Monthly archives "March 2011"

The Only Way Is Devon

I watched The Only Way Is Essex yesterday – wait! I can explain – kinda….

You see, I’m really an Essex girl from ‘Sarf End’, but it seems I’ve lived in Devon so long (8 years) the Essex may have been knocked out of me.

As I stare in disbelief at the screen, I try to recall just one person I knew from Essex who dressed, spoke or looked like the strange visions animating my HD ready household appliance.

After two hours (omnibus) I desperately wanted to paint myself orange, get someone to smack me in the lips for that dazed fish look and slap on a pair of oversized false eyelashes.

I guiltily tuned into the latest episode last night and marvelled at the deliciousness of ‘Joey Essex’ trying to work out who the Prime Minister of Essex was. You could almost see his brain moving beneath his shining helmet of a hairdo.

Rest assured I am now hooked by the car-crash of a program, perhaps because it validates my decision to move Meg down here before she developed a passion¬†for micro pigs,¬†false boobs and the word ‘babe’.

Vajazzle? Not me, arboriculture would probably be the only solution for my untamed lady garden.

Oh Shuttup!

Waddle I Do Now?

So, I have a ‘waddle’, also known as ‘chicken neck’.

I’ve suspected this for some months now but my family have convinced me it’s all in my mind.

However, whilst plucking a stray whisker from my chin yesterday (yes, I have those too – great!), the waddle was there for all to see.

I’m not sure if the term ‘waddle’ was created by the writers of Ally McBeal, but that’s where I first heard of it. I can only hope that Jeff has the same obsession as Richard Fish, from aforementioned show, and will love my new found appendage.

Surgery isn’t an option – I’ll have to try and be creative with some Sellotape, or maybe spend the rest of my life with a permanent, very tight pony tail.

What’s gonna drop next? eek!


My Social Network

Jeff doesn’t understand what he calls my ‘obsession with the internet’, he rarely uses the computer and can’t comprehend why I don’t just pick up the phone. I do – I have an IPhone4 which I use for social networking from the comfort of my sofa; it’s doing wonders for my eyesight. I do everything on-line; food shopping, banking, tax my car, Christmas shopping – I’d be lost without my broadband!

So, in a bid to move into the 21st Century, I set up a Facebook account a couple of years ago so I could share photos of our wedding with friends and, since then, have found it a great way to keep in touch with my family who live 250 miles away in Essex.

Then, last year, I thought “What’s this Twitter all about?” and tentatively set up an account. I was a slow starter, a shy tweet here and there, a couple of ‘re-tweets’ to enter competitions, logging-in about once a week. Now, I check in every day and am approaching my first thousand tweets. I spend Sunday night discussing costumes on Dancing On Ice with a group of people I’ve never met and am never likely to. I’m worst on Saturday nights after a couple of glasses of wine when Jeff has dozed off . At this point I’m at my most witty –  in my drunken opinion that is! I spent last Saturday doing a ‘live commentary’ of The Evil Dead for the benefit of my followers, most of whom were either asleep, didn’t care or were the ones who ‘unfollowed’ me the next day.

It’s creeping into my work life too, I feel the urge to end each e-mail with #toobusytocallyouback or #yourbudgetisoverspent etc.

Generally it’s all harmless fun, isn’t it? It’s interesting to see what the famous (and not so famous) people are doing, I can get updates on recent news stories and follow my sister’s progress as she trains for the London Marathon. And I like the relative anonymity of it. None of my friends are on Twitter so I can let rip without fear of upsetting one of them or embarrassing myself (in front of people who know me, anyway).

Today I ended a text to Meg with #christmasmemories – she replied ‘Did you just tweet text me? NEW LOW. :P’

Image: renjith krishnan 

Time For a Spring Clean?

As it’s such a beautiful, sunny day today my thoughts turn to spring cleaning – not that I ever do it, I just know someone, somewhere is getting pretty excited about banging their rugs on the washing line.

I’m ‘lucky’ because Jeff will help out with the housework – and aren’t men so much better at it than us?! Well, so they would have us think, because when Jeff is cleaning you would have thought I’d never picked up a duster in my life!

First they have to announce that they’re going to clean, so that you know they’re doing you a massive favour. Then there’s all the noise and disruption while they’re actually doing the job – Jeff always seems to put at least twice the physical effort in than I do. Perhaps it’s because I do it every day and the novelty’s worn off, perhaps it’s because I don’t care if I miss a bit; I don’t know.

Then there’s the ‘tutting’. “tut, look at the amount of dust I’ve got off of here. tut, I got all these dog hairs from behind the fridge, would you believe it?!” and he waves the cloth in my face so I can stare in amazement at the dirt he got off the mirror.

He’ll usually choose to make his valuable contribution to world hygeine when I’ve decided to take half an hour out with a coffee and a magazine and, bugger me, I start feeling guilty that I’m not doing anything!

Worst of all is that, when they’ve finished, they will list everything they’ve done with pride – maybe even take you on a tour expecting gasps of delight at their domestic prowess. (“Look, babe, I pulled the sofa out to hoover and everything”). If you’re really lucky, they’ll give you a bit of advice on how you can do it better in the future! Plus he now thinks an hour of housework qualifies him the tell people in the pub that we ‘share the chores’.

Imagine if I frolicked in front of him with his dinner every night shouting ‘ta-da!’ as I put the plate in front of him, or gave him a running commentary on what’s going in the washing machine every day, or rang him from Tesco’s to give him an update on the trolley status. I’d have no time left to scrub his rejected skin off the bath, put the cd’s in alphabetical order (again!) or ensure there’s always a spare pack of bacon in the fridge.

So, when he says to me “I cleaned the whole bathroom and you haven’t noticed” I just smile and say “I know, it’s a thankless task, isn’t it?”