The place is trashed. Our rennovations start next week and I need to pack up the entire house into boxes. I see this as my big chance to finally really dump all the crap we have.
I had to kick the man out for trawling through the rubbish and saying ‘ but we need this’. We don’t , we really don’t, we really really don’t need that spoon.
I told him once that if I was ever on life support he should just unplug me and never look back, he claims he wouldn’t be able to do that, he isn’t good at ‘letting go’.
I believe him, he still has a collection of key rings he has had since grade school. He still has ALL his original Ritchie Blackmore posters. I on the other hand can get quite chuck happy, especially with his stuff.
My friend came over to help pack-up
the keyrings and posters all our stuff, which was such a help as I couldn’t then sit down every five minutes to read another magazine I had just found, or to re-read an old letter that had turned up.
While we were chatting she mentioned how busy things get in the evening and how her husband calls her to say he is at the station and then she dashes around to run a bath for him, he comes in , she pours him a nice cold beer, then while he is in the bath, she makes him a fresh dinner, which she serves to him and listens to news of his day as he eats.
It made me think that perhaps my own little routine of preparing my husband’s dinner by taking my feet off the table and pointing to whatever food the kids have left without averting my gaze from CSI, or Bones, or House or whatever the programme du jour is, may be lacking somewhat
So I have made a major effort this evening and done a full roast, and hopefully he’ll be home before I fall asleep drooling on the sofa.
Anyway, thanks to my friend almost everything is packed, just need to get the chicklets to lug it upstairs for me ( bad back!)