Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 14

A Laundry Lament

Some people find washing and ironing therapeutic.  Yes, it’s true.  I can remember – granted it was years ago – a friend who actually said that after a busy day at the office she enjoyed nothing more than running a hot iron over crumpled clothes.  That listening to the hiss and spit of the iron as it whooshed backwards and forwards over her beloved husband’s shirts was calming.  And as for periodically being engulfed in a cloud of steam, well apparently that was Nirvana.  This, of course, was before she went on to have a number of children, ended up with her nerves frazzled by juggling the office job with a family, and finally told them all to iron their own wretched shirts before taking off with the window cleaner.  Okay, he wasn’t the window cleaner.  But he was somebody similar.  The milkman or the postman.  And no I don’t know if she found bliss with her new man.  I rather suspect the danger of finding new love is that you inevitably exchange one load of domestic drudge for another
          Anyway, I digress.  My old friend’s words of finding the task of ironing to be a therapeutic one stuck in my memory.  I suppose it’s because as I’ve stood over the ironing board at assorted hideous hours of the day or night, I’ve tried to con myself into believing that I’m doing something soothing.  A bit of respite.  Something that makes my shoulders droop with relaxation and my mind uncoil from tension.   However, as I unball tightly balled-up socks and unpick a crop of buttons from shirts and blouses (my husband and daughter undo the top two before bending, head over feet, to pull the garment over their heads so that it remains not only securely fastened but also inside out), I have to confess that wearing a tranquil expression and thinking tranquil thoughts doesn’t come easily.  And when I’ve finally put garments the right way round, unpicked all those buttons and ironed everything to freshly laundered perfection, I don’t appreciate the cat mincing over when my back is turned and making an impromptu bed out of it all.
          Which reminds me.  A guy walks into a laundry run by cats.  ‘Excuse me,’ he said to the cat in charge, ‘can you get milk stains out?’  ‘Sure,’ replied the cat, ‘in a jiffy we’ll have that stain licked...’

A Male Tale

Yesterday I spent three hours alternating between washing machine, tumble drier and ironing board.  After my ‘wake up’ call earlier this year, I no longer obsess about having a home like a show house, or garments hanging on the clothes horse for longer than 24 hours, or an immaculate garden whilst juggling the day job and writing long into the night.  Something had to give.  So these days the house is tidy, but cleaned when I get a moment rather than twice a week.  I’ve also taken on the services of a gardener.  And by Saturday, the lid on the laundry bin sits on a mountain of unwashed clothes rather than the bin itself, so laundry is now tackled in one fell swoop.  Help is still rather scant on the ground.  My son, home from uni for a rare weekend visit, disappeared into his room insisting he had to revise for his finals.  My daughter barricaded herself into her bedroom to deal with coursework.  And Mr V did what he always does when the weather is fair and fine.  He disappeared off to a golf course.
          I was quite happy to get on with the task without interruption.  Except I wasn’t left in peace for very long.
          ‘We’re hungry,’ came the call down the stairs.
          Grilled haloumi, toast and several teas later, I returned to the ironing board.  The next interruption was for an emergency trip to the barber by my son. I’d barely resumed ironing when my husband rang on his mobile from his car.
          ‘I’m five minutes away and absolutely knackered.  Get a bath on.’
          ‘You seriously want me to put on a bath?  Whereabouts?  On my head, like a hat?  Or perhaps around my shoulders?’
          I carried on ironing.  But not for long. Brrrring-brrring.  This time it was my son.
          ‘I’m done, but I’m covered in hair.  Can you draw me a bath?’
          ‘Draw a bath?  Yes, certainly.  With a pencil or a biro?’
          Needless to say neither husband nor son had steaming bubble baths awaiting them.  Both wore hurt expressions at their bidding not having been carried out which, for a moment, I felt guilty about.  But only for a moment you understand.
          In my next life I’m going to be a man.  I think it has to be a hell of a lot easier than being a woman.  A man can walk into a bar on his own without eyebrows being raised.  A man is a lot safer than a woman walking the streets after dark.  A man can have as many partners as he likes without being called a tart.  And a man can collapse in front of the telly, while the only thing the wife can collapse is the ironing board.
          Oh I know there are a few men out there who mow the lawn, wield a power drill and aren’t afraid to don a pinny or plug in a vacuum cleaner, but sadly I haven’t personally come across one.   Which reminds me.  A woman went shopping.  At the check-out, she opened her purse to pay.  The cashier noticed a TV remote control in her purse.  Curious, he asked, ‘Do you always carry the remote with you?’  ‘No,’ the woman replied, ‘not usually.  But my husband refused to come shopping with me today.’  The cashier laughed and scanned the woman’s purchases.  She handed over a credit card.  ‘Oh dear,’ said the cashier a few moments later, ‘it appears your husband has blocked your credit card.’  And the moral of that little tale is: respect the hobbies of your husband... 

How to own a mucky book...

A little while ago, my sister leant me a book – a very beautiful book full of spiritual teachings.  When I was in hospital and in a rather dark place, I fell upon this book.  It went everywhere with me.  Down to X-Ray.  Into Ultrasound.  In the queue at Phlebotomy.  And, naturally, not far from my side in my hospital room.  In between writing, I read it while munching through the hospital’s menu of soggy cereal, insipid dinners and unappetising teas.  And when I went home, the book went with me, squashed into the depths of my handbag.
          My first husband was absolutely fanatical about the care and condition of any book he read.  Indeed, by the time he’d finished reading a book, you’d have honestly thought the thing had never had a page opened, let alone turned.  Quite how he managed to pull off such a feat was beyond me.  Unfortunately I am the opposite.  I open the book, flatten the page, turn corners of pages over to mark where I’m up to, and as I progress further and further into the book the spine collects more wrinkles than a crone.
          Reading is a pleasure.  And such enjoyment is heightened when the devouring of words is twinned with a snack.  It’s therefore not unusual to find my current read sporting greasy fingerprints from buttery toast.  The annual summer holiday leaves my books covered in sand, sun cream, pool and sea water.  Indeed, after three or four days on the beach, the book has seen so much of the latter that some pages become unglued.  If you spot a sunburnt blonde chasing bits of paper along a beach, that’s me.  So as you can see, I may be an avid reader but I’m not a very good carer.
          ‘Why are your books so scruffy?’ my sister once complained.  ‘Anybody would think you are a total slob.’
          I’m not a slob.  Not by any stretch of the imagination.  Other than in the Book Department.  So when my sister loaned me this particular book, I was very wary of accepting it.
          ‘But it’s brand new,’ I pointed out.
          ‘That’s okay,’ she assured.
          I opened the first page and was horrified to see it had been inscribed with a personal message by the author.  And not to my sister either.  It was addressed to her husband.
          ‘Oh, but this is Richard’s book,’ I gasped.  ‘Does he know you’ve leant it to me?’
          ‘No, but don’t worry about it.  He’s had it years and never read it.  And it’s very unlikely he ever will.  Keep it.’
          ‘Gosh, thanks,’ I beamed.  And with that I treated the book as if it was my own.  Fatal.
          This morning I had a telephone call.  It was my brother-in-law.
          ‘Hi, Debbie.  I just wondered if you’d finished reading my book?’
          ‘Almost,’ I beamed, ‘and it’s absolutely marvellous.  What wonderful teachings.  I’m so grateful.’
          ‘Good, good.  Only the thing is, I’d like it back.  I want to read it myself.’
          There was a pause while I did the sort of gulp you hear in cartoons.
          ‘Ah.  Right.  Um, well obviously it’s not as, er, pristine, as it was.  So, uh, I know!’ I smiled brightly into the receiver.  ‘What about I buy you a brand new book to replace this one?’
          ‘No, no, no.  That’s nice of you to offer, but I’d like the original back.  It has a personal message in it, you see, from the author.’
          ‘Yes,’ I whispered while all sorts of words fired off in my brain which are far too rude to write here.  There is a lot to be said for the invention of Kindle.  Indeed, why the devil hadn’t I just downloaded the same book in the first place?  But it was too late for that now.  A rescue operation had to be done.  And quickly.
          So the book in question has been wiped clean, polished with a soft duster and, as I currently write, is being flattened under the weight of umpteen other books in order to restore the jacket and internal pages to some sort of decent condition, rather than curly edges with fluffy corners.  When I hand it over, it will be swathed in bubble wrap so my brother-in-law can’t see the second-hand condition until I’ve put some distance between us.  About twenty miles to be more precise.
          Which reminds me.  What sort of people make the best book-keepers?  The people who borrow your books and never return them...

A Sale Tale

It isn’t just us who will miss certain parts of our current house.  Yesterday I spotted the cat in the fish pond. Well, not totally in it you understand, but definitely partially in it.  Front paws fully immerged.  Neck craning outwards.  Eyes looking full of mischief as they focussed on the twelve remaining goldfish nibbling serenely at some green stuff welded to the liner.  It’s a race as to who gets the goldfish.  Dolly, or our visiting heron that swoops and flaps off with three tails hanging out of its mouth.
          When we move to Stone our cat will have to content herself with a rectangular grass strip and tormenting the dog instead of a pond full of fish.  I, for one will rejoice in the rectangular grass strip. Previously I used to lug a hefty lawnmower complete with iron roller up and down the steps to the lawn.  And then I succumbed to a young pair of gardeners who now do the job for me.  At least in the new house I will be able to simply wheel the mower out of the shed and push it up and down the lawn with ease.
          Meanwhile I’m slowly taking the house apart and selling furniture and belongings in preparation for the imminent downsize.  This week a wardrobe and desk went under the eBay auction hammer.  Getting the wardrobe down the stairs wasn’t too bad.  The desk was another matter.  I remember my father originally assembling the desk in the bedroom that it has spent the last eight years within.  I assumed it would fit through the door if and when it came to moving.  Wrong.  As my buyer and I huffed and puffed turning the desk this way and that to get it through the doorframe, it became apparent it wasn’t going to happen.
          ‘Do you have a screwdriver?’ asked the lady.
          ‘A screwdriver?’ I repeated, somewhat stupidly.
          In this house that is a bit like asking if we have a spaceship tucked under one of the beds.
          ‘Yes, could I borrow something from your husband’s toolbox?’
          My husband doesn’t have a toolbox.  A lunchbox, yes, but not a toolbox.  The last time my husband was armed with items from a toolbox (my father’s) he destroyed the flat pack furniture we’d bought.  Instead we ended up selecting a knife from the cutlery drawer and going to town on the desk’s screws.  When we finally hoiked the desk out onto the driveway, the next problem was trying to get it into the awaiting car.  I felt like a contestant on The Krypton Factor as we tried to fit a rectangle into a square.  We needed that screwdriver.
          Fortunately my kind neighbour came to the rescue and removed another panel from the desk.  I heaved a huge sigh of relief when the damn thing disappeared into the bowels of the waiting 4 x 4.
          Meanwhile I have more desks and some beds to shift, along with kitchen cupboards full of pots, pans, bowls, blenders, juicers and all manner of paraphernalia bought when I decided to emulate Nigella Lawson in a brief moment of madness.  And I need to get my eBaying skates on, because the clock is ticking.  Which reminds me.  How did I get my pooch to stop begging at the table?  I let her taste my cooking...

O(a)kay

I’m trying to persuade my husband to be as enthusiastic about our impending new home as me and Eleanor.  In an effort to instil a sense of excitement, I took him along to see how the house was progressing.  As we drove through the electric gates (well, they will be when the electricians do their magic), I felt a thrill ripple through me.  I sneaked a sideways glance at my husband.  His mouth was set in a grim line.
          ‘Doesn’t the setting look fab!’ I trilled.
          No response.
          I parked the car, and had barely opened the driver’s door when Mr V was out and striding off, head rotating 360 degrees as he took in the surroundings.  A ferocious looking builder with a Polish accent materialised from nowhere and demanded to know what we wanted.
          ‘Um, we’re buying Plot 129,’ I said nervously.  ‘Any chance of looking inside?’
          The builder was instantly all smiles.  ‘In you go,’ he gestured with one hand, ‘and ignore mess.  Soon it be perfect.  No worries.’
          ‘I’m sure it will be,’ I gushed, resisting an urge to bow and scrape.  After all, I didn’t want him doing a dodgy job on the place.  No wonky light switches or leaking showers thank you very much.
          Mr V stepped over the threshold, into a hallway littered with paint pots and strode straight through to the lounge.  A pile of workmen’s paraphernalia was positioned where I was roughly envisaging a coffee table.
          ‘It’s certainly coming along,’ I said and gave my husband an encouraging smile. His mouth remained in the same grim line.  ‘And look at the kitchen!’ I waved a hand expansively at bubble wrapped units.  ‘Quartz worktops!  And a built-in microwave.  And a fridge where the door shuts properly.  And a decent sized freezer, and–’
          But I’d lost my audience.  My husband was taking the bare wooden stairs two at a time.  I scampered after him.  On the first floor a sink was in my son’s future bedroom.  In the master bedroom lay the emersion heater.  I poked my head around the en-suite bathroom.
          ‘Tiling looks beautiful,’ I purred.  But Mr V was off again up the next flight of stairs and ducking under a precariously placed ladder.  The loft room will be ours.  The skylights look out upon nearby Grade II listed buildings, recently renovated and displaying a skyline of chimney pots, roof terraces, wrought iron balconies and gables.  ‘When I’ve finished revamping my bureau, it’s going to be placed just here so I can look out on all that,’ I gestured, ‘while writing.’
          Mr V gazed at me, his face expressionless.  Suddenly he was off again, clattering down the two flights of stairs and out into the newly landscaped grounds.  Dismayed, I dawdled after him.  My husband has been the same every time we’ve moved house.  Even when moving to our current house – a move he was more enthusiastic about than me – when it came to The Big Day he was having the jitters.  ‘Are we doing the right thing, Debbie?  Have we made a financial bind for ourselves?  What if it’s all a monumental mistake?’
          When my husband moves into a house, he’s like a sapling putting down roots.  And when it’s time to move on, it’s like trying to fell an oak.  I caught up with him and, together, we got into the car.
          ‘You really don’t want to move here, do you?’ I gazed ahead at all the beautiful mews houses behind an avenue of freshly planted trees.  Trees that, even as I stared, were no doubt putting down their roots.  Finding their new home.
          My husband gave a huge sigh.  ‘I’m moving here for you.’
          ‘It’s a stop gap,’ I shrugged.  ‘Two or three years.  As soon as Eleanor has flown the nest, and then we’ll move again.  To your beloved Penshurst.’
          Mr V nodded.  ‘Come on.  Let’s drive to John Lewis.  We’ll look at house stuff.’
          I put the key in the ignition and started the engine up.  I have no doubt that when the time comes to move to Penshurst my husband will be resisting all over again.  Oak trees are difficult to shift.
          Which reminds me, what’s the difference between an oak tree and a tight shoe?  One makes acorns, the other makes corns ache...       

You Can’t Curry Love

Last night Mr V took me out for an Indian.  As we sat there dipping poppadoms into spicy chutneys, we couldn’t help ruminate over the last twelve months.  In a nutshell, it’s been awful.  So much has happened.  Mostly cr*p stuff.  But you know, I’m not really a negative type of person and try and look for the silver lining in every cloud that comes along.  And boy, there have been some dark clouds.
          First off, life is short.  And terribly precious.  Last year, like so many others, I took my life totally for granted.  It’s only when your life is threatened that you take a good, hard, very long look at everything – and from a totally different perspective.  If somebody used to hack me off, or wind me up, or upset me, I’d silently rant, ‘Well one hundred years from now it won’t matter, because we’ll all be dead!’  Which is true enough.  But the important thing is, while our two feet are still firmly planted on terra firma, things that get on top of us do matter.  And it matters how we deal with these things.  We shouldn’t let these things fester inside us, otherwise it can make us ill.
          Today I’m going to come face to face with something that I’ve been reluctant to recently address – for many reasons.  But the important thing is, I’m doing it.  Not for me, you understand, but for a person I love.  And also because I don’t want the unaddressed situation otherwise festering away.  It’s not healthy.  So despite my reservations, I’m regarding it as a therapy of sorts – regardless of the outcome.
          Meanwhile, on a lighter note, last night’s curry is lingering in my hair and upon my breath.  Which reminds me.  Have you seen the Top Ten Curry Charts?
1. Poppadum Preach – Madonna
2. Korma Chameleon - Culture Club
3. Dansak Queen – Abba
4. Tikka Chance On Me – Abba
5. Tears On My Pilau - Kylie Minogue
6. It's Bhuna Hard Days Night - The Beatles
7. Brothers in Naans - Dire Straits
8. I'm a Bhaji Girl – Aqua
9. Dansak on the Ceiling - Lionel Richie
10. Love me Tandoor - Elvis Presley

Home Sweet (New) Home

The weather is changing, which is no surprise given that summer is drawing to an end.  All over the country, children have returned to school.  My youngest, now sixteen, starts college on Monday where she will study Performing Arts.  Time, like the birds gathering for migration, flies.  And in no time at all, I am sure, Moving Day will arrive.  Just like those birds packing their bags for warmer climes, I will be packing boxes to downsize from a family home which has almost become an empty nest.
          Will I miss this family house?  No.  It’s a place that’s seen an awful lot of drama, one way or another.  Will I miss the people around here?  Yes.  I have good neighbours and made some smashing friends, but hopefully we will keep in touch, although I will miss my walks with fellow pooch pals around the local meadow.
          But change is as good as a rest – so the saying goes.  And, boy, do I need a rest.  Mentally, that is.  The last twelve months have been...well, both challenging and emotionally exhausting.  So it is with great hope and a sense of anticipated joy that I will be embracing the new abode (if all runs to plan, please God) at the end of next month or very shortly thereafter.
          The new kitchen is in, the tiling to the bathrooms complete and everything is brand spanking new.  A new start on every level!  Next week I’m choosing the carpets, fitted wardrobes and size of garden shed.  Yes, it’s true, size matters.  So does colour.  The daughter and I have pored over soft furnishings, pastels, shades and light tones.  It’s been exciting and uplifting. We’ve leafed through furniture directories and trawled on-line websites for ideas, and already tempted fate by purchasing two things for the house before exchange of contracts!  We’ve also taken to swinging by the building site that has, in the last few weeks, so rapidly taken shape in order to check out ‘our house’.  When we stopped by at dusk earlier in the week, we both sat and gasped.
          ‘This place looks almost magical,’ sighed Eleanor.
          And it’s true, it did.  We feasted our eyes on a handful of lit-up dwellings crouched at the base of the main building – a dominant Grade II listed conversion.  At twilight it looked a bit like Hogwarts in the Harry Potter films.
          Meanwhile I’m hoping to find time to facelift an ancient bureau my sister gave me.  I’m thinking Farrow & Ball posh paint and jewelled handles.  Which reminds me.  A blonde decided to impress her husband by redecorating the lounge while her husband was at work.  When the husband came home, a tell-tale smell of new paint hung in the air.  He walked into the lounge to find his wife very hot and bothered.  She was wearing a ski jacket and fur coat, both at the same time.  ‘Why are you decorating dressed like that?’ he asked.  The blonde put down her paintbrush and said, ‘Because the instructions on the tin said for best results, put on two coats...’

 

Le Chat

Over the years I’ve owned a number of pets.  Mainly dogs, but a fair smattering of moggies too.  After a feline absence of nearly seventeen years, Dolly came into our lives last Autumn.  She’s a black and white long-haired diva.  If Dolly were human, she’d probably be something glamorous, like a pop star, or a super model.  In short, she’s gorgeous!
          Like all pets, at some point a trip to the vet becomes necessary.  I’m not talking about neutering or vaccines.  I’m talking about when they get poorly.  Last week Dolly went off her food.  So I went out and spent a small fortune on chicken and turkey breast, and umpteen slices of breaded ham.
          ‘Do not touch!’ I slapped Mr V’s wrist as he was about to break into the ham.
          ‘Why not?’
          ‘It’s for the cat.’
          ‘The cat?  But she’s a cat!  What’s wrong with her eating cat food?’
          ‘Because she’s not feeling fab.’
          ‘She told you this, did she?’
          ‘Now you’re being silly.’
          ‘Well I’m sure Dolly won’t mind me pinching a bit of ham.’
          ‘Dolly might not, but I do.  Now leave the ham alone.’
          The cat was then presented with a small bowl of chopped fresh meat. Naturally she devoured every last morsel.
          ‘There’s nothing wrong with that cat!’ declared Mr V.  ‘She’s faking!’
          The following day I kept Dolly in just to monitor her.  She seemed fine, other than declining feline food in favour of ham and chicken.
          ‘That cat’s got you sussed,’ grumbled Mr V.
          Dolly used her litter tray and produced so much wee that at one point I thought I was listening to a horse rather than a cat.  At least there was nothing wrong with her bladder.  But she didn’t produce a Number Two.  I decided to keep her in for a second day but, again, no Number Two.  Day Three rolled around and still no Number Two.  I telephoned the vet.
          ‘Yes, you’d better bring Dolly in, Mrs Viggiano.’
          So there we were – the vet, me, and Dolly.  After pressing her tummy, the vet summed up.
          ‘You have a constipated cat.’
          ‘Oh dear.  What does she need then?’  I had visions of sprinkling laxative over chopped chicken and ham.
          ‘I’ll give her an enema.’
          In the moments that followed, I was glad I wasn’t Dolly.
          After much swearing – the cat, not the vet – Dolly went back into her carrier.
          ‘Don’t take too long to get home, Mrs Viggiano.  The enema will start to work in about thirty minutes.’
          In fact, we’d only travelled thirty seconds down the road when the car was filled with a suspicious smell.  I was transported back in time to when the children were in nappies, and presented a bowel motion while strapped into a car seat.  Inevitably a wail would go up until the infant child was home, topped, tailed, and in a fresh nappy.  In this case a wail did go up, but regrettably my cat wasn’t in a nappy.
          ‘Meow,’ said Dolly plaintively, ‘meowwwwwwww.’
          Oh God.
          ‘We’ll soon be home, darling,’ I soothed, as if I was once again talking to a distressed infant instead of a distressed cat.
          Once home I put the cat and her carrier into the utility room and made sure the door was firmly shut.  I then ran a warm bath.  No, not for me.  For the cat.  Well sorry, but if you’d seen the state of her fur...no, no, let’s not go there.
          The cat was then swaddled with an old towel and dumped in the bath.  This was followed by more swearing – the cat and me.  I had no idea how tiny Dolly was under all that long fluffy hair.  A sparrow with baleful eyes emerged a minute or two later, swore some more as I attempted to towel her dry, then stalked off to vent her frustration on poor old pooch.
          Which reminds me.  What is it called when a cat wins a dog show? A cat-has-trophy...

A Table for Two(ish)...

Do you ever have a night out and end up, inadvertently I hasten to add, hearing a total stranger’s conversation without them actually talking to you?
          Last night my husband insisted on taking me out to dinner.  This is quite a phenomenon in all truth.  Usually it’s me insisting he takes me out to dinner.  But last night, he was adamant.  ‘There are some things we need to discuss, Debbie.’  Oh.  Right.
          So there we were, huddled over the tiny table for two, where a candle and flower in a vase jostled for space with the cutlery and napkins.  At the table next to us was a guy I initially mistook for one of Katie Price’s ex-husbands.  Alex Reid.  For those not in the know, Alex Reid is a cage fighter with big biceps and a crooked nose.  Anyway, it wasn’t Alex Reid.  I know that for sure because our table was probably four point five inches in distance from this chap’s table, and his girlfriend was calling him Jason.
          ‘Are you listening to me?’ said Mr V.
          ‘Of course.’  Not.
          ‘So, Mandy, what did yer dad say when yer told ’im you woz goin’ out wiv a bloke of thir’y-one?’ asked Jason.
          Cue screech of laughter from Mandy, followed by a mega flick of hair.  I was nearly whiplashed by blonde extensions.  ‘’E don’t know, does ’e!  I don’t fink ’e would approve much, me bein’ so much younger an’ all that.’
          Mr V: ‘What would you like to eat?’
          Me: (perusing menu) ‘I’ll have...’
          Jason: (perusing menu) ‘What d’yer fancy?’
          Mandy: (peering over menu) ‘You!’
          Mr V: ‘I’m going to have a salad.’
          Me: ‘I’ll have the wilted spinach.’
          Jason: ‘I’m starvin’.  I’m so starvin’ I could eat a bleedin’ ‘orse.’
          Mandy:  ‘Do they do ’orse in ’ere?  Where’s it got ’orse on the menu?’
          Mr V: ‘I’ll have medallions for mains.’
          Me:  ‘I’ll go for the fish.’
          Jason: ‘I’ll ’ave half a cow instead.  I need to keep up me high protein.’
          Mandy: ‘And I’ll ’ave...wot are those smelly pink fings called?’
          I had an overwhelming urge to lean across and reply, ‘Feet.’
          Mr V:  ‘...sell the house at a price I’m not happy about.’
          Me: ‘Mmm.’
          Jason: ‘I go to the jimmm every mornin’.  I like to do press ups.’
          Mandy: ‘You ’ave luvly mussolls.’
          Mr V: ‘...tell the estate agent...’
          Me:  ‘Mmm.’
          Jason:  ‘Would yer like to feel ’em?’
          Mandy:  (a bit breathless) ‘Wot, in ’ere?’
          Mr V:  ‘...buyer’s market, did you know prices are on the up....’
          Me.  ‘Mmm.’
          Jason:  (starting to look very perky)  ‘Which bit d’yer wanna touch?’
          Mandy:  (arching back, chest out, flicking hair all over place) ‘Ooooh!’
          Mr V:  ‘Ah, starters!’
          Me:  (lifting neighbour’s hair extensions off my spinach) ‘Ah, starters!’
          Jason: ‘Well ain’t this a good start!’
          Mandy: ‘Ow dear, there’s some green stuff in me hair.’
          Okay, I made the last two lines up.  Meanwhile Mr V thinks I’ve undersold the house.  Which is quite staggering given he wants top dollar for ours but is quite happy to make offers on other properties at £80,000 less than the asking price!
          However, the conveyancing wheels have been set in motion.  And I for one am keeping my fingers crossed for a smooth and successful house move.  Which reminds me.  A prominent young conveyancing solicitor was on his way to work when he was hit by a bus. Suddenly he found himself at the Pearly Gates facing Saint Peter.  “This has to be a mistake!” exclaimed the solicitor, ‘I’m only 35 and much too young to die!’  St Peter replied, ‘That’s odd.  Based on the number of hours you have billed clients, we thought you had to be at least 105...’

Another moving story...

At the time of bashing out today’s blog entry, I can confirm that not only have we had an offer on our house (regrettably too low), we’ve had a second viewing by a very eager couple who have four children.  I’m crossing my fingers, toes, and legs that they make a decent offer that will make my quest to downsize a reality.
          I always get into a terrible tizzy when a viewer is due.  Firstly, the house has to be spotless because first impressions count.  Secondly, any ‘clutter’ has to be well and truly hidden.  This means everything that the kids insist leaving all over their bedroom floors gets firmly shoved into their wardrobes.  Thirdly, the house has to smell nice...which means pooch is put out the back door, swiftly followed by the cat who never fails to poop into her litter tray thirty seconds prior to a viewer’s arrival.
          However, yesterday’s couple possibly wouldn’t have minded too much had our pets let us down.  They staggered through the front door, both clutching a two year old.  Twins!  Double trouble!  And indeed, the parents’ first words as they crossed the threshold were, ‘We apologise in advance, but there was lots of, erm, bottom noises on the journey here and the children might want to have a pooh.’
          ‘No problem,’ I trilled, ‘They can take their pick because there are four loos in this house (never miss a sales opportunity!).’  I moved swiftly onwards.  ‘This is the lounge and, as you can see, there are wonderful French doors issuing forth (I lurve saying issuing forth) onto a large decked area.  The family looked at the French doors.  Their gaze was met by the pooch staring mournfully in from the other side of the glass.
          ‘Doggy,’ said one of the twins.
          ‘Woof,’ said pooch.
          There then followed an awful lot of excited barking from both sides of the glass.
          ‘And this,’ I hastily swept them through into the kitchen, ‘is a room that is the hub of the household (never miss a sales opportunity!).  Note the large sliding doors issuing forth onto the patio.’  The family looked at the sliding doors.  Their gaze was met by the pooch staring in from the other side of the glass.
          ‘Oh, another dog!’ exclaimed the mummy.
          ‘No, it’s the same–’
          But my words were drowned out as both pooch and children once again erupted into joyful barking at each other.
          ‘Follow me!’ I commanded.  ‘This room is the teen den, but a few years ago was a playroom.  Note the double French doors issuing forth (sorry, just cannot not say it) onto the terrace (never miss a sales opportunity!).
          The family looked at the double French doors.  Their gaze was met by the pooch once again staring in from the other side of the glass.
          ‘Gosh, a third dog!’ said the mummy.
          ‘No, it’s still the same–’
          Another cacophony of barking broke out from both children and said dog.  Pooch wagged her tail joyfully.  Friends!  She then spotted some bird pooh on the glass and stopped barking.  Instead, she began licking the glass.  The cat minced into view, spotted pooch licking shit and decided to join in.
          I immediately blocked the view and instead suggested my viewers might like to next check out the study.  Thankfully this room has no doors issuing forth and no animals salivating over bird plop.
          Finally, upstairs, we moved on to viewing the bedrooms.
          ‘This is our youngest daughter’s room,’ I extended one arm and ushered the family in.
          ‘Ooh, built in wardrobes,’ said the mummy eagerly.
          ‘Absolutely,’ I gushed (never miss a sales opportunity!).
          Whereupon the mummy touched one brass handle.  ‘May I?’
          ‘Ah, erm, well I’m not sure–’
          Too late.  Mummy had the wardrobe door open and seconds later was hopping about as a guitar landed on her foot.  (Memo to self:  sometimes it’s better to miss a sales opportunity).
          Which reminds me.  What do you call a dinosaur that has a sore foot? An Ankle-oh-sore-is...