Friday, 26 February 2016

Gutted!

Bit of a long winded story this one. Last year, we heard a noise in the attic above our bedroom, and it turns out we had a rat. Next door had been having problems, must have got in a cavity, and into our attic. Anyhoo. Going back six years, we had the house rewired. And naturally, the contractors the council used treated our home and belongings with respect... yeah. They didn't. We no longer have loft insulation (now all in a pile in a corner) and our stuff? Our boxes? Our belongings? Er... Randomly flung around the attic. To hand, where we had placed them? That'd be a no, again!

Fast forward 5 years again, the council graciously concede that if it's someone they've contracted to work for them, then they are responsible and will send someone to put it right. But, it's year of the Rat, so they suggest we deal with this first, then they'll come out.  Rat is dealt with, and I'm getting antsy. All my pictures, documents, cards, kids bits from school are up there.  Nigh on a year later, I want my stuff!  So after 24 hours of giving Mr G grief, he manages to round up a ladder and two mates, slightly less weighty and more agile mates, who rescue our stuff. 

So, to reiterate, my house is tidy for the first time this year (yes, I'm aware it's nearly March...). And we add to this about twenty boxes, some plastic, some lidded, some not, some cardboard.  

My heart has shattered several times tonight.  If the shower of rat shit on my carpets didn't do it, the confetti making they did, did! My language tonight has been a tad fruity... And so I have devised this quiz. For future reference, for any furry rodenty bastards who might want to seek refuge in my attic. I have called it - The Frazzled Shell Citizenship Test. You don't pass it? You get poisoned. Simples.

1. With an entire attic at your disposal, where do you shit?
a) your hosts only daughters christening gown; or
b) I go outside, of course! Duh!

2. Bearing in mind that your host has been saving every piece of her children's artwork for the last 18 or so years. She also has two (cardboard) boxes of old invoices, vat statements, etc pertaining to an old business she owned that can now legally be disposed of. You eat...
a) Damn! That playschool time capsule tasted so goooooood!; or
b) I ate anything marked HM Revenue and Customs.

3. What the actual f**k?
a) I ate your Kylie 'Kylie' debut vinyl album, that you've had since 1988; or
b) I ate your Kylie 'Kylie' debut vinyl album, that you've had since 1988.

4. Times are hard. What do you use to make a nest?
a)  random shit I find around the joint
b) the lower half of an eloquent letter I received from my Nain, now deceased
c) a postcard from my best friend who has passed away, but I'll leave your name (it left my f**king name!)
d) my son's first outfit 
e) my other son's first outfit 
f) my husband's school leaving certificate
g) my husband's Blue Oyster Cult concert programme
h) two f**king boxes worth of worthless shit pertaining to a now defunct business. Untouched, by the way. It ate through plastic, laminate... Paper in cardboard boxes? Too difficult for ratticus twatticus, evidently! 

I am emotionally wrought.  There is rat shit, what was my children's artwork, bits of photographs, feathers, greetings cards, scattered on my floor like some sort of weird wedding party confetti. I'm done :-(

Thursday, 18 February 2016

Footsteps on the treadmill...

So, I've hurt my foot.  How, I hear you ask?  I walked five kilometres on the treadmill.  Barefoot.  What a complete and utter tool I am.  So now, the top of my foot is all swollen and sore and bruised.   According to Mr G, you need adequate support before you go pounding away for an hour.  I'm not even bothering #filth-ing that one.  Plus, my... unorthodox manner of using the treadmill at times may have contributed to my injury.

I have an iTunes playlist of twenty songs, specially selected for my treadmill sessions.  It's not quite right yet, and I have given it a tweak or two this past fortnight.  Some of the tracks might raise a few eyebrows, as they're not what you'd expect, like Kodaline 'High Hopes' and Kenny Rogers 'The Gambler' which are a little downbeat for walking but they work for me.  The problems begin when certain songs come on.  Bruno Mars 'Uptown Funk'?   Cash Cash 'Overtime'?  And my piece de resistance, Panic! At The Disco's 'Crazy=Genius'.  Ye Gods.  My steady pace morphs into something that has to be seen to be believed.  I'm like fecking Jamiroquai.  There's Running Man, Moonwalking, Jazz Hands, Disco, Handclaps (damn you, Chris Martin)... you name it, it's in there, I think I'm doing it.  Now, if you know me at all, you'll know - a) I don't dance;  b) I can't dance and c) I don't dance because I can't dance.  We can even add in a disclaimer of d) I'm not steady on two feet on solid ground even when sober.  So why I turn into Paula Abdul while travelling at a speed of over three miles per hour is currently beyond me.  The moment that Mr G reads this blog post, it will become his duty to capture this on video and post it on Youtube.  Upon reading the draft post he announced; 'So, this is why you keep the door shut when you're on the treadmill?', nodded and walked off, muttering 'Right'. 

The reality is that I'm more Rain Man than Running Man.  More Janet Street-Porter than Janet Jackson.  More... Moon River than Moonwalk.  You with me?  Yeah.  So, that's what I did to my foot.

We watched the live draw for the Challenge Cup online, and we were willing a home tie and yes, we got one!  Home to Gloucestershire All Golds next weekend.  Our attempts to see Cru in action have been a comedy of errors this year.  The first time, was a friendly against Salford.  We packed a picnic, and off we went to Wrexham, stupidly early, it has to be said.  Parked up, did a bit of window shopping, ambled down to The Racecourse, where it was eerily quiet.  Beth and Cait ran off ahead and came back - match was cancelled due to waterlogged pitch.  Gutted wasn't the word.  None of us use the internet on our phones, so we'd missed the cancellation on Twitter and Facebook.  The week after, it had been rescheduled to be played at Cefn Druids ground, and that too was cancelled.  Last weekend, a friendly was arranged with Gloucestershire All Golds at Queensway, and although that wasn't cancelled, I was ill.  Next weekend is their Challenge Cup fixture, and the Sunday after the season starts!   I am raring to go, I've even been watching all the Super League on Sky, really impressed with Salford Reds so far, and interestingly enough, this year, they have a dual-registration partnership with Crusaders.

So, that's why I am sat, feeling very sorry for myself, with a box of White Zinfandel Rose.  Yes, a box.  Yes, I am sneezing and sniffling.  Because it is National Drink Wine Day.  No, really.  Really it is.  It would be rude not to, wouldn't it? ;-)  Allergies or not.  No Super League tonight, so we are able to watch the Darts Premier League.  Woop!  MvG alert.  Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh Michael van Gerwen... I have bizarre celebrity crushes, I tell thee...

Shit my kid said...
Mr G:  (Reading news online) Oh!  Gary Neville's finally won a match as manager.
Adam: (interrupts)  Gary Neville?  Pah.  Gary Neville is dead to me.  Dead.
Mr G:  Um...
Me:  Why...
Adam:  Gary, that is the, like, blonde one?
Me:  No, that's his brother Phil.
Adam:  Oh.  Well, Phil Neville is dead to me.  Dead.
Me:  Why?
Adam:  Well.  I had *random footballer* in my Match Attax Trading Cards, and *friend* managed to talk me into swapping him for Phil Neville, who I also didn't have.  *Random footballer* was one of the best in the pack.  I get home, I buy a pack of cards, I get another Phil Neville.  Who nobody wants.  I have two Phil Neville's.  And no *random footballer*.  Dead to me.

He's 9 by the way, and has reached a level of distaste about poor Phil Neville that only those who have heard him commentating have previously reached.

That may be all for February, I'll see you in March.  Goals for this year, 12 blog posts ;-)