choices, choices…

Slim t.v. pickings today for a non-sporty Republican… snooker or the royal wedding…

One of my batty neighbours has her Cath Kidston bunting up and has been resolutely sipping champagne since 10am. She’s ensconced in the communal back green with her telly – so that rules out that area.
R is scything the garden to a manageable height. And has kicked up pollens and grasses and beasties. I’ve tried – but retreated, sneezing and wheezy.
Maybe the cats have the right idea: they’re curled on my bed, comfortably fast asleep.
Meg is working at Maisie’s today – so I am thinking I might walk to Lanark and keep her company.
Shops are open and I still (yes, really) have a xmas 2010 present to purchase for auntie-whom-I-seldom-see (but will meet up with at a family joint and very swanky birthday party in Stratford-upon-Avon next weekend). Mum has pestered me about this pressie – and I am now at the point where her eye-rolling has worked and I am giving in… Feels positively mad – but it is all bound up in Mum’s ‘rules’ and ‘duty’ and ‘expectations’… It’s easier to give up resisting her…
So: present buying; Meg-accompanying; sleeping or snooker… could be worse, I could be working…

idle hands

Irish Gran used to say ‘the devil makes work for idle hands to do’. To be fair that was the mildest of her more ‘hell, fire and brimstone’ sayings. Being a devout ulsterwoman (church-going three times on a Sunday) and even more determined sinner she managed to provoke a few nightmares in her time. I’ve thought about her often as I’ve gotten older – and almost approaching the age she was when she died – and my theory is that she subscribed to the rationale that there was no point in religion if you were a holy wullie pious act who hadn’t much to beg forgiveness for…
If I was inclined to piety I would have just as many things as she to beg forgiveness for. But I only think of her ‘idle hands’ saying when I find myself truly regretting starting a diy project…
Apologies – there’s going to be no confession of the kinky, immoral, drunken or drugged but entertaining kind in this blog entry. Just a tale of how it’s best to think at least three times before peeling off that flake of gloss paint on the door lintel…
I peeled the bloody thing. And before I knew it I was peeling the next bit. Then looking for a knife. Then sending the kids to the basement for a paint scraper. Then feeling the ache in my shoulders and arms as the scraper hit resistance all too soon. Then deciding on a Homebase trip for sandpaper and wire wool and sugarsoap and eggshell paint…
What possessed me?
Why did I start?
I’ve had dirty looks from R since the first peel. His comment ‘what the f* did you start that for?’ has resonated with good old common-sense since the second he said it.
So, I am having a tea-break…and glancing grimly over at the dark stained wood that has emerged from under years and layers of magnolia gloss…and wondering how I can take a short-cut out of this latest diy daftness.