Debbie Viggiano's Blog, page 16

GCSE Blues

This week my daughter started her GCSE examinations.  There was much muttering prior to the first exam with complaints of being stressed out and wails of, ‘I’m going to fail and it’s all Miss’s fault.  She hates me.’
          Why my daughter thinks her tutor dislikes just her I don’t know.   Personally I think most of the tutors dislike all their pupils, which is hardly surprising considering some of the ‘leaver pranks’ that have been going on in the last week.  No doubt an army of Year 11 pupils up and down the country have reduced their teachers to gibbering wrecks as stink bombs have detonated in canteens, bags of flour erupted over opening doors, and any classroom featuring a clock (all of them in other words) has been stripped bare.  One motley crew went a bit too far and tipped red ink over sanitary towels which were then used to wallpaper the visitors’ cloakroom.  Gosh, how I’m sure those teachers laughed.  Not.
          ‘I hope you aren’t taking part in these pranks,’ I said sternly to my daughter.
          ‘Of course not,’ she replied with very wide eyes.
          It’s the eyes that give a lie away.  Many years ago I watched the wonderful Derren Brown live.  He told the audience that he wasn’t telepathic or psychic or any other amazing thing, just that he’d learnt to read body language.  Tip Number One.  If you want to lie, don’t blink while telling your porky pie.  It’s a total giveaway.  Tip Number Two.  Stay away from Derren Brown because I’m convinced he’s also telepathic and psychic – he blinked while telling the audience he wasn’t.
          Anyway, I digress.  Daughter came home from the first GCSE exam totally euphoric and cackling gleefully.
          ‘Ah, it went well!’ I beamed.
          ‘No, it just means that I can now put all this,’ she waved a stack of papers at me, ‘in the bin because I never, ever have to look at them again.’
          Unless she ends up doing re-sits of course.
          Which reminds me.  The following questions were set in last year’s GCSE examinations and are claimed to be genuine answers from 16 year olds.

Q. Name the four seasons
A. Salt, pepper, mustard and vinegar

Q. Explain one of the processes by which water can be made safe to drink.
A. Filtration makes water safe to drink because it removes large pollutants like grit, sand, dead sheep and canoeists

Q. How is dew formed?
A. The sun shines down on the leaves and makes them perspire

Q. What guarantees may a mortgage company insist on?
A. If you are buying a house they will insist that you are well endowed

Q. In a democratic society, how important are elections?
A. Very important. Sex can only happen when a male gets an election

Q. What are steroids?
A. Things for keeping carpets still on the stairs

Q. What happens to a boy when he reaches puberty?
A. He says goodbye to his boyhood and looks forward to his adultery

Q. Name a major disease associated with cigarettes
A. Premature death

Q. What is artificial insemination?
A. When the farmer does it to the bull instead of the cow

Q. How can you delay milk turning sour?
A. Keep it in the cow

Q. What is the fibula?
A. A small lie

Q. What is the most common form of birth control?
A. A condominium

Q. Give the meaning of the term 'Caesarean section'
A. The caesarean section is a district in Rome

Q. What is a seizure?
A. A Roman Emperor

Q. What is a terminal illness?
A. When you are sick at the airport

Q. Use the word 'judicious' in a sentence to show you understand its meaning
A. Hands that judicious can be soft as your face with Mild Green Fairy Liquid

Fabulous Florence and Perfect Pisa

I can’t believe a whole week has passed since I was in Italy enjoying a long weekend exploring Florence and Pisa.  Time goes nowhere and already those days seem like a very beautiful dream.  Thank goodness for digital cameras to preserve the memories.

It was an early start last Saturday morning.  When the alarm shrieked at 3.45 a.m. there was an overwhelming desire to ignore it, but like all good tourists we flung back the covers, grabbed the pre-packed suitcases and set off for Gatwick Airport.  As the car sped down the motorway I had a nagging feeling I’d overlooked something.  Dog in kennel – check.  Cat being looked after by daughter – check.  Passports – check.  Tickets – check.  What was it?  No matter, it couldn’t have been important.
Easyjet now have a bag drop rather than a check-in.  Frankly I couldn’t spot the difference.  Oh, hang on, the nice lady weighing our suitcases told us we had apparently booked Speedy Boarding.  Good heavens, had Mr V and I taken leave of our senses and unwittingly splurged just to get to the front of boarding queue?  Apparently yes.  Along with everybody else on our flight.
Half an hour later we were on the plane.  Mr V skimmed through the Duty Free Shopping magazine in thirty seconds flat and then declared he was bored.  How to pass the flight time?  Some conversation?  I nearly fell off my airline seat from shock.  Take away a television and its football channel and my husband is a lost soul.
        ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘what shall we talk about?’
        ‘Gosh I don’t know,’ Mr V rubbed his chin thoughtfully, ‘what about work?’
        ‘Work?  But the whole purpose of this trip is to forget about work for a few days!’
        ‘I work very hard.’
        ‘So do I.’
        ‘Not as hard as me.’
        ‘Rubbish!  When you come home from work, that’s it.  Your day is done.  Mine is still going.  I work from the moment I get up to the moment I hit the pillow.  I not only do the day job, I run a home which is a 24/7 job.’
        Mr V adjusted his seating position.  Clearly a few words were about to be spoken to redefine my so-called hectic days of work.
        ‘Just because you slap an egg between a muffin in the mornings, does not mean you’re working flat out.’
        I idly picked up the Duty Free Magazine and wondered if Easyjet had ever witnessed a passenger being whacked with it.  Instead I distracted myself doing some people watching.  People wear some very strange clothes on airplanes.  Take him over there.  Blue and white striped shirt, pink jeans and orange socks tucked into bright green shoes.  I regarded my own footwear – flip flops abandoned under the passenger seat in front of me in favour of a pair of in-flight socks that looked like something my granny used to wear.  So cool...
When we arrived in Pisa the sun was beaming away in welcome and the temperature was 27 degrees.  And who forgot her shorts?  Was that what had bothered me so much on the journey to Gatwick?  I rummaged through my thoughts.  No.  It was something important.  I just couldn’t quite ... put ... my ... finger ... on ... it.
Dumping the suitcases we immediately took off to see the famous leaning tower of Pisa.  Except we ended up at the train station.  So we turned around and retraced our steps down narrow streets lined with quaint trattorias sporting hanging baskets and scrumptious menus.  But not even the aroma of tomato and basil could distract us.  For there, peeking over the rooftops, was the tip of the tower.  I can’t really describe the effect it had on me. It was like a magnet.  I found myself breaking into a jog and dodging the tourists as it came into full view.  And suddenly it was revealed in all its glory.  A vast cylindrical building, partially sunken and tilting precariously, but apparently standing up and not toppling over. All around us tourists were doing the ‘holding it up’ pose.  The architecture was stunning and the stonework glorious.  But not just on the tower, but elsewhere too.  To the left of the bell tower were the cathedral and baptistery, both of which were grandiose masterpieces.
Florence was another beautiful place to explore with its breathtaking palaces, vast cathedrals and incredible museums.  The camera was working flat out that day.
But all good things come to an end.  And regrettably our love affair with this historically rich country is over.  For now.
And when we finally landed at Gatwick Airport, I found out what I’d forgotten to do.  I’d failed to book travel insurance.  This small but important detail came to light when a bottle of olive oil broke in one of the suitcases and Mr V’s beloved Armani jacket became a glistening mess.
        ‘Never mind,’ I trilled, ‘we can always claim on the insurance.’
        Or not in this case.
Which reminds me.  If olive oil comes from olives, where does baby oil come from??

Getting lost, pyjamas and predictive text

I’m loving my new car.  And so are my kids – taxi duties have risen by 20%.
          Earlier on this week my kids went to see Pink at the O2.  I was pushed for time on the upward journey, so nervously put my daughter on a train to London. My son, who is in digs in Stepney Green, was under strict instructions to meet his sister promptly at Victoria Station.  But after the concert and gone 11 p.m. there was no way my daughter was travelling home alone.  So I drove to Greenwich to meet my children and told my son I’d give him a lift back to The Black Hole (his dreadful digs which look even more dreadful since being burgled and having all the doors smashed in.  But that’s another story).
          Now I don’t know if you’ve ever tried parking at the O2, but it’s a nightmare.  Well, it’s not so much a problem priorto a concert, it’s when 20,000 people come pouring out and half of them go off to the car park.  So I opted to park not so far away in nearby Sainsbury’s.  My son has a Sat-Nav on his phone, so I gave him the postcode of Sainsbury’s and sat tight.  The minutes trickled by.  After half an hour I was a bit anxious and rang my son.
          ‘Where are you?’
          ‘Going round and round in circles.  We’ve just crossed the same roundabout three times and nearly been flattened by traffic – it’s manic.’
          ‘What the heck are you doing on a roundabout?  And why aren’t you using your Sat Nav?’ I squawked.
          ‘Because my battery is dangerously low and I don’t want it to die on me.  I’d rather be able to stay in contact.  Let me get off the phone, it’s draining the battery.  Text me some landmarks.’
          The line went dead.  A part of me wanted to abandon the car and look for them on foot – they couldn’t be that far away.  However, like a million other late-night taxiing parents, I’d set off from home wearing my pyjamas and didn’t want to get arrested for being an oddball.  Instead I looked around me for some handy landmarks.  Thankfully, there were quite a few.  I was opposite Prezzo all lit up with neon lights.  Next door was Nandos and a main bus stop.  I picked up my mobile and tapped out a message.
          Thank God for mobile phones!  Where would we be without them?  Unfortunately still lost in the case of my children.  For whilst mobile phones are a fantastic invention, I cannot say the same for predictive text.
          My phone rang.
          ‘Hello?’
          ‘Mum!  Where the heck are you?’
          ‘I’ve just texted you my location!’
          ‘It was utter nonsense.  Try again.’
          I hung up and retrieved my text message.
          Important opposite Prezzo, directly opposite hands and a bus stop.
          Y-e-s, I can see that wasn’t very helpful.  Almost as bad as another time I texted my son who was waiting at a different venue and had also asked me to give some friends a lift home:
          Give me a time for Santa to pick u up. And if your arrows are drunk, they won’t be allowed in the car.
          I still haven’t worked out why Father Christmas came into the text or why friends was substituted for sharp spears.  All very odd.
          Anyway, there was a happy ending to this tale.  My children, frozen and wet through from a cloud burst, found their pyjama clad mother and we finally set off.
          Which reminds me.  A blonde was driving down a one-way street when she was pulled over by a traffic policeman.  ‘Lady, do you have any idea where you’re going?’ asked the cop.  ‘No,’ replied the blonde, ‘but it must be pretty unpopular.  Everyone else is leaving.’

Va-Va Vroom Vroom

Last Saturday Mr V wanted to go looking at cars.  Now it has to be said that I’m rather allergic to car show rooms.  All that mooching around a vast space occupied by hugely expensive shiny objects.  Spotlights in the ceiling positioned just so.  Paintwork gleaming.  Bonnets protruding like women sticking their chests out.  And, typically, any man within spitting distance trying not to drool too obviously.
          Over the last few weeks Mr V has carted me around various dealers.  Audi.  BMW.  Back to Audi.  Back to BMW.  And then Mercedes.  My husband is a man who likes to think things over.  And I am a woman who doesn’t.  If you want a car, get on and buy it.  Don’t um and ah and ponder and scratch your chin and pace backwards and forwards.  It’s a waste of time, energy and – apart from anything else – I have a low boredom threshold.  And last weekend my boredom threshold hit rock bottom.  Which was possibly why, as we drove into the Mercedes dealership, my ears pricked up and my nose twitched.  The moment the passenger door opened, I was off on a scent.
          While Mr V ambled into the show room to um, ah, ponder, scratch his chin, and pace backwards and forwards, I was off across the parking lot where row upon row of cars were available to view.  Ooh, that one was nice – big sporty wheels.  But what about this one?  An M Class.  It only did how much to the gallon?  I swiftly moved on.  This one was more like it.  But wrong colour.  See?  Instant processing of brain, immediate acceptance or dismissal of what the eyes were seeing.  None of this fannying about and pacing over a model with a horrific insurance group.  I ground to a halt.  There, before me, was the car of my dreams.  Well, no I lie actually.  The real car of my dreams was the M Class, but I was more than happy to settle for this one.  The B Class.  Very elegant.  Silver.  Which also meant it didn’t need to go through the car wash every two minutes like other colours (never buy black, looks great until it rains, which is virtually every day in the UK).
          I peered in through the driver’s window.  Automatic.  Sat-Nav.  And several other buttons and controls – way beyond my immediate understanding on account I’d never driven anything so swish before (thanks to owning a moulting dog and kids who drop sweet wrappers everywhere).  But as I stood there enthralled, my mind was made up.  I was having this car.  I strode off to the show room.
          ‘So what sort of deal would you give me?’ Mr V was asking a young salesman.  So young that surely he shouldn’t be driving, never mind selling cars.  I’d heard all these questions before, along with the haggling and weighted silences aimed to tease the salesman.  I stood there and waited for the next pause – which wasn’t long as my husband loves to stretch a salesman’s nerves to breaking point.  I jumped in.
          ‘That car over there,’ I pointed through the showroom’s vast glass windows, ‘I’ll have it.’
          Mr V’s jaw hit the marble floor and I thought the salesman was going to faint.  Never before had he secured such a speedy deal.  And he hadn’t even had to seek me out!
          ‘If you’ll excuse me for one moment,’ Mr V smiled at the salesman before propelling me away by the elbow.  The salesman looked like he was about to burst into tears.  Nor had he ever lost a sale in a nano-second.  ‘What the devil are you doing?’ hissed my husband.
          ‘I want to buy a new car.’
          ‘But you bought a new car only a few months ago.’
          This is true.  But it was a Micra.  There is a world of difference between a Micra that bashes my front passenger’s knees every time I change gear, and a Mercedes.  The only thing they have in common is that they both begin with M.
          ‘I know, but this time I’m going to be utterly selfish and buy what I want.’
          And so I did.
          Meanwhile Mr V is thinking about checking out some convertible sports cars.  Another ten years and he might even buy one.  I'll leave him to it because I’m off for a little drive.  Which reminds me.  A woman told her husband she wanted a new car.  ‘I want something that goes 0-140 in three seconds.’  The husband produced some weighing scales and said, ‘Stand on that.’

I think, therefore I'm not an MP

You know, I’d have liked to have written a few words about Mrs Thatcher and her passing...but...I’m all too conscious of the vitriolic comments ‘out there’ and the potential for backlash.  Sadly freedom of speech doesn’t seem applicable these days when it comes to politics.  I read about Geri Halliwell saluting Mrs T on Twitter, calling her the first woman of ‘girl power’.  The resulting wrath was such that she was forced to delete the tweet.  In a country like Great Britain?  Come again?  Geez....
When the news first broke of Mrs Thatcher’s death, the thing that struck me the most was that it was impossible to scroll through Facebook’s newsfeed without spotting comments like ‘yippee’ or ‘how wonderful’.  I rarely read the newspapers but on this occasion did venture into the broadsheets where pictures of looters and arsonists and rioters were photographed for anyone who cared to see.  What was that all about?  Supposedly letting off steam about a Prime Minister whose policies they didn’t agree with.  Erm, the only thing is, she’s not lead this country for over 20 years.  These people were simply looking for an excuse to go out and make trouble without a thought for wrecking others’ means of making an honest living.
I’m no political animal and frankly couldn’t care less who is leading the country.  They are all a bunch of muppets as far as I am concerned.  All of them need a damn good shake up and to be force fed a spoonful or six of common sense.  Whether you liked or loathed Margaret Thatcher, I cannot rejoice in her death or that of any other politician – past, present, or future.  She was a human being, a wife and a mother – same as me and every other woman out there on Planet Earth.  Since when did so many people fail to recognise that we should all stop this simmering hatred and start being nice to each other – REGARDLESS OF WHOM OR WHAT WE WERE/ARE?  Bottom line is, we’re all in this together.  So for God’s sake let’s start trying to get on with each other.  And then maybe, just maybe, this world will be a nicer place.
Right, that’s me off my soap box.  Which reminds me.  A little girl asked her father, ‘Do all fairy tales begin with Once upon a time?  Her father replied, ‘No.  Some begin with When I am elected’...

After 45 your get up and go gets up and goes

So my cuz and I survived a week’s skiing in Les Arcs, with our daughters but husband-free.  There was an unspoken pact to let our hair down and have a jolly good time.
          ‘Shall I pack the Scrabble?’ I asked Anita.
          ‘Certainly not.  There’s a big après ski scene in Les Arcs and we are going to check it out.’
          ‘Right-oh,’ I warbled, and the Scrabble board remained at home.
          We arrived in Les Arcs with a sense of anticipation.  We might be middle-aged...very middle-aged on my part due to being the eldest by five years...but hey!  Age is just a number and it’s all about mental attitude.  They say you are as young as the man you feel.  So when we took a coffee break after a morning’s skiing and had a couple of French guys making eyes at us, we were secretly thrilled to bits.  The fact that the chaps in question were older than us and dressed as women were neither here or there.
          After coffee, we returned to the slopes – and oh what slopes they were!  To put those skis together and just hurtle off...except...hang on...why was I being left behind?  Why were my legs constantly braking every time speed kicked in?
          ‘Stop it!’ I mentally cussed my leg muscles.
          ‘Bugger off!’ they answered back, ‘you think we’re letting you bust one of us?  I don’t think so!’
          And so a pattern was set.  The others would whizz off with me lagging further and further behind.  Since when had I become so cautious?  Was it an age thing?  A sense of self preservation?  And what was going on with my co-ordination?  My body was covered in bruises, but not from falls.  Instead from rows with turnstiles, chairlifts, metal poles and bars.  Never mind, a different sort of bar was awaiting and offering consolation.
          ‘Try a mojito,’ said Anita, ‘it will loosen you up.’  It certainly loosened my tongue up.  I couldn’t stop talking.  And as I gazed up at the mountains from our prime time view on the wooden veranda, I silently declared war on those peaks.  Tomorrow I will ski you like a devil possessed.
          The following day I stood at the top of what looked like a lumpy sheer drop and tried to ignore my heart beating in my throat.  Anita furtively produced a hip flask.
          ‘A drop of Dutch Courage?’
          When I’d consumed more drops of Dutch Courage than was probably sensible, I set off.  Oh yes!  This was the way to ski!  Easy Peasy Jack Daniels Squeezy.  Thrilled to bits, when we later stopped for coffee I instructed the waiter to stick in a shot of rum.
          Anita looked slightly alarmed.  ‘You don’t want to lose control of your legs Debbie.’
          ‘Nothing wrong with my legs,’ I assured.  Until the following morning when I tried to get out of bed.  The legs were as stiff as a couple of ironing boards.  I unfolded them and gingerly stood up.
          ‘Perhaps we’ll have an easy day today,’ I suggested to Anita as I creaked over to my skis.
          ‘Good idea.  And we’ll focus on après ski instead.’
          Ah yes.  The après ski.  So far it had been a bit of a wash out – on account of my cuz and I being strangely knackered you understand.  On the other hand our daughters had no such problem keeping their eyes open throughout an evening.  Anita and I found ourselves walking into a bar, gamely ordering a drink, and five minutes later yawning into our glasses.  What was wrong with us?  Surely it wasn’t because we were a certain age was it?
          ‘Oh look!’ Anita pointed to a games corner in the hotel we were sitting in.  ‘A Scrabble board!’
          We fell upon it like dehydrated nomads in a desert.  So while our daughters listened to the thumpity thump of party music, my cuz and I argued whether EUOI was actually a word and, if so, what the heck did it mean?  Not exactly painting the town red.
          By Day Five we were so pooped from the skiing we didn’t even attempt to do the après ski thing.  We left our daughters holed up with their iPads, mobile phones and music and took ourselves off to bed.  Just as I was snuggling under the duvet, Mr V rang.
          ‘How are you?’ he asked.
          ‘Good,’ I replied, stifling a yawn.
          ‘So what are you up to this evening?  Bar crawl?  Night club?’
          ‘Er, neither.  I’m in bed.’
          ‘In bed?  But it’s only a quarter to eight!’
          So there you have it.  Footloose and fancy free for a week and in bed at silly o’clock.  So much for middle-aged rebellion.  Which reminds me.  Somebody once told me that the good thing about middle-age is that your glass is half full.  The not-so-good-thing is that in a few more years your teeth will be floating in it...
         

The Slippery Slope

Instead of Chick Chat Sunday it’s Chick Chat Good Friday.  Why?  Because I won’t be here on Easter Sunday!  Tomorrow I’m flying off to Les Arcs in France for a week’s fantabulous skiing.  Mr V is opting out (again) on the grounds that he’s lost interest.  Absolutely nothing to do with creaking knees or a dodgy back.
            ‘So what would you like me to fill the freezer with?’ I asked my husband.  ‘Steak and kidney pies?  Lasagnes?  Cod and chips?’
            ‘Nope,’ Mr V shook his head.  ‘I’m eating super healthy stuff while you’re away.’
            ‘Okay,’ my pencil hovered over my shopping list, ‘so we’re talking salads?  Tins of tuna?  Salmon?  Nuts and seeds?’
            ‘Buy me a large carton of milk and a box of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes.’
            ‘Cornflakes?’
            ‘Yep.’
            ‘And what else?’
            ‘Nothing.’
            ‘You’re going to spend an entire week eating cornflakes?’
            ‘Yes.’
            ‘What, as in breakfast...lunch...dinner...nothing but cornflakes?’
            Mr V frowned.  ‘Actually make that two boxes.’
            I chucked my pencil down.  Ah well.  He won’t starve.  That’s why God invented takeaway shops.
            Dolly the cat will be going to the local cattery.  She knows something’s up.  She’s looking at the suitcases with eyes as round as saucers.  Likewise the pooch will go to the kennels.  She’s an old hand at reading the signs and the suitcases immediately saw her tail between her legs and a look of resignation.  Why can’t Mr V look after them?  Well would you entrust the care of pets to a man all set to survive on cornflakes for the week??!!
            The suitcases are almost packed.  All that awaits is a snowy adventure.  That said I hope it will be a safe adventure and free from iffy moments.  Like the time I fell down a crevasse and hysterically demanded helicopter rescue before my husband risked life and limb pulling me out...only to fall down another crevasse himself.  Or the time we went skiing in Italy, did one last run before the chairlifts closed, ended up in France and had to take a three hour taxi drive back to our hotel at a cost of two hundred Euros.  Or the time we again got lost, ended up doing an off-piste black run which resulted in legs like jelly and an overwhelming need to consume a stiff drink or six for shock.  That’s the only time in my life I’ve ever been hopelessly drunk.  I can still remember watching the road going up and down and loudly warning others to wait for the big waves to pass.  But I’m 99% sure nothing is going to go wrong this time.
            Which reminds me.  Did you know old skiers never die.  They just go downhill...
 

A Fine Romance

My daughter has been dating her boyfriend for a little over a year.  Personally I think she’s too young to be so serious about a lad, but there you go.  The two of them are currently love’s young dream and can’t wait for the weekends to see each other.  Things were very different in my day.  When I was 15 I too was madly in love with a boy.  Although this particular male had four legs, a mane and tail and when we kissed I’m pretty sure no tongues were involved.  Also my daughter is very attractive whereas I just wasn’t.  Which is probably why she has a boyfriend and I didn’t.  In fact my daughter is lucky in that she is never short of admirers.  Indeed, only a couple of nights ago a lad popped up on Facebook Chat from two summers ago.
          ‘’Ello, zis is Antoine ’ere.’  Okay, he didn’t type it like that, but he’s French, so I’m just trying to set the scene.  ‘’Ow are you?’
          My daughter said she was fine thanks and politely asked how he was doing.  Which brought forth gushing chat about much he missed my daughter, how he couldn’t stop thinking about her, she was the sun, the moon and les étoiles and any chance of popping over and staying during the summer holidays so they could continue a fine romance?  Eleanor was aghast.
          ‘Mum?’ she called out.
          ‘Yes?’ I replied.
          ‘How do you politely tell somebody to go away?’
          ‘I have absolutely no idea.’
          ‘Well what did you do when you were dating somebody you weren’t bothered about?’
          Was she kidding?  I just never had this problem!  It was hard enough trying to bag somebody you could refer to as my boyfriend never mind courteously tell them to clear off.
          Of course the skeptics might say that Antoine was merely trying to butter my daughter up in order to have a free jolly in England for the summer, but actually this isn’t the first time he’s attempted wooing my daughter from French shores.
          Meanwhile there is a small matter of GCSEs coming up and I really would prefer it if Eleanor focused all her energies on passing a few of them.  Which reminds me.  A mother said to her daughter, ‘How did the exam go today?’  The daughter replied, ‘The questions didn’t give me any trouble.  But the answers did.’

Boiler Blues

Every year our boiler decides to pack up.  And always in the winter months.  If our boiler had a personality, I would describe it as bloody minded.  Why else would it have us raiding our thermals from the depths of the wardrobe in order to stave off the shivers from snow on the ground, or gale force winds, or minus temperatures?  Because …excuse me for saying this…it’s a bitch, that’s why.
          Over the years Bitch Boiler has played up, cut out, only heated the hot water, then only heated the radiators, and then finally refused to heat anything at all.  Last time around the engineer gave BB a new circuit board which coaxed her back to life.  But was she grateful?  No, instead BB heated the house to warm, then warmer still, hot, hotter, boiling hot and finally meltdown.  Twiddles to her thermostat brought about zero response until, in desperation, I took to the fuse board.
          BB’s most recent problem was to make a sound like a jumbo jet taking off in the utility room which sent the pipes in the airing cupboard into a total tailspin.  Every five minutes the hot water tank made noises like an out of tune orchestra.  British Gas are always ace at sorting out BB’s problems (until next time around), so much so that we’re on first name terms with the local engineers.  There’s Joe who likes tea with no sugar and Barry who likes coffee with three sugars.  Our pooch particularly likes Barry because he always puts his coffee mug on the floor not realizing that beagles not only eat anything but drink everything too – especially coffees with three sugars.  But now we have a new family member to also watch out for.  Dolly the cat.
          ‘Ah, what a sweet kitty,’ said Barry.  Until Dolly pounced on his ankle and bit hard.  ‘She’s just having fun,’ Barry said through clenched teeth.  Whereupon Dolly turned her back on Barry, dived into her litter tray next to Barry’s tool case and did the biggest…well we won’t go into detail.
          Suffice to say BB is once again doing her stuff and Barry recovered from his faint.  Which reminds me.  A boiler engineer was called out by Buckingham Palace to heat the Queen’s kennels.  The boiler engineer was half way through the job when the police arrested him.  Why?  Because he wasn’t Corgi registered…

How to not get a good night's sleep!

My husband hasn’t had a particularly good week.  A lot of driving about, long hours and a distinct lack of sleep.  And as is so often the way when life is super busy, you hit the pillow only to find the brain in overdrive.  Sleep – the very thing you crave – doesn’t always happen. 
            Mr V needs noise in order to sleep.  I’m the opposite.  I need silence so thick and heavy you can hear the proverbial pin drop.  Which doesn’t make for a restful night with my husband.
            In order to solve this conflict of noise and silence, Mr V goes to bed with a radio and headphones.  He plugs himself into Talk Sport and is gone within seconds.  At some point during the night the earphones and my husband’s head part company and invariably creep (the earphones, not my husband’s head) across the divide where they rest upon my pillow emitting a tinny racket.  This disturbs my sleep and drives me ever so slightly nuts.  To say I’m a crosspatch in the morning is an understatement.  I have vaguely wondered if crosspatch quilts were derived from furious sleep-deprived spouses spending their wakeful nights sewing.  But I digress.
            Over the years we have attempted to resolve our respective sleep issues by getting bigger beds.  Married life with Mr V started out in the bog standard 4’ 6” double bed.  One year later it had been shelved for a King size five footer.
            ‘Isn’t it lovely having extra room,’ said my husband as he star-fished out.
            ‘What extra room?’ I asked, hugging the edge of the mattress.
            In time a house move occurred.  Fantastic – a huge master bedroom!  I wasted no time in sourcing a bigger bed.
            ‘Ooooh, look!’ I drooled at pictures of bespoke seven footers.
            ‘Don’t be daft,’ said my husband, ‘Queen size will suffice.’
            I must confess, changing all the sheets on a large double bed is not something I look forward to.  Try shaking a six foot duvet into its quilt cover single-handed.  It’s a task that leaves you hot, bothered, and muttering silent oaths.
            Meanwhile Mr V still persists in star-fishing out leaving me perched on the edge.  And as for my husband’s bedtime radio, I can honestly say I hate the contraption with a passion.  Take last night.  Mr V’s headphones had gone AWOL.  For once they weren’t on my pillow.  He felt all over the bed but couldn’t find them.  So what did he do?  He listened to the radio without headphones.  But being that he needs NOISE to go to sleep, he turned the volume up.  As my husband tumbled blissfully down the corridors of sleep, I rose to the surface in a total panic.  What the hell was that?  Male voices were everywhere.  Had we been broken into?  Were there burglars in the house or, I gulped, this very bedroom?  Breaking into a muck sweat – which was nothing to do with hormonal hot flushing – I flicked the bedside lamp on and then grabbed it ready to bash Mr Burglar’s brains out.
            Which was how Mr V awoke to find the room flooded with light and his wife, wild-eyed and snarling, brandishing a B & Q lamp.
            There was a mildly happy ending.  Mr V discovered his headphones at the bottom of the bed.  The wire was in a total tangle.  I left him unknitting the jumble and took myself off to the spare room.  Is this the only way forward for a decent night’s sleep?
            Which reminds me of the insomniac who went to the doctor.  ‘Doctor, doctor!  I haven’t slept for days!’  The doctor looked at his patient and said, ‘Try sleeping at night.’