Nine years ago today, I asked my now wife, Claire, to be my girlfriend. I must have made a good impression in taking her to The Boathouse pub for a meal, because she said yes. Just over four years later, we became engaged, and in 2015, got married.
Nine years on, we are both very happy and in love. We have a house together and our relationship is still going strong.
We decided to go all posh last week, and buy our online shop from Ocado. Tesco had really annoyed me, by not only delivering me mouldy oranges one week, but by sending me further putrid fruit the following order!
Ocado source a lot of their food from Waitrose, which is very expensive. I needed to buy a couple of ready meals, which were of good quality, but not stupidly priced. I found some, which were 2 for £6. Not cheap, but considering some of the other ‘deals’ were priced at over £10, I had little choice.
While unpacking the shopping, Claire asked why I had bought gluten and dairy free food. I have no allergies and will generally eat anything, besides fish. It turns out the nice looking ready meals I had bought were for people with special dietary requirements.
Last night, I ate a Thai Green Curry. The last time I had one of these, it was nice and creamy. How could they make a cream curry with no milk? The curry was horrible, and the vast majority of it went in the bin. I’ve got a chicken tikka masala tonight – again, dairy free. I don’t have high hopes.
The other morning, I awoke to a disturbed wife. The house was in darkness. Apparently, when turning on the bathroom light, there was a big flash, followed by all of the remaining lights in the house going out. I had expereinced this problem in my old flat, so knew how to fix it. The light circuit had tripped, and just needed turning back on. I normally keep a torch by the bedside for these matters. Could I find it when I really needed it? Could I hell. Luckily, my mobile phone has a torch app. Unfortunetely, it drinks battery juice like Phil Mitchell drinks vodka. By using the phone as a torch, I might not have enough power left to call 999, should I fail to restore the lights to my house. Thankfully, I managed to haul myself out of bed, made it downstairs, got the lights working and my phone didn’t die. The bathroom light was still out, which presented an even greter problem…
I asked my DIY Man – AKA “Dad” – to come and change the light bulb. He is excellent at this kind of thing and I wouldn’t have been able to do this job. Being a shortarse 5 foot 5 and having as much balance as a one-legged horse, I didn’t really want to risk changing it myself with a stepladder, especially as the bulb is under a fragile glass dome, which would no doubt shatter into a million sharp pieces if I went anywhere near it, leading to me cutting myself, dying from blood loss and receiving a fine from the landlord for breaking his property.
My Dad managed to retrieve the bulb from behind the great glass ceiling dome. Except it wasn’t a bulb. It was a tiny tube. You know the kind you get in an office? It was like that but 100 times smaller. Where on earth could I buy one of these? One things for sure, I couldn’t buy one from my Tesco Local. I went to the shop that sells everything (apart from drugs and livestock)… Amazon.
After much thinking, I bought what I believed to be the correct bulbs, tubes, whatever… The next day, Claire rang me at work to say that they had been delivered, but they were too small! Yes, it was a tiny, tiny light tube. 1,000 times smaller than one you would find in an office! This was getting serious, there was only so long I could shower by candle light (OK, I used the landing light, with the bathroom door open). My Dad, the best handyman in the world, managed to find the required bulb in Screwfix and even fitted it for us. Everything is now working, there is now no longer a need for candles, but we do have a multipack of tiny light tubes that we’ll never need.
Happy New Year to all my readers. How did you spend your evening last night? Unless you are Dot Cotton, I can guarantee that it was more rock and roll than mine. We went to bed at our usual time of around half ten. Thinking about it, Dot’s evening was probably more exciting than ours – at least she was able to pop some drugs, albeit nicotine. We couldn’t even score any Ovaltine.
There were two reasons for our unfestive evening. Firstly, Claire had worked a long day at work, so was understandably shattered. Secondly, we had nothing to do. No guests. No party games. There wasn’t even anything good on the telly.
After our early night, I woke up shortly before midnight. I’d normally go straight back to sleep, but I felt I should see in the New Year, even if it was lying on a bed, in a dark room, next to a heavily sleeping wife.
Right on the stroke of midnight, the fireworks started. Lots of them. It sounded like a warzone. I am sure Ross Kemp was hiding behind a wheelie bin, somewhere in Twerton, with a film crew, reporting on all the dangerous explosions.
Why do people buy fireworks anyway? They’re very expensive and aren’t really that good. You are literally burning your money. With so many suckers putting on their own displays in their back garden, why not watch theirs for free? It’s all down to having a big ego. As I lay in my bed, it occurred to me that whoever buys fireworks, has to be the one who lets off the last one over the course of the night. After the mass of explosions had died down, occasionally you would hear a single firework bang, from one side of Weston (where I live). Moments later, another explosion from another area of the suburb. I’d like to say who won the sad ‘battle of the bangs’, but I fell asleep.
I had a terrible start to my day. I woke up to find some animal had totally destroyed our rubbish bags, which had been left out for the bin men. This wasn’t just a small tear in the bag, they had been ripped to shreds spilling literally all our rubbish from the last week onto the street.
Bags of chips, used kitchen roll, old fruit, empty packets of curry, were all over the lawn, pavement and road.
Claire had to start work early, so it was up to me to tackle the mess by myself. It took almost half an hour, but I managed to tidy most of the mess – filling a brand new bin bag with rubbish, while spilling an old yoghurt down my work trousers – there was probably bin juice mixed in with it too. How disgusting!
We weren’t the only house to have their bins sabotaged. The houses opposite were also targeted. So what was behind the crime
There are lots of felines on our street. I have fallen out with many of them, after they crapped all over my lawn. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were the creature behind the bin bag damage. If this is the case, all local cat owners should have helped me clean up the mess.
Fantastic Mr. Fox
We often get foxes on our street, and see them in even more abundance the night everyone puts their bins out. I guess for a fox, bin day is like Tesco delivery day for me, when lots of nice food arrives at my door. On Tesco delivery day, I gorge myself on chocolate, crisps and cake, while making one hell of a mess. Therefore, if it was a fox who tore into my bin bag, I can kind of excuse them for gorging on rotten eggs, soggy cornflakes and potato peel.
The bane of every Bathonian’s life (or at least that’s what the local paper will have you believe). They terrorise the city centre – mainly by pooing on people from a great height. Luckily, I don’t get many near where I live – something I was boasting about to a colleague just a few days ago. I think that I jinxed myself, and the baddest, meanest gang of gulls in Bath descended upon my front garden, to eat my rubbish.
Stig of the Dump
A character in a popular children’s book from the 1980’s. Stig is a child who lives in a rubbish tip. Back then, social services weren’t nearly as good as they are now. Stig collected rubbish and presumably ate a lot of it, in order to survive. Could Stig be to blame?
Whoever it was, I have learnt a big, big lesson and will be putting the bins out in the morning next week, so that no fox, cat, seagull or neglected child tears them open.
On this website, you’ll find me blogging (almost) daily about everyday life, living in Bath, working with computers, and the occasional bit of football stuff thrown in.
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