A wally wallet forgetter

If I start by telling you that this week and indeed blog will be a snot free zone, then just by doing that I have made it untrue.  Anyway, after a full two weeks of my life threatening cold I appear to be recovered.

With that trouble behind me I have been enjoying the finer things in life, like sleep and the ability to breathe and as such was looking forward to the weekend.  I should by rights have been in London for a Christmas do with work, but decided against it as to be honest I wanted my own bed over the weekend, and the do involved making decisions about what to wear in swanky London eateries and discotheques, and I honestly couldn’t be arsed with the shopping or selection process that might involve.  At my age once it goes dark I just want to get home, draw the curtains and get “seckled”.

It would seem that the Gods of Christmas dos decided to take full and vengeful revenge for this indiscretion, as I have had a weekend that makes you think you should have either stayed in bed or gone and drank forty-eight tequila shots in Stringfellows with some work colleagues.

So Saturday started normally enough.  The Big Shop was on its way from Asda, and for the past few weeks they have always turned up towards the end of the two-hour slot.  With this in mind, I went for a shower leaving Rebecca to look out for the van just in case it arrived.  So as soon as I had unleashed my toned and teasingly taught frame from the shackles of clothing and had one toe in the shower, Rebecca shouted that they were here.  A mild inconvenience, and I quickly dressed and came downstairs to deal with the delivery.

The rest of the morning dwindled away, and after lunch Louise and I had the joyous honour of a visit to B&Q (on xmas tree buying weekend) to get some wallpaper for our long undecorated kitchen.  Time was already getting on by the time we set off, and the traffic was a thing from the bowels of hell.  The increasingly frustrating and depressing state of the traffic whenever I am trying to get anywhere is the subject for a whole other bile ridden moan filled ranty blog at some future date!

So it took an age to drive the few short miles to our local B&Q.  We got out of the car, and I did my normal pat down routine to make sure I have everything….phone….car keys…wallet….bollocks.  Now, I didn’t have to pat anything to know I had those.  That last expletive was more of a cry of anguish realising that I had left my wallet at home.

How I laughed.  I told Louise to go and choose stuff (I have no input into these decisions anyway) and I would “pop” home to get it.  So I wrestled through the crappy traffic again, dashed in to get my wallet and set off again.  I needed my wallet for petrol too, so as soon as we’d done the DIY thing we’d stop on the way home for that.  A few hundred yards later, as I moved out to overtake a bus that had stopped, a press of the accelerator met with no response.  It soon dawned on me that for the first time ever, I had run out of petrol!

I coasted to a stop, luckily in a legal parking place, tried to phone Louise to tell her what had happened, but of course as per usual her “mobile” phone was pretty much the opposite on the dining room table.

So I set off walking back home (thankfully I had only driven a couple of minutes) to get Louise’s car.  I have to say that my stress levels were a bubbling at this point.  I wanted to get the wall papering done, and I could feel time rushing away as I tried to walk home as quickly as possible without slipping on the inconveniently icy pavements.

With a vehicle secured, I tried again to get to the promised land of B&Q, and the traffic had gone up by about another 25%, so by the time I got to Louise I was a coronary waiting to happen.  We checked out, and set off for home.

Once home, through more tortuous bobbins traffic, I looked for the petrol canister that Louise bought recently when she ran out of petrol!  Of course, I couldn’t find it, so we set off again in Louise’s car to the petrol station.  I paid a ridiculous £6.99 for a suitable and legal petrol container, as apparently they don’t let you dispense it into an Asda bag.

I then filled said container, and we drove back to my car, through even more even worse traffic where I got it going again and drove home.  By this stage I had fallen out with the world….all of it, and I sat in a monstrous sulk for the rest of the day whilst Louise and the girls did the Christmas decorations.  My aversion to festivity at this point measured about 400 on the Richter scale.

My anger was aimed at me, and me alone, (apart from the driver of the X reg Hyundai who did 24 miles an hour in front of us all the way back from B&Q) for being such a complete arse and forgetting my wallet, which kicked off this stupid and maddening series of events.

Still, no-one died, and as the night wore on I calmed down and got back to some sort of normality even though I had to sit through most of the X Factor.  You can imagine how Christopher Maloney helped my mood?

So Sunday dawned full of fresh starts and new hope.  Alas, today has consisted of decorating the kitchen, and I have documented many times what sort of frame of mind DIY puts me in.  It is complete, and apart from one” is it overlapping at the top” comment from Louise as I was about ten seconds into the second piece, any unpleasantness was kept to a minimum.

Oh, and the dishwasher broke.

Ho, Ho, Ho.


Till the next time…..

Deck my balls with boughs of holly….

Alas the lottery balls have denied me the joy of telling work to place their job anywhere north of the sphincter.  The hope I invest in this each week is beyond sad, and until the balls drop on a Saturday evening, in my mind it is a valid route out of a Monday morning.

As you may have predicted the working week was spectacularly poor.  There have been smatterings of good news, with many of my guys affected quickly finding new jobs.  I have greeted these bits of news with a mixture of definite pleasure, and just a little jealousy.  Until I get that lucky, I am enslaved to “work through it”, so onwards I trudge.

My “no work here” rule is under strain, as I could quite easily wax lyrical for quite some time on the reasons that I would literally rather be anywhere else but at work tomorrow, but I shall resist.  No doubt many of you dear readers feel the same, so it would be selfish to do so.

With a veil thrown jauntily over the working week, other news this week was also on the bad side.  Late on Friday night, my Mum was taken into hospital.  She was suffering from some serious abdominal pains, and she was admitted for prodding and testage.  I popped up to see her today, and she seems much better, but is waiting for more scanning to see what on earth it was.  It seems the immediate problem has gone but it would be good of course to find out what the underlying problem was/is.

Having done the visiting thing for an hour or so, Emily I then picked up a new Christmas tree.  We binned our long serving model a couple of years ago, and had a real one last year, but the thought of having both a real xmas tree, and a four-month old puppy in the same house is perhaps not the most sensible idea.  So we’ve (heavily) invested in a new unreal tree.  To get suitable value from the investment, I shall expect my great grand children to be gathered around this bloody tree in decades to come!!

Really, it is just some metal rods with green bits stuck to it.  We left the decoration of the tree mainly to the girls this year, once I’d done the annual wrestle with the lights, and other erection grunt work.  Apologies for the very poor quality snap, but it looks pretty good (honest).

xmas tree
Less blurred in real life

As some sort of well-timed mood setter, it is now snowing outside.  All we need now is three pints of advocat and Shakin’ Stevens to turn up and it’s just like Christmas used to be in the good old days.

So Christmas is on officially, and I welcome its arrival with open arms for many reasons –

1.  I will be off work for almost two weeks

2.  It involves lots of food

3.  It signals the end of what is essentially four months solid of reality TV.

Plus, on January 2nd I like to see if I have won a favourite game of mine.  It is called, which tragic minor celeb has released a fitness DVD for 2012.  Amongst the Hoseasons adverts and that bloody Martine McCutcheon plugging some white gloop that does you good, there is always at least half a dozen Davina’s pushing their lycra clad exertions, with them air brushed within an inch of their lives on the DVD cover.

My predictions for 2012 are –

1.  Any one of the vacuous skin wastages from The Only Way is Essex.

2.  Fatima Whitbread, and by the way, I have an exclusive sneak peak of that one…..


3.  Russell Grant  (yes, he’ll milk this five minutes for all it’s worth).

What are your predictions then??

Till the next time…..