Does anyone iron their clothes anymore? I bought a tshirt from a charity shop last wek, and the woman said “Ooh, that’s lovely and soft. At least you won’t have to iron it!”
“No” I agreed, acting like I too have to juggle the demands of keeping myself looking shipshape. The last time I touched an iron was sometime in the mid 90s. What is the point of ironing a tshirt? Am I living my life all wrong?
Oh well, it’s too late now to change. Like I told my bosom buddy, Theresa Warpaint, I shall have to try again next life. I’ve always been a bit smelly and creased, like me or lump me.
While my mum was here, she reminded of the embarrassment I had put her through as a small child on a packed bus when I had spent the journey demanding loudly
“Say “my bum-bum””,
over and over again. And also, on another bus journey, I had wriggled in my seat next to her so much she started to call me Seal Boy.
If I was her I would have made us walk everywhere. I’m glad my mum was nicer than me, and put up with me being an arse. Thanks mum!
What is it with kids and bottoms? When we went to babysit Esther’s nieces and nephew, he had a new catchphrase:
“Farty farty bum bum”
followed by hysterical laughter. Now, this was my kind of humour! I really am rubbish at babysitting because I can’t pretend i don’t find every naughty thing they do hilarious. While Esther tries to maintain order, I am busy making things worse by giggling and thinking of comebacks.
I’m not sure I ever grew out of the bum-obsession I had as a child. Bottom humour is one of my specialities. To Esther’s disgust, I describe each poo I have in great detail. For a more satisfying fart, I discovered that parting my buttocks felt really nice. I was refining my technique when Esther got wind of it (arf arf!) and made me promise to never do it again, on pain of instant break-up.
I realised the other day that one of the signs of true love is when you like the smell of both of your farts, especially when they combine. However, having a dog and cat on the bed can mean that you get up to 4 farts at a time, and have to sift through the individua odours to work out which belongs to your true love, and is fair game to savour.
I went to the cornershop with Lisa and the dogs earlier, and she waited outside while I bought some dog food. It was meant to be a strict straight in/out errand, but the overfriendly shopkeeper had other ideas.
“Do you play the guitar?” he asked
“No, not really. I’ve got one, but I can’t play it”
“You show me” he said, handing me an acoustic guitar somehow stashed behind the counter. “I will learn from watching you”
I played for time, holding the guitar and desperately trying to remember any chords. I once taught myself all of them, but then didn’t know what to do next, so I stopped playing.
“Well, first you have to learn the chords” I said, switching to teacher mode. ‘E’ is the simplest chord, it only uses 2 strings. My fingers fumbled around trying to remember which 2 strings. I strummed what I thought was E and it sounded terrible.
“It’s best off watching how to play on the internet” I said quickly, and tried to hand the thing back.
“No, no, you play some more” he shrugs, and sits down to watch. Oh God.
“No it’s ok”. I dumped the guitar on a pile of Sheffield Star’s, paid for my Pedigree Chum and left, sharpish.
“You took ages” complained Lisa outside.
“Yeah, sorry. He made me play his guitar”.