Thursday, 27 August 2015

Mr G and the Manometer

I made a start on the ironing 'pile' - pile, my arse, I needed crampons, a yak and a fecking Sherpa to tackle that bugger.  Mr G was sat on the sofa, making noises about doing a bit in a minute. Hmmmm.  So, after a few minutes of silence where he appears to be looking quite down, staring at the floor, he starts giggling.  

Me: What??
Him: Vol au vent!
Me: Oh for f...
Him: I've been sat here looking at your big toe, it reminded me of something. Couldn't put my finger on it. It's a vol au vent!  Look at it! Your left toe!
Me: Jesus...

I do have weird feet but toes like vol au vents?  I mean, what?

My living room looks like Jurassic World 2 being filmed in a Millets store.  Adam is dinosaur mad, and despite me asking nicely that he stop leaving them in the living room, especially when it's full of camping gear, there they are again!  Dinosaurs in the living room, on the stairs, in his bedroom, oh and lest we forget, there are bath dinosaurs too, specifically for bath usage.  Let me tell you, stepping on Lego has nothing on stepping on one of those spiky little swines, camouflaged in bubbles, at the bottom of the bath.  I wouldn't complain but, I had a shower the other morning and I turned around to find Jeff Goldblum soaping my back.  

Poor Mr G had his Manometer fitted. He's very uncomfortable. Sat here looking very sorry for himself, chewing toast and drinking orange through a straw because when the nurse sprayed the anaesthetic up his nose, it dripped into his lip, so that's now numb too.  Adam is relentlessly taking the mick out of him.





Adam: What the bloody hell is THAT?
Mr G: Shut up.
Adam: Does it play games? Can I listen to music on it?

He has to keep a record of everything ingested, sleep pattern and any reflux today, before having it removed at 8.15 tomorrow.  National Burger day will have to keep until we get to the campsite tomorrow, instead I've made him a huge pan of homemade vegetable soup. I'm having steak. His and mine.

Thinking about it, he only needs something to happen to his ears and he'll have had something shoved in/up/down every orifice in his body this year...

Tomorrow we're off to Abbey Farm in Llangollen, Daniel's staying home again, I think he could do with the peace and quiet.  He got an A in his Electronics exam and got onto his Computer Science course in both Bangor and his back up choice of Liverpool.  We went uniform shopping on Tuesday and all the children are ready for school, apart from one pair of school shoes and one pair of trainers, which we can pick up in Wrexham at some point this weekend before we get home.  Little one starts back Wednesday, big ones Thursday.  Another summer holiday gone so quickly!  

How many sleeps until Christmas? ;-)


Monday, 24 August 2015

Our Devon Holiday

We're back from our little jaunt to Devon.  We came home a day early, travelling back on the Friday instead of the nightmare that is the M5 on a Saturday.  The journey home usually takes around 9 to 11 hours on a Saturday, we did it in 6 and a quarter, with three toilet stops.  Result.  Worth sacrificing a day of our holiday for.

Utterly exhausted now, I need another holiday to get over it.  Fourteen loads of washing and drying done over two days, I now have an ironing pile that would make you weep.  And a camping trip looming...

We had a great time, but I knew beforehand that two weeks would be too much for me.  A week isn't long enough with the huge drive, but two is a little too much.  Ten days would be great.  I'm too much of a homebody to be away so long.  Factor in a little bit of the usual medical dramas, Adam put it the best.

Adam: I enjoyed it, but it wasn't the best holiday I have had in Devon.
Me: Oh?
Adam: Well, think about it. Caitlin had three migraines and spent hours in bed. Dad was really ill twice, and had to get a taxi back. Your foot swelled up and you couldn't walk. Some days it rained so hard we couldn't leave the flat. Dan was on the phone for days trying to sort out his Uni place. And I shit myself.

In a nutshell!

The view on our approach to Preston

The view from our lounge

Brixham Harbour

Cait and Ryan Water Zorbing in Brixham Harbour
 
View from the top of the Riviera Wheel

Adam conquered a huge fear of heights to go on

My lovely lot

From Scary Cats...

to Meery Kats...

Best Breakfast Ever - The Ship, Paignton

Mr G's 20oz Rump Steak

Dan with a sweat on - Naga Ghost Chilli Chicken

A very busy BMAD bike night

Lots of bikers in attendance raising cash for local charities

Cait and the Trago Peacock

Beach days

Torquay United's Mascot Gilbert the Gull

My beautiful family


Nuttier than a fruitcake, but I love him to bits

That's our holiday highlights done and dusted!  We've decided to give Devon a break for three years now, at the risk of it getting a bit 'samey'.  Next year we have our friend's wedding in Norfolk to save up for, I've never been, but Mr G had many a happy childhood holiday there and has wanted to go back for a while now. 

Now for the next phase of the holiday, camping in Llangollen this weekend with our friends. Panic buy uniforms for three tomorrow, going to be odd seeing Ryan in a new uniform!  Try and find out what Daniel needs to take to Uni with him... aside from alcohol, Pot Noodles and Pringles...

All together now... Happy Days!

Sunday, 23 August 2015

Mr G and the Duck Farts

Mr G: You're going to blog about this, aren't you?

Me: Yup. But how, exactly, I'm going to put it into words is beyond me.

To set the scene. A warm Summer's evening in Devon. Mr G and I stroll hand in hand along the promenade towards the pier, the children running off ahead of us.  The tide is high (but I'm holding on...) and we stop to watch a father and his children skimming stones into the sea. I steal a glance at Mr G, who has a steely, determined glint in his eye.  Uh oh, I think to myself. Pissing contest ahoy. Or, there would be, but Competitive Dad is useless at skimming stones.  So, how is he going to play this one?

Mr G wanders off, scrabbling around in the terracotta coloured sand and returns with a large pebble of similar colour.  To our left, sat on the wall, a young couple are kissing and cuddling, completely oblivious to the drama about to unfold.  I look at Mr G, expecting him to attempt to skim the stone into the sea.  No.  That would have been too easy. That's someone else's husband.  What does mine do? Loudly shouts 'Duck Farts!' and hurls the stone up in the air.  Yes, up in the air.  Not at the water.  Up. In. The. Air. 

He must have one hell of a throw because it seemed to be up there an age.  Mr G wore a wide eyed, open mouthed look that is normally reserved for Nicki Minaj videos.  I looked at him. He looked at me. We both looked at the canoodling couple. The abject terror in his eyes was visible. Did we warn the young couple that one may end up with a large pebble embedded in their head?  That their romantic evening stroll may end up with a trip to Casualty and stitches?  We looked up, and this bloody stone is still coming down, spinning, almost in slow motion until it hits the ground between Mr G and I and the young couple with a huge thud, and splits in half. They jumped, shot us a filthy look, got up and walked away as quick as they could.  Mr G looked sheepish, Caitlin stalked off ahead professing 'I don't know you'.  And me? I was doubled over laughing all night.  People were walking past me, laughing at me, laughing.  

Later that evening, as I wiped away tears of mirth after another 'Duck Fart' related bout of laughter, I asked Mr G, just what the hell a Duck Fart was.  Exactly.

Well. It appears that, if you throw a stone a certain way, it will land in the water without making a loud plop, and little bubbles will rise up to the surface.  Like, when, apparently, a duck farts underwater.  Hadn't I ever seen a duck fart underwater?  Erm, no.  I'm not joking. Welcome to my world.  

Friday, 7 August 2015

Summer? Wherefore Art Thou, Summer?

As I type this, sat drinking my early morning coffee, it's bloody freezing.  We've had nothing but rain and it feels more like Autumn than Summer.  The heating has been put back on at least three times in the last fortnight.  I should be ironing but I really don't want to.  Packing for our holiday, ye Gods, what an experience that is.  You can air quote the word 'experience' there if you like.  It doesn't matter how many times we go through the same thing, Mr G always takes too much, I take too little and due to the weather we have to pack for all four seasons.  Packing in advance means that we're operating on a skeleton wardrobe this week.  For Mr G, who has more clothes than all the Kardashian women put together, this is no problem.  For me, however, this poses an issue.  I'm not a clothes person, I rarely buy myself anything, I prefer cast offs and charity shops, and I wear things until they wear out.  So, yesterday I find myself wearing a very dressy pink and black top, with beaded embellishment, and black and white checked leggings.  I looked like a cross between a drag queen and a monochrome Rupert the Bear.  Mr G raised an eyebrow at me as I walked past.  It was the only thing this ensemble was going to raise in any man...

Mr G: What are you doing?
Me: taking a break from gathering bits. Just check my emails... Delete, delete, delete, ooooh! Six fashion mistakes we're all making...
Mr G: (Looks me up and down) Seven... No.  Make that eight. Your toenails and fingernails are painted a different colour.
Me: Shut it, Gok Wan. 

We went again on Sunday to watch Crusaders play Gloucester.  Much better weather this time, thankfully. Mum and Dad had the boys and Cait and her friend Beth came with us. It was a cracking game, plenty of tries, a little bit of handbags at ten paces, a ref who should take his sponsor's advice and actually go to bloody Specsavers, one sin bin (home), one sending off (away) and a resounding home win.  Mr G bought me a Crusaders beanie, which I could have done with the previous week. The next home match we can make is the 6th of September and hopefully they'll stay in a play off position for promotion to the Championship.  No simple up or down in rugby league, oh no.  The first plays the second, the winner goes up, the loser plays the team in fifth, the third and the fourth play... so in a nutshell you could come fifth in the league and be promoted, and come first and not get anywhere.  We're definitely going for a season ticket next year though.





Mr G excelled himself the other night, when answering a friend's call for help on Facebook.  Noticing she'd posted seven hours earlier, if anyone had a wallpaper stripper, could she borrow it.  I replied that if it wasn't too late, we had one.  It wasn't too late, I sent Mr G up with it.  Unbeknownst to me... he left the steamer in the car and handed her this...


... deadpan, poker faced.  She thanked him, looking very puzzled but too polite to admit the error.  He made small talk and eventually left and went outside to talk to her partner, who he had let in on the joke.  A few minutes later he put her out of her misery, going back with the steamer.  Even then, she was deflecting the blame from him, by saying that she should have been clearer in her post, that it was technically a wallpaper stripper.  How does he do it? Prank people and have them think it was their fault too?