Well, it’s been a shamefully long time between posts, hasn’t it, and it’s not that I haven’t necessarily being doing stuff but it’s not stuff that I would deem noteworthy and/or funny. However, that’s obviously the nature of a pretty standard thirty-three year old keeping a diary, isn’t it? My favourite blogs to read are those that are accounts of everyday life, no matter how mundane. I can’t stand blogs where the blogger had obviously been paid to write about a product. I imagine that there are certain phrases the company asks the blogger to squeeze into their posts and no matter how talented a scribe they are, they stick out like a sore thumb to me. No, I much prefer imbibing the minutiae of everyday life, the comical snippets of conversation overhead on buses and that kind of thing.
Mr P and Mr B went to do a job in Shoreditch on Saturday so after my stint at the library, I met The Blonde Sister at the pub for a much-needed kid-free drink. Mr V was left in charge of the twins for a couple of hours and although apparently Little V was having a tantrum when her mamma left the house, she simply shut the door and carried on walking. I’m proud of her; it must be difficult to leave a kid when it’s kicking off but they were in good hands with their dadda and I don’t think it would hurt for him to get a taste of what The Blonde Sister does on the daily. Not that the B-I-L isn’t a great, hands-on father – he is – but he also has the sweet relief of work to escape to every day whereas my brilliant, strong sister does not.
We were soon joined by The Redhead Sister and her friend, Mr H and when it was time for The Blonde Sister to make her way home, I dropped my moany charge (the whippet) off at home and joined The Redhead Sister at The Conservative Club – a truly grotty place with questionable clientele but dirt cheap – I bought two pints of lager and a vodka, lime and soda and it only came to £9. Mr P texted to say he’d be home at 8.30pm and would then probably go for a well-deserved after work beer so with an hour or two to kill and not ready to call it an afternoon right then, I retired back to The Redhead Sister’s place with Little D picking up pizza and a bottle of red (why?) on the way. I ended up stumbling home at around 10.30pm when Mr P ordered a Chinese takeaway and we apparently watched Masterchef.
Sunday was gloriously sunny so we walked over to the pub in the neighbouring village and enjoyed a couple of beers in the garden before coming home for dinner.
So, that was my weekend: perfectly pleasant but uneventful.
One funny thing I did notice the other day is the name of the funeral director’s shop in town. The signage boasts Phil Collin’s Funeral Directors. Now, I don’t think it’s necessary to have the name of the proprietor on the sign of such a sombre establishment but this is even more of a certainty when the owner happens to share his name (well, almost) with an erstwhile and terminally uncool, drummer/singer from the late eighties/early nineties. It’s too much of a comic effect for such a place. Leave the humorous names for chips shops, I say.
My resolution to buy new CDs every month is going well and this is definitely down to the addition of my Discman. I bought Please Please Me by the Beatles (I have all The Beatles albums on tape but even I’m not such a Luddite as to try to source an actual, cassette-playing Walkman) and a Lemonheads album. I must say, there was something pleasingly nostalgic about listening to Into Your Arms on a Discman – throw in a pair of Docs and I could be twelve again. It struck me, as I was scouring etsy for some tiny sleepers to re-pierce the tops of my ears with, that this could be my midlife crisis. Hum.