eventually, had the most unsatisfactory conversation with a Confused Person, who I can only suppose was the tea-lady who found herself unexpectedly in a deserted office with a ringing phone. Then I had a rush of blood to the head and decided to wash the old feather pillows. They came out of the machine looking like little flat sacks each containing one crushed jelly-fish, and I threw myself to the floor wailing with despair. I spent the rest of the afternoon with the radiators and dehumidifier on full blast, plumping and fluffing and shaking and warming them at regular intervals, and by the time H got home from work they were looking perfectly normal again. But by then, my writeriness had evaporated.
So this morning, I called the Fees Office early, spoke to a human with an actual connection to fees and some idea of what I was talking about, and came away triumphant after one minute and seventeen seconds with a sensible answer. And then I put more laundry on, and made tea, and then I visited the internets.
Only to find that the fantabulous MsPrufrock of Barren Albion has tagged me to tell you all ‘seven habits/quirks/facts about myself‘. Now I did a Six Weird Things About Me meme back in January, but, you know? It’s not as if weirdness is an exhaustable resource chez May. So I am delighted to present you all with:
Seven More Weird Things About Me
- I am to all intents and purposes a housework slut, in that I live in a skip, frankly, and don’t care. I am completely indifferent to dusty shelves, piles of books and paper on the floor, stray knitting on every available surface, and on quite a few non-available ones, and clean clothes left in piles on the exercise bike. But I am anal, anal I tell you, about laundry and dish-washing. Laundry has to be hung out to dry in exactly the right order, socks and bras on this rack, knickers on that rack, tee-shirts over here and so on. H now refuses to hang out socks because I will only tut and re-arrange the lot. Once it’s all dry, of course, I don’t give a monkeys and leave it in a pile on the ironing board for days. As for dishes, they have to be done in the right order. Glasses, then mugs, then cutlery, starting with teaspoons and ending with serving-spoons, then bowls, then plates, then salad bowls, then chopping boards, and finally pans, in order of cleanliness. If someone else is washing up, I can’t watch. I will actually hide in the bedroom when the mother-in-law does it, and surreptitiously rinse the mugs and inspect the cutlery again when she’s not looking.
- I don’t actually shave my legs or underarms in Winter. Partly, because I was brought up by hippies and only painful socialisation at boarding school made me realise that bald shins and oxters were expected of me, and partly because I am colossally lazy and H, also known as Only Possible Spectator, doesn’t really seem to notice or care how groomed I am, as long as I don’t actually smell like a dead horse or anything. Hence frantic grooming sessions before visiting gynaecologists. I am under the impression that ‘normal’ women are perfectly hairless at all times in nearly all places.
- I simply cannot bear, will not watch, cannot stand, reality TV programs. If I wanted to watch eejits squabbling, I’d go to any of the family reunions I have carefully avoided so far, and if I wanted to watch the subhuman semi-clad humiliate themsleves by failing at tasks of relative ease and simplicity, I’d spend more time watching students in the library. At work, this makes me Officially Impossible To Have A Converstion With.
- I think Brad Pitt, Tom Cruise, Leonardo di Caprio, Jude Law, Keanu Reeves, Elijah Wood, the Phoenix Collection, et al., are all about as sexually attractive as raw mince. The only point of agreement between me and Rest of Womankind seems to be Johnny Depp, who definitely makes me go all thoughtful. As does Hugh Laurie (twit or grouchy doctor. Either. Both). And Patrick Stewart. Oh yes. Make it so.
- More food I can’t stand, apart from the orange vegetable thing outlined previously: boiled potatoes. Urgh.
- I cannot, simply cannot, use the toilet if I think someone can hear me. I have managed, after many many years of cohabitation in very small flats, to stop thinking of H as someone. But his family have their lavatory right on the downstairs hall, next to the telephone, and they will start using said telephone while I am actually in there mid, you know, and it is not good for the assorted sphincters. Or ask me thorugh the door if I want a cup of tea. I always come away from a visit to the In-Laws completely constipated.
- I think I like books more than I like people.
And now I tag the following, because I’m nosy (which means you are also free to tell me to bugger off, if you prefer): Megan at Exile in Kidville, Katie at What am I?, Adrienne at Max’s Mommy, Deanna at The Open Door, and Pamela Jeanne at Coming 2 Terms.
And I promise I’ll tell you about the holiday next time.