Monday, 31 May 2010

Summer Lovin'

Summer is here!
We've had breakfast and lunch outside. Twice.
The lawn mower is mended and has done wonderful work with the first Cut of the season. And the second. And the third. Bloody grass.
Oh, and the rabbit is shagging the chickens.
All is fine with our world.
Back to the rabbit? Really?
Well, put quite simply, the rabbit thinks it's a chicken. And shags them. OK?
Or else, puts its fluffy little face right into the chicken's bottom and sniffs. Honestly. It's enough to put you off your cornflakes.
Should explain that rabbit lives with chickens in great harmony. Except for the bottom sniffing.
Rosie, the chicken, is rather Bored with the whole rigmarole, and tends to trot off sideways, rather like a dressage horse. Snatching at the odd insect on the ground. Pretending that a rabbit is NOT sniffing her bottom.
The vet once said to me, regarding Millie, the rabbit, that if she ever displayed behaviour of a sexual nature, she might need to be Done. As in, Bits Off.
I decided, in that moment, not to mention the chicken shagging, as it seemed a little more sexual than he might have meant. Millie might have been carted off to a Bunny Farm and slammed into a Sexual Offenders Section.
Couldn't put her through that. So Millie stays As She Was Made and the chickens have to suffer the occasional Sniffing or Worse.
Daughter and Youngest get Uncontrollable Giggles when Millie gets frisky. And we all run towards the chicken run and shout a lot.
Poor old Millie. Perhaps I should get her bits off. But am damned if am going to vet to pay a fortune for a rabbit NOT to sniff a chicken's bottom. Or Worse.
So will continue to interrupt Millie in her courtships and encourage her to be a little more Ladylike.
In the meantime, am waiting for her next frisky moment to capture it for ever on film.
Watch this space.

Thursday, 20 May 2010

Stepford Wife Moment

I have been the most wonderful wife! Let me tell you all about it as it really doesn't happen that often.
It was about 8 o'clock the other night and I was preparing supper. Old fish with left over vegetables hurled in oven.
When Husband rang. Poor love sounded totally Knackered.
'Just leaving now,' he croaked, barely able to form a sentence in his tiredness.
'Back about 9.00.'
We exchanged very brief Pleasantries before I replaced the phone.
And back I walked into my kitchen, hearing the sounds of children fighting and bath water definitely being splashed with some force.
Thoughtfully I opened the oven.
Yeurrch. Disgusting. And no Husband to eat it for an hour. Steps needed to be made to assist the poor man in his tiredness.
And, quite suddenly, just like that, there was Me. The Perfect Wife!
Never before had I felt quite so purposeful! Powerful, even! Yippee!
Up I went to the carnage of the bathroom. I clapped my hands for silence. That didn't work, so I yelled hard instead. That worked a treat and within moments all was quiet.
Another few minutes on and all children were bathed, pyjamed (?) and ready for bed. Teeth gleaming white, hair brushed, Fifties style, and everyone calling out Goodnight! just like the bloody Waltons.
Wafted down to the kitchen, put on my apron (!) chucked out First Disgusting Supper to the chickens and Prepared the Alternative Supper, a simple but delicious concoction.
Lit a fire in the sitting room as it was so Effing cold.
Polished (!) our gorgeous antique table in the sitting room and tore outside to get some flowers to put on it. Plumped up cushions, checked for Cat Crap, as you do, and raced upstairs to brush my own hair.
Down I came, supper gently cooking, fire blazing, sitting room warm and cosy, and children in bed.
(go on, aren't you DAMNED impressed?)
In came Husband, bent in half with exhaustion.
Did I kiss him home?
Yes, I did.
Did I ask him how he was in gentle concerned tones?
Yes, I did.
Did I take his coat and ask him if he wanted a drink?
Yes, I did.
Did his eyes light up when he saw the fire?
Yes, they did.
Did he turn to me and give me a grateful hug and tell me what a star I was?
Yes, he did.
Shame about the next evening. Shit supper, shouty children and bugger all patience.
But, Oh! It was damned good while it lasted.

Tuesday, 4 May 2010

Anyone for Tennis

I am my Husband's biggest fan. Honestly.
But when it comes to Tennis Gear, I may become a tad disloyal.
We were down in Devon this weekend. Staying with Mother In Law.
Mother in Law had kindly asked me to play tennis with her friends on Bank Holiday Monday.
I kindly refrained. Preferring my nice soft bed and a lengthy breakfast to getting out at high speed to play tennis with some nifty eighty year olds. Who are far better than me.
I have enough humiliation in my life. Who needs more?
So Husband Volunteered.
'I'll play,' he said, somewhat grandly, over his pre-supper whisky and soda.
'Have you any tennis gear?' I asked him. Knowing he didn't. But using that Wifely Concern to back the poor sod into a corner.
'Yup,' he said breezily. 'Got some in a cupboard somewhere.'
My brows furrowed as I conjured up pictures of Green Flash Tennis Shoes, all the rage in 1975, and Fred Perry shorts. Tight enough to damage the balls. As it were.
The morning came. Breakfast was leisurely enough for me. But Husband had to forgo his second coffee to dash upstairs to Kit Himself Up for the tennis game.
MIL and I poured ourselves another cup of coffee and complained about the children for a few minutes. (One of MIL's favourite topics. Say no more)
When down the stairs came the sound of Husband, two steps at a time. Jaunty.
MIL and I turned round to see what he was wearing
Oh My Lord.
Husband was sporting what on first sight appeared to be Underpants. White. Tight.
MIL and I spat out coffee in an agonised and Prolonged fit of Hysteria.
Husband stood there, waiting for us to finish laughing. He does that a lot.
When the first bout had died down, I looked more closely.
Tight Fred Perry shorts were teamed with a pair of brown socks, and BROWN SUEDE SHOES!
OMG. Hysteria won again. And I entered Bout 2 of silent, painful laughter. Tears formed. Stomach hurt. And the wheezing began in earnest. (I wheeze like an old man when I laugh that hard)
MIL was having similar problems on the other side of the table. Her shouts of laughter punctuated my wheezing, so that Husband looked from one of us to the other in a parody of the game he was about to play.
Oh dear.
The children playing outside and sensing the fun, pressed their noses against the window, and mouthed, 'What is Daddy wearing?' Their eyes wide. Astonishment written across each dear face.
I couldn't answer. It was impossible to speak any words at all. My mouth was welded open, showing all my dentistry, and I tried in vain to fight the hysteria.
Husband gave up and went to find his tennis racket.
'Is. It. Wooden?' I asked, forcing out the words. Paralysed again by such wit.
Husband wasn't finding any of this very funny any more.
Which made it all the more funny. Of course.
Out he went, and we could see his legs, every inch of them from his groin down to the brown socks.
We gave up. And howled.
The last thing Husband saw as he went were the gaping mouths of his wife and mother through the windows, slapping the table in mirth.
Poor man.
And can you imagine the Eyes of those women as he emerged from his car at the tennis club? Can you?! Can you?!
If only I could have been a fly on the wall.

I think he thought he looked like this...

Only he looked more like this... in white. Oh, dear, I'm off again...