Sunday, September 24, 2006

Gaff to myself

A number of reasons why I should not be left unsupervised of a weekend

3pm - Wave off The Fiance, who is off to Southampton on a boy jaunt with Stanners to modify fifty quid Saab that they have bought. Watch him sling tiger print seat covers, bubble stickers, a klaxon that plays the Minder theme tune and a homemade spoiler in the boot and drive off. Shake head in manner of world-weary sort at the inanity of boy projects.

3.01pm - Close door and say “heh” in anticipation of an evening sat on the sofa watching bad films and drinking wine while wearing antisocial clothing.

3.05pm - Change from acceptable Saturday afternoon wear of black trousers and lacy tank top from the Gap into grey pyjama bottoms and an England T-shirt.

3.07pm - Sit in front of Sky Plus box and scroll through channels.

3.10pm - Wonder aloud how I can receive eight hundred channels and yet not find anything to watch.

3.11pm - Put Sky Sports News on.

3.12pm - Turn Sky Sports News off in a huff when I realise Newcastle aren’t playing till tomorrow.

3.13pm - Put 24 DVD on.

3.15pm – “Events occur in real -“ Rrrriiiing. Rrrriiing. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

4.00pm - Finish multiple-stranded phone conversation with Mum, which has spanned breadmaking machines; wrap tops; bee stings; coat hangers; the West Wing; the improbability, or not, of the heroin storyline in series three of 24; Colin Farrell: tosser or not (me: totally; Mum: not so much); Paullina Simons’ latest book; and the reason why I have not yet sent out any wedding invitations because the family is starting to carp on rather and I should really get my ass in gear.

4.05pm - Collect the Dreaded Bag of Wedding Gubbins from the cupboard.

4.10pm - Un-pause 24. Assemble wedding invitations (print inserts, glue insert into foldy invitation “outer”, attach paper rose topper thing with sticky gloy gum type thing, glue on confetti sequin things, glue on tab that says ‘Invitation’, write guest’s name on invite, cross reference response card with list, attack invitation with hole punch, tie up with ribbon and wish to God I’d paid someone else to do the bloody things instead of getting all crafty and insisting I do everything myself.)

4.25pm - Realise I have spent the last five minutes gazing at the TV screen with my mouth open. Insert tongue back into gaping mouth and wipe dribble off invitation.

4.35pm - Spill eight hundred thousand turquoise sequin confetti things on the floor. “Oh, just kill me now.”

4.36pm - Attempt to sweep sequin confetti things into dustpan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake. Get into the dustpan, sequins. Do not, when swept, hide under the lip of the dustpan so that when I move it you are lined up in military fashion which while tidier than the initial Puddle O’ Sequins, means you are still on my floor and not in the bag in which you came, or my bin.”

4.40p - Retrieve the Dyson, which is of course trapped behind the ironing board, washing basket, broom, mop, mop bucket and broken air conditioning unit. “Fuck off, ironing board. Fuck off, washing basket. Fuck off – ow! – mop, mop bucket and bastard broom. Get out of the – oof – way, duff air conditioner which has not worked for two years and should be in a skip. Come here, Dyson – fuck off! Dyson plug cord which has wrapped itself round annoying decorative stick things from Ikea.”

4.50pm - Vacuum up sequin confetti things viciously.

5.00pm - Re-vacuum up sequin confetti things that Dyson has spat out.

5.10pm - Jam Dyson and all other annoying housekeeping paraphernalia back into kitchen cupboard. Kick door shut. “Ow.”

5.20pm - Jam all invitation stuff back into the Dreaded Bag of Wedding Gubbins and stuff back into cupboard until I have calmed down.

5.30pm - Retrieve well-deserved half full bottle of Pinot from fridge and pour an over-enthusiastic glass.

5.32pm - Inspect DVD collection. Deliberate over informative, moving film or only-bought-for-one-reason-for-three-quid-off-eBay film.

5.34pm - Put March of the Penguins back in the DVD rack. Put Desert Saints DVD in the DVD player.

5.40pm - Retrieve rest of the bottle of wine from the fridge. Make sure ashtray and takeaway menu are nearby so as not to have to move off the sofa for the next few hours.

5.50pm - Rrrriiiing. Rrrriiing. “Oh for fuck’s sake.”

K: Fancy a pint?

Miss Hacksaw: Now?

K: Yes, now. Why, what else are you up to?

MH: The Fiance’s out for the night and I’m taking full advantage.

K: Ah, trawling your way through the Duff DVD Archives then. What is it this time?

MH: It’s a film called Desert Saints, and I have no idea if it’s any good or not as I’m only ten minutes in.

K: And why does this classify as a DVD that you have to wait till The Fiance is out to watch?

MH: I….don’t want to say.

K: Who is in this film?

MH: I….also don’t want to say.

K: Kiefer Sutherland gets naked in it, doesn’t he.

MH: I….yes.

K: Pint later then?

MH: OK. Come over about half eight.

5.55pm - Resume film. Hate Melora Walters. Also hate waitress who gets to be on the receiving end of Kiefer handcuff action.

8.00pm – Turn DVD off. Scream and cover ears when TV sound is louder than an AC/DC gig, due to as-yet-unexplained sound differences between TV and DVD systems.

8.01pm – Go into kitchen to dispose of empty wine bottle. Open fridge to examine contents, which are as follows: cheese (hate!), tomatoes (shrivelled), spinach (wilted), pasta (boring), hummus (elderly) and another bottle of wine (yay!)

8.05pm – Attempt to go back into living room with glass of wine following stupid, over-long battle with corkscrew. Freeze and almost drop the glass. “Gaaaaaah! That better be a dust bunny. Gaaah! OK, dust bunnies do not have eight legs and glare at people in their own homes.”

8.10pm – Eventually un-freeze from entertaining-if-not-being-glared-at-by-arachnid-pause-button-stance. Engage in ludicrous Ministry Of Silly Walks step over the spider so as not to anger it by getting too close.

8.11pm – Risk a look at the spider, which has swivelled in order to glare at me again.

8.12pm – Pick up phone to dial The Fiance and panic at him, before remembering that he is a) in Southampton and b) probably in the pub, neither of which is helpful. Replace receiver.

8.13pm – In a rare moment of practicality, gather together a piece of cardboard and a pint glass.

8.14pm – Flap around the living room in non-practical girly way. Down glass of wine in one. Smoke frantically in the misguided belief that this will actually help.

8.15pm – Take a deep breath and vow to be more hardcore in future, in the manner of Nina Myers or Shell Dockley.

8.16pm – “Gaaah. Gaaah. Gaaaah. Ew! Right, you hairy – oh God, I cannot believe there is a hairy spider in my house – bastard. Get on the card. Get on the card. Get on the – fuck! Aaaagh! Get off my hand! Aaagh! Right, stay on the card. Don’t you fucking look at me like that. Do you pay the mortgage? Really? No. You do not. I pay the mortgage, therefore you get out of my – stay on the card! Well done. And don’t try and scramble up the sides of the pint glass. Bastard.”

8.20pm – Attempt to open window above kitchen sink. “Don’t laugh at me for being short, you hairy legged git.”

8.22pm – Locate wedges which will allow me to actually reach window. Strap on wedges, ignoring shouts from feet: “Not these! Anything but these!” “Shut up, feet. Do you want a spider running over you? Well?” Feet thankfully zip it.

8.23pm – Force window open. Tip spider outside. “That’s right, bugger off!” Remove wedges. “About bloody time.” “Shut it, feet.”

8.24pm – Hide from neighbour who has just had a spider dropped on her as she was looking for her keys.

8.25pm – Collapse exhausted onto the sofa and gaze glassy-eyed at Casualty.

8.55pm - Wake from trance-like state and wonder why in the world I am watching Casualty.

9.00pm - Rrrriiiing. Rrrriiing.

K: Fpppppmwrrrrt.

MH: Where are you? Are you still coming over?

K: Oh. Yeah. I fell asleep. Sorry.

MH: How old are you, ninety?

K: Ho ho. Still fancy the pub? You’ll have to give me a while to get sorted though.

MH: No bother. Come round mine when you’re ready.

K: Laters then

9.05pm – Check Sky listings. “Oooh, The Shining’s on!”

10.00pm - Rrrriiiing. Rrrriiing

MH: OK, you need to get here NOW

K: Aaaaaaand calm. I’m on my way, what’s the problem? The pub doesn’t shut till one.

MH: Just keep talking to me.

K: What the hell’s happened?

MH: Weeell, I was flicking through the Sky listings and saw this film was on, and thought “ooh, I haven’t seen that in years” and NOW I REMEMBER WHY.

K: It was The Shining, wasn’t it.

MH: How did you guess that?

K: Because every time we get drunk and start talking about films we get onto the subject of how fucking terrifying those twi-

MH: Gaaah! Do not! Even! Talk! About them! The freaky damn twins. I mean, what the hell? They weren’t in the book! Well, the kids were mentioned, but they weren’t graphically described as being chopped up all over the carpet or advancing on the kid in the hallway while chanting or, for that matter, BEING TWINS who both look completely fucked up and huuuuuuuuuuu-

K: Ooookay. Breathe. Can I ask a question?

MH: -uuuuuuh. Yes.

K: WHY do you put yourself through the inevitable hell of watching horror films when you are alone in the house? You’re useless at it. I’ll never forget the damn Blair Witch phone call at two a.m.

MH: That was different! I wasn’t alone when I watched that!

K: You weren’t?

MH: Nooooo! I watched it with The Fiance and Stanners, and when it finished I went for a piss – which took me about fifteen minutes to work up the courage to do, might I add – and when I came back the bastards had put the lamp on really low and were standing in opposite corners of the room with their faces turned to the wall…..hoooooooooo God, don’t even remind me of it.

K: ……….Heh.

MH: Yes, well. All very easy to laugh when you’re not [bzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz] Damn it! What the fuck was that? Someone’s at the door – knowing my luck it’s probably the Blair Witch or that thing in the bath in The Shining –

K: It’s me, you twat. I’m hanging up now.

MH: Oh. You could have said you were – hello? Damn.

10.10pm Clatter out of flat and go to the pub.

08.15am – Come to on the sofa. Wonder why a) the front door is flapping open, b) why Saved By the Bell is paused on the TV, c) why the smoke alarm is disabled and d) why I am laid on the sofa, wearing only knickers and one sock. Make a pact with myself that next time The Fiance goes out of town on a Saturday night and leaves me to my own devices, I will spend the afternoon swimming and getting a facial and then going to the theatre or some other activity that will not result in me waking up with the mother of all hangovers, wearing only basic underwear and with a tip of a flat to clean up. Oh, and the spider’s back. The hell with it, I’m going to bed.

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