Here I am. Enjoying `Barnaby` on Mystery Channel when I hear a crash from outside. Pulling a coat over my PJ's and crutches on either arm, I open the front door to see....
The Neighbour from the house opposite. Perched high up in a tree in his garden......sawing away at the branch of said tree.....So what you say. Ain`t a chap entitled to do a spot of gardening when he likes. Yes, so true but factor in a few points please. It`s raining. It`s after 10pm. He is wearing only a pair of boxer shorts......boxer shorts with a very unimpressed willy hanging out the front......I don`t think he realises the risk of frostbite in a rather delicate area.
He waved "Good Evening! Just trimming the tree!" I waved back and said "Nice weather for it" and hobbled back indoors.
When in Rome do as the Romans do. I didn`t see a thing. Not even a willy.
Thursday, 25 November 2010
The Invisible Something Or Other.
I wave a cheery "Good Morning!" to Madame Gomi ( Japanese for `rubbish`) Gestapo and turn to see next door neighbour staring intently at me. " There`s something different about you today!" she slides in between a yawn. " Have you lost the baby weight?" My baby is now the ripe old age of 3. I scan her face for a trace of that British trait I adore so much, sarcasm. The cupboard is bare. " No!" I reply pushing left crutch down to begin the Monroe cum Hunchback of Notre Dame hobble back to a warm, sugary cup of tea anxiously awaiting me on a tabletop. " Have you had your hair cut?" My gut reaction was to quickly round up the two greasy strands loitering over my right ear, back into the tatty scrunchy I`d herded my locks into earlier that morning. This was supposed to be an `out and in` job. Conversation wasn`t on the menu. Shaking her head,"I don`t know! Something is different about you today!" and strode off down the street, arms pumping air. `The something different about me` might have everything to do with the big white cast adorning my right foot and crutch accessories I now wear, non too proudly, around either elbow.
I can`t say I am surprised. Arriving home with my baby girl three years ago, a couple of neighbours raced over and asked me whose baby it was. Ermmmmm....mine! "You were pregnant!" Well, unless you do it differently over here, yes I was. Nine months of it. Four quite visibly. Or maybe, to the background euphony of spades hitting churchyard dirt, I should have informed them that actually, foreigners lay eggs. Two minutes to push it out then a few months of making sure the spot lamp is set at the right temperature. Less chance of stretch marks but watch out your husband doesn`t mistake your bub`s egg for a common garden chicken one or tragedy will ensue.
My husband doesn`t notice stuff like I do. I am by nature a people watcher anyway but he seriously doesn`t seem to be aware of his surroundings on the same level. Walking down a street,late at night..oh many years ago with a female friend. This middle-aged man suddenly stopped in front of us. Opened his briefcase to reveal an A3 colour photo of himself, taped to the inside of his briefcase. He was wearing only socks with those god awful suspender things. We stood, mouths agape as he deftly shut the case. Locked it. Bowed and uttered a sincere "Gomen nasai" (I am sorry for inconveniencing you!") and walked off into the crowds. Tens of people must have walked right past us with a clear view of his briefcase and it`s eye opening contents. My mate and I ended up going into yet another bar, hysterically giggling.
I can`t say I am surprised. Arriving home with my baby girl three years ago, a couple of neighbours raced over and asked me whose baby it was. Ermmmmm....mine! "You were pregnant!" Well, unless you do it differently over here, yes I was. Nine months of it. Four quite visibly. Or maybe, to the background euphony of spades hitting churchyard dirt, I should have informed them that actually, foreigners lay eggs. Two minutes to push it out then a few months of making sure the spot lamp is set at the right temperature. Less chance of stretch marks but watch out your husband doesn`t mistake your bub`s egg for a common garden chicken one or tragedy will ensue.
My husband doesn`t notice stuff like I do. I am by nature a people watcher anyway but he seriously doesn`t seem to be aware of his surroundings on the same level. Walking down a street,late at night..oh many years ago with a female friend. This middle-aged man suddenly stopped in front of us. Opened his briefcase to reveal an A3 colour photo of himself, taped to the inside of his briefcase. He was wearing only socks with those god awful suspender things. We stood, mouths agape as he deftly shut the case. Locked it. Bowed and uttered a sincere "Gomen nasai" (I am sorry for inconveniencing you!") and walked off into the crowds. Tens of people must have walked right past us with a clear view of his briefcase and it`s eye opening contents. My mate and I ended up going into yet another bar, hysterically giggling.
Saturday, 13 November 2010
The Kitchen Crusader.
A dear friend of mine once remarked, as she deftly produced a tray of mouth watering muffins that "Cooking is a science. Follow the rules and success will be yours!" Well, I stunk at Science in high school and I double stink at cooking. So much so that Tokyo Gas has been known to cordon off the area around my house whenever I so much as rattle a baking tin. I`ve spent hours slaving in the kitchen, cookbook bound back in a torturous position, gleaming shiny utensils at the ready but the end result is nearly always the same. No matter how accurately I weigh out the ingredients, mix, blend, stir, whip, spoon, beat or scream at it, the end result looks nothing like the picture in the cookbook. Okay, I hear you all say, trying desperately to be diplomatic and encouraging, the proof is in the eating. Uh, uh,I nod. But would you like to try something that looks suspiciously like a three day old turd from a terminally creature?
I have to give it to my kids. They`ve managed to find their niche and settle in comfortably with my culinary catastrophes. But there again, it probably just boils down to a simple case of survival. You have to eat to survive. There are only so many days you can go without food. What doesn`t kill you only makes you stronger, right?
Only the other day, strumming through one of my many cookbooks, I came across `Chunky Chocolate Chip Cookies`. `Chunky` and `chip` as in `chipped` are words that could be easily used to kindly describe my previous endeavours, so I took up the gauntlet.
I weighed and mixed everything to a `T`. I swear I could hear Delia cheering from the heavens above. Into the heated oven they popped. My little brown masterpieces soon to be thrown into scrumptious stardom. A mere fifteen later and the balance had once again shifted to inedible infamy.My little spoonfuls of chocolate heaven had merged into one giant cookie pie. Not to be daunted, I dug out a knife and uttered a few soothing expletives.
"Aren`t cookies round?" asked one of Batboy`s friends, eyeing up the plate on the table as if it were a giant cowpat. "Well!" I exclaimed sunnily," There are all different sizes and shapes of cakes and cookies in the world! These are my very own Volcano cookies. Der Der" I sing to a crowd of seven year old boys looking not at all convinced. "What`s that in the middle,Mummy?" asks Batboy, fingers poised. "What`s what?" I enquire, a touch of impatience colouring my previous optimism. "Oh, that`s part of a melted M & M," I quirk back," An orange M & M." I add with authority. Silence then, from another lad. "It looks like poo when bits of food come out with it!" and just as I was pondering why anyone would be studying their poo poo that closely, the room burst into laughter and wee hands grabbed handfuls of `Volcano cookies`.
I would like to point out that I am at a natural disadvantage with this whole cooking lark. I reckon it`s pure genetics....down my mother`s side. Most kids earn pocket money from doing weekly chores. As a child, me too, only the real dosh was to be earnt from my father`s bribes. My Mum is one smart lady but, putting it nicely, cooking wasn`t her forte at that time. Many an evening, we`d sit, my brother, sister, father and I. At the table. Some charred offering laid before us. Mum in the kitchen. My father used to have to go in and gently stop her from banging her brains out on the newly installed, latest hi tech cooking machine."Now listen,kids" he`d whisper during one of Mum`s head banging fits," Your Mum tried really hard so let`s try really hard to enjoy this," as my brother sawing away at something unrecognisable, successfully cut through, making contact with the plate, sending a piece of something black zooming mere inches past his ear, "And if you make it look good,I`ll give you extra pocket money." This caught our attention. "How much?" sneered my wee sister. "An extra fifty pence" swung Dad. " Fifty measly pence for a theatrical performance that would leave Laurence Olivier standing?"I scoffed. "Okay...okay" Dad hushed," You lot drive a hard bargain. Seventy pence and that`s my final offer!" A show of wee hands high five over the table just as Mum made her appearance. "I am sorry,kids," she apologised, face creased up in culinary agony," I think I made a mess of tonight`s dinner." Only to be met with incredulous cries of "What?....This?...This food is gorgeous,Mum!....What are you going on about?" I think we got off a lot lighter than Dad. Being kids, we were a lot more resilient. After a while, we perfected the IT DIP technique. In Trousers Dump In Toilet.
I cling to hope. My Mum is a great cook these days. Maybe it`s a mellowing with age thing.
"What`s that on the floor?" shouts hubby pointing at one of my `Volcano Cookies lying redundantly on the kitchen floor," Has the cat gone and pooed? Look, he has! There`s a bit of undigested cat biscuit in there!" I sigh and reach for a wine glass.
I have to give it to my kids. They`ve managed to find their niche and settle in comfortably with my culinary catastrophes. But there again, it probably just boils down to a simple case of survival. You have to eat to survive. There are only so many days you can go without food. What doesn`t kill you only makes you stronger, right?
Only the other day, strumming through one of my many cookbooks, I came across `Chunky Chocolate Chip Cookies`. `Chunky` and `chip` as in `chipped` are words that could be easily used to kindly describe my previous endeavours, so I took up the gauntlet.
I weighed and mixed everything to a `T`. I swear I could hear Delia cheering from the heavens above. Into the heated oven they popped. My little brown masterpieces soon to be thrown into scrumptious stardom. A mere fifteen later and the balance had once again shifted to inedible infamy.My little spoonfuls of chocolate heaven had merged into one giant cookie pie. Not to be daunted, I dug out a knife and uttered a few soothing expletives.
"Aren`t cookies round?" asked one of Batboy`s friends, eyeing up the plate on the table as if it were a giant cowpat. "Well!" I exclaimed sunnily," There are all different sizes and shapes of cakes and cookies in the world! These are my very own Volcano cookies. Der Der" I sing to a crowd of seven year old boys looking not at all convinced. "What`s that in the middle,Mummy?" asks Batboy, fingers poised. "What`s what?" I enquire, a touch of impatience colouring my previous optimism. "Oh, that`s part of a melted M & M," I quirk back," An orange M & M." I add with authority. Silence then, from another lad. "It looks like poo when bits of food come out with it!" and just as I was pondering why anyone would be studying their poo poo that closely, the room burst into laughter and wee hands grabbed handfuls of `Volcano cookies`.
I would like to point out that I am at a natural disadvantage with this whole cooking lark. I reckon it`s pure genetics....down my mother`s side. Most kids earn pocket money from doing weekly chores. As a child, me too, only the real dosh was to be earnt from my father`s bribes. My Mum is one smart lady but, putting it nicely, cooking wasn`t her forte at that time. Many an evening, we`d sit, my brother, sister, father and I. At the table. Some charred offering laid before us. Mum in the kitchen. My father used to have to go in and gently stop her from banging her brains out on the newly installed, latest hi tech cooking machine."Now listen,kids" he`d whisper during one of Mum`s head banging fits," Your Mum tried really hard so let`s try really hard to enjoy this," as my brother sawing away at something unrecognisable, successfully cut through, making contact with the plate, sending a piece of something black zooming mere inches past his ear, "And if you make it look good,I`ll give you extra pocket money." This caught our attention. "How much?" sneered my wee sister. "An extra fifty pence" swung Dad. " Fifty measly pence for a theatrical performance that would leave Laurence Olivier standing?"I scoffed. "Okay...okay" Dad hushed," You lot drive a hard bargain. Seventy pence and that`s my final offer!" A show of wee hands high five over the table just as Mum made her appearance. "I am sorry,kids," she apologised, face creased up in culinary agony," I think I made a mess of tonight`s dinner." Only to be met with incredulous cries of "What?....This?...This food is gorgeous,Mum!....What are you going on about?" I think we got off a lot lighter than Dad. Being kids, we were a lot more resilient. After a while, we perfected the IT DIP technique. In Trousers Dump In Toilet.
I cling to hope. My Mum is a great cook these days. Maybe it`s a mellowing with age thing.
"What`s that on the floor?" shouts hubby pointing at one of my `Volcano Cookies lying redundantly on the kitchen floor," Has the cat gone and pooed? Look, he has! There`s a bit of undigested cat biscuit in there!" I sigh and reach for a wine glass.
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
I think I Am A Sado Machoist.
Or maybe I fell over that precipice and down into the depths of insanity one sunny day without realising it.I love parties. I am determined that each season or milestone be celebrated. Notched up on life`s great wooden bedpost for prosperity. A good time was had by all on this day. Let the memory warm us later in the sunset of our lives as we rock in a wicker chair, the wind caressing our silver locks...or if bald, the lovely cactus jungles that older folk seem to spurt from nasal and aural orifices........ in some home, somewhere far.,far...... hopefully ... far forward in time from now.
"Is this what you class as `resting`?"scolds hubby in his finest ` I know best` tone.I am stood in the kitchen, on one foot, looking like a bloated flamingo. I deftly push the end of the crutch against the touch pad key on the microwave and it duly hums into action,. Microwave knows her place after toaster nearly took an early morning flying lesson, courtesy of one manic mummy. "Just wanted to put the nails on the witches` fingers before the halflings awake.!" I cheerfully explain. I stand back and admire my handiwork. Sixty sausages boiled, chiseled and topped with a carved tomato nail, ketchup glued to the end. Witches` fingers. I point at the plate and with pride enquire."So what do you think of that?" A moment`s silence filled with hubby`s head nodding up and down while he searches for the right words to describe the culinary work of art laid out before him. " Yeah....lovely.Kids love sausages!" Indignation inflates my chest, a timely air sac between hubby and I."Sausages?" I cry," Sausages...?"I hold one up, the tomato nail slides off onto my dressing gown. Sisters together in exasperated solidarity. "This is a...." Now I search for the apt wording," ....not just any old sausage....It is culinary craftsmanship at it`s......it`s pinnacle!" Laughing hubby,"Okay! They are amazing!" Hubby should thank his stars that I am not a high maintenance type of wife,I think smugly. Easily satisfied,am I.My grudges always have a statue of limitations.
Hubby."What`s that on your cheek?" I brush and find a seaweed cut out mouth. "Oh,thanks!" I hum" I wondered where that mouth had got to." As I press it down onto a mini pizza surrounded by it`s clones. All grinning manically with mini tomato noses and olive eyeballs. In a few hours, this house will be overrun with thirty small bodies. Each and everyone a little powerhouse of energy to be amused, entertained, fed, watered and contended with. "You need to slow down," hubby yields his gem of advice,pointing a foot in the splint.
It is just after five in the morning. I am stood, like a giant flamingo. Foot in a splint.Various plates crammed with the Halloween spirit. Decorations galore. Balloons awaiting with bated breath. At this point, every time at this point, I always stop, only for a second mind as I just don`t have the time to dawdle. I always stop and think `Why do I do this to myself?` Especially `Why do I do this to myself when I have a broken foot?`
I might have a stone called `Mossy` who I like to spend an evening with on the sofa, here and there, deep in debate on such weighty topics as `Why do rubber washing up gloves always make your hands stink?` I`ve even been known to stick plasters on my nipples in an attempt to wean small beings from the booby. None of these things would fit the criteria for being certified as `nutty`. Neither do I feel the need to compete with other mummies. I haven`t even got a hairstyle let alone a recognised parenting style. Neither do I desire to win the Alfalfa....or whatever it is....Mummy tiara.
I do it for my little ones. For the warm glow I see on their faces, on their friends` faces. Because each day really is a gem. Because life isn`t a dress rehearsal. I am determined to be happy. To enjoy life and seize it by it`s goolies.This is it. So, I will continue on this quest. I am sure my Witches` Fingers are going to be legendary. Sausages indeedy!
"Is this what you class as `resting`?"scolds hubby in his finest ` I know best` tone.I am stood in the kitchen, on one foot, looking like a bloated flamingo. I deftly push the end of the crutch against the touch pad key on the microwave and it duly hums into action,. Microwave knows her place after toaster nearly took an early morning flying lesson, courtesy of one manic mummy. "Just wanted to put the nails on the witches` fingers before the halflings awake.!" I cheerfully explain. I stand back and admire my handiwork. Sixty sausages boiled, chiseled and topped with a carved tomato nail, ketchup glued to the end. Witches` fingers. I point at the plate and with pride enquire."So what do you think of that?" A moment`s silence filled with hubby`s head nodding up and down while he searches for the right words to describe the culinary work of art laid out before him. " Yeah....lovely.Kids love sausages!" Indignation inflates my chest, a timely air sac between hubby and I."Sausages?" I cry," Sausages...?"I hold one up, the tomato nail slides off onto my dressing gown. Sisters together in exasperated solidarity. "This is a...." Now I search for the apt wording," ....not just any old sausage....It is culinary craftsmanship at it`s......it`s pinnacle!" Laughing hubby,"Okay! They are amazing!" Hubby should thank his stars that I am not a high maintenance type of wife,I think smugly. Easily satisfied,am I.My grudges always have a statue of limitations.
Hubby."What`s that on your cheek?" I brush and find a seaweed cut out mouth. "Oh,thanks!" I hum" I wondered where that mouth had got to." As I press it down onto a mini pizza surrounded by it`s clones. All grinning manically with mini tomato noses and olive eyeballs. In a few hours, this house will be overrun with thirty small bodies. Each and everyone a little powerhouse of energy to be amused, entertained, fed, watered and contended with. "You need to slow down," hubby yields his gem of advice,pointing a foot in the splint.
It is just after five in the morning. I am stood, like a giant flamingo. Foot in a splint.Various plates crammed with the Halloween spirit. Decorations galore. Balloons awaiting with bated breath. At this point, every time at this point, I always stop, only for a second mind as I just don`t have the time to dawdle. I always stop and think `Why do I do this to myself?` Especially `Why do I do this to myself when I have a broken foot?`
I might have a stone called `Mossy` who I like to spend an evening with on the sofa, here and there, deep in debate on such weighty topics as `Why do rubber washing up gloves always make your hands stink?` I`ve even been known to stick plasters on my nipples in an attempt to wean small beings from the booby. None of these things would fit the criteria for being certified as `nutty`. Neither do I feel the need to compete with other mummies. I haven`t even got a hairstyle let alone a recognised parenting style. Neither do I desire to win the Alfalfa....or whatever it is....Mummy tiara.
I do it for my little ones. For the warm glow I see on their faces, on their friends` faces. Because each day really is a gem. Because life isn`t a dress rehearsal. I am determined to be happy. To enjoy life and seize it by it`s goolies.This is it. So, I will continue on this quest. I am sure my Witches` Fingers are going to be legendary. Sausages indeedy!
Saturday, 16 October 2010
Going Crutchless...And I Ain`t Talking Knickers!
"Here is an explanation in English," Doctor pushes a handwritten note over to me.
`Lisfranc fracture-dislocation of second metatarsal with extensive periosteal reaction on either side of both third and fourth metatarsals`
"Okay?" enquires the rather dishy doctor specialist softly. I steal a glance at hubby who is reading the Japanese version and nodding in complete comprehension.
Not wanting to look like the only person in the room who hasn`t got a clue what is going on...even though I am...."Yes,Dr Dishy. That`s cleared it up for me!" I cheerfully lie despite my raging foot. I surreptitiously slide the paper into my coat pocket. Google later.
"We need to totally immobilise your foot in a splint. You must rest," stresses Dr Dishy and I wonder if he creases his eyebrows like that during sex. Oh...positive sign....maybe I am already healing if I am thinking about sex. "Come back next week and we`ll do another X-ray. If the bones haven`t aligned properly, we`ll have to operate and put shunts in between the bones to help them heal properly....."
I felt the room lurch. Operation? No....no...no...no...I don`t do operations. I do parties, bbqs. I`ve even been known in my wilder days to do the odd striptease in public but operations....oh no no no. Not since that movie based on a true story about some girl waking up during the op and feeling the surgeons wiggling their hands around in her insides.
"Let`s get this splint on!" smiles Dr Dishy as a nurse efficiently strolls over pushing a tray with lots of white material on it. "Oh,...white?" I ask. "Yes," smirks back Dr Dishy doing that cute thing again with his eyebrows. "Is that the only colour available," I enquire. "Erm..." Dishy stammers. "It`s just that white isn`t really me, if you know what I mean?" I continue," It just doesn`t do anything for my skin tone.....and it`s going to get dirty so quickly!"
"Love..they only have white." hubby interjects, casting a smile around the room which instantly reactivates doctor and nurses back to their task. "Can I have a spare one,Dr?" which results in confused looks all round. "For when I have to wash one." I explain feeling exasperated that such simple logic has eluded all and sundry. "Oh no," startles Dr Dishy," Please do not remove this. It must be left intact. Do you understand?" Giving a little sniff, I nod to confirm.
Over at the `Crutch Training Centre` I did my time. Diligently watched demonstration and then practised the `those who have a fractured disloyal meta something with other meta somethings with allergic something or others` gait.
I waited with bated breath for my shiny new crutches to emerge. If they don`t have red or gold, black would be ideal. They`d go with anything and I have a pair of boots..or one boot in black fake snakeskin that would look awesome. Throw in my furry black Gap bag, should look pretty cool for someone in pain.Maybe I`ll splash out on a pair of big Garbo type sunglasses. That way, I can grimace away and no-one will notice. I`ll just look like some poor tragic figure. Battling her way through the pain and misery but with elegance.
The nurse handed me a pair of dreary grey, battered things which I promptly handed over to the old lady waiting patiently next to me. "There you go,dear!" To my horror,the nurse handed them back to me. Looking at hubby. "Oh no.You`ve got to be kidding me..." as hubby wheeled the chair over, I glared at the crutches hoping they`d bend in half under my steely gaze " A white splint and now this....There`s only so much a girl can take,you know!" I whisper, almost in tears. Turning round to look at hubby quietly pushing us down the corridor. " You did ask them about a red or gold pair, didn`t you ?"
Bending over hubby kisses my ear and says " Cup of tea,darling!"Oh well,.....I suppose I could shine them up with some ribbons or something......
`Lisfranc fracture-dislocation of second metatarsal with extensive periosteal reaction on either side of both third and fourth metatarsals`
"Okay?" enquires the rather dishy doctor specialist softly. I steal a glance at hubby who is reading the Japanese version and nodding in complete comprehension.
Not wanting to look like the only person in the room who hasn`t got a clue what is going on...even though I am...."Yes,Dr Dishy. That`s cleared it up for me!" I cheerfully lie despite my raging foot. I surreptitiously slide the paper into my coat pocket. Google later.
"We need to totally immobilise your foot in a splint. You must rest," stresses Dr Dishy and I wonder if he creases his eyebrows like that during sex. Oh...positive sign....maybe I am already healing if I am thinking about sex. "Come back next week and we`ll do another X-ray. If the bones haven`t aligned properly, we`ll have to operate and put shunts in between the bones to help them heal properly....."
I felt the room lurch. Operation? No....no...no...no...I don`t do operations. I do parties, bbqs. I`ve even been known in my wilder days to do the odd striptease in public but operations....oh no no no. Not since that movie based on a true story about some girl waking up during the op and feeling the surgeons wiggling their hands around in her insides.
"Let`s get this splint on!" smiles Dr Dishy as a nurse efficiently strolls over pushing a tray with lots of white material on it. "Oh,...white?" I ask. "Yes," smirks back Dr Dishy doing that cute thing again with his eyebrows. "Is that the only colour available," I enquire. "Erm..." Dishy stammers. "It`s just that white isn`t really me, if you know what I mean?" I continue," It just doesn`t do anything for my skin tone.....and it`s going to get dirty so quickly!"
"Love..they only have white." hubby interjects, casting a smile around the room which instantly reactivates doctor and nurses back to their task. "Can I have a spare one,Dr?" which results in confused looks all round. "For when I have to wash one." I explain feeling exasperated that such simple logic has eluded all and sundry. "Oh no," startles Dr Dishy," Please do not remove this. It must be left intact. Do you understand?" Giving a little sniff, I nod to confirm.
Over at the `Crutch Training Centre` I did my time. Diligently watched demonstration and then practised the `those who have a fractured disloyal meta something with other meta somethings with allergic something or others` gait.
I waited with bated breath for my shiny new crutches to emerge. If they don`t have red or gold, black would be ideal. They`d go with anything and I have a pair of boots..or one boot in black fake snakeskin that would look awesome. Throw in my furry black Gap bag, should look pretty cool for someone in pain.Maybe I`ll splash out on a pair of big Garbo type sunglasses. That way, I can grimace away and no-one will notice. I`ll just look like some poor tragic figure. Battling her way through the pain and misery but with elegance.
The nurse handed me a pair of dreary grey, battered things which I promptly handed over to the old lady waiting patiently next to me. "There you go,dear!" To my horror,the nurse handed them back to me. Looking at hubby. "Oh no.You`ve got to be kidding me..." as hubby wheeled the chair over, I glared at the crutches hoping they`d bend in half under my steely gaze " A white splint and now this....There`s only so much a girl can take,you know!" I whisper, almost in tears. Turning round to look at hubby quietly pushing us down the corridor. " You did ask them about a red or gold pair, didn`t you ?"
Bending over hubby kisses my ear and says " Cup of tea,darling!"Oh well,.....I suppose I could shine them up with some ribbons or something......
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