Eh, comment, pardon, o que!?
Obviously I retorted that this was not an experience with which I am familiar......
What I didn't bother mentioning was that I regularly forget why I've opened the fridge, I put pink socks in my sons' drawers and can't remember who I'm calling by the time I've finished dialling the number. Yesterday, I called my aforementioned friend. When she answered, I asked if she was at work.
"No", she replied, "you know very well my maternity leave doesn't finish until November. Dianne, have you rung me by mistake again?" continued my completely different twenty-something-year-old friend and new mum, clearly with all her marbles still intact (for now, cue evil knowing laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha!!).
And hey, the 'going up the stairs' thing is easy. You're either tired (go to bed), need the loo (go to the loo), got your arms full of clean clothes (put them away, preferably in the right drawers) or carrying the Hoover (vacuum the floor). No early onset of Dementia can catch me out on the stairs, no siree.
Now, where was I?
Ah yes, silly phrase of the week. Have you ever heard the expression 'a watched pot never boils?'
How outdated is that?!
Does anyone watch a pot these days? Don't we just flick the switch on the kettle, change the baby, do the shopping, take the toddler to the library, clean the bathroom and then remember we turned the kettle on?
But unlike a watched pot, the modern-day kettle has turned itself off and is stone cold by the time we actually get chance for a cuppa at 11.45pm and we're heading up the stairs to bed!
Anyway, I've invented my own 'watched pot' metaphor.
"A watched flight information board in the Arrivals hall at Gatwick doesn't change from 'expected' to 'landed' if you stare at it without blinking until your eyes go dry."
But you can guarantee that as soon as 'landed' does eventually appear and, after a further twenty minutes (which feels like a fortnight) it changes to 'baggage in hall', there's not a dry eye in Costa (or was that just me?).
Yes, if you're a withdewrespect regular, you'll know it's just been my third favourite day of the year when my ten-year-old son returns from spending summer with his dad in Portugal. My first and second favourite days are when he returns from visiting his dad in Portugal at Easter and Christmas.
So me, grandma and the boys enjoyed a couple of days in London town and had a fabulous night at Billy and Elliott (as my five-year-old called it). Mind you, also outdated is the giant Spitting Image puppet of Thatcher being chased by the scythe-toting Grim Reaper.....got ya. (And were pre-adolescent working class children really so foul-mouthed up north in the 80s, I certainly wasn't.) But what a fantastic show, my boys were mesmerised for three hours solid, Almost Naked Animals can't do that (see previous blog).
It was on our way home from the Capital that it all went pear-shaped. My mum was desperate for a cuppa at Kings Cross but I told her she wouldn't have time to drink it and I'd get her one on the train.
As the Grand Central train slowly pulled out of the station, the chipper voice of the senior onboard crew member (or conductor) welcomed us on board before he dealt the fatal blow.
"We regret to inform passengers that we will not be serving a hot drinks service on this evening's four-hour-long journey."
I glanced over at my mum. She hadn't heard, so I nipped down to the buffet car and bought her a bottle of wine.
However, while purchasing the wine I made an interesting discovery. The reason for the 'no hot drinks' policy was because some of the pull-down tables were missing on some of the seats. 'Health and safety' said the shame-faced steward as he stood guard in front of the hot drinks machine.
But hang on a mo, didn't I see steaming cups of coffee as I walked through First Class?
"Ah yes, madam, they all have tables in First Class."
"Well, we have a table in carriage D."
"Tough."
Cups may have been steaming in First Class but the only thing steaming in Standard were the passengers!
Last week, I found myself among a lot of people who know a lot about football and like to voice their opinions, mingled with language akin to that of a 12-year-old from a 1980's strike-ridden County Durham mining community. Yes, the new footie season is upon us and I seem to be once again the proud owner of a season ticket for Sheffield Wednesday Football Club.
There are many, many diamonds in jewellers shops near and far, but no, my husband annually buys me a small blue and white card with an Owl on it.
So, there I am watching the Owls versus the Millwall Lions (if we liken their odds to those in the animal kingdom, it seems like an obvious conclusion to me).
As the game was about to begin at Hillsborough, the visiting team (Millwall) rather bizarrely came out of the tunnel and proceeded to play in the away kit of the home team (Wednesday) - are you keeping up?
The Millwall players had been forced to borrow Wednesday's spare shirts, shorts and socks as it turned out their kit man had forgotten to bring a fundamental part of their belongings......their entire kit.
One job, the man has one job!
(Maybe their kit is kept on the first floor at The Den, and he forgot why on earth he was going up the stairs!)
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| Hang on a minute, isn't that my shirt....you'd better not get it dirty mate! |
