Can I be Serious for a Second?

Firstly, sorry, sorry, sorry – this post is being written on a Monday, and I promised that I would always write one at the weekend.  Although, technically, as this weekend is a Bank Holiday one, that means that this is still the weekend (yep, it’s weak reasoning, but…well…I can’t think of anything else).

It was The Boy’s Birthday Barbeque yesterday (which went ahead even though the Weather Fairy refused to return our calls, and insisted on leaving the sky looking as though someone had gone over it with a roller and a tin of grey paint.  But it could have been worse – at least the rain waited until today to make its traditional Bank Holiday appearance), which meant that most of yesterday was taken up with ‘hostessing’, and when I say ‘hostessing’ I mean making random concoctions and forcing people to drink them, and gossiping with my chums.  Saturday was taken up with supermarket shopping.  Which I am never, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER doing on a Saturday again.  Screaming children, unruly trollies, unsupervised children (including a lovely young soul who very nearly ended up under the wheels of my car, after running out in front of me in the car park, and whose parents saw absolutely no issue with her doing so), dawdling shoppers, angry couples…the list of joy is almost unending. 

On the plus side, I think that everyone enjoyed themselves.  I certainly did – partly because I got to see all of our Brilliant Friends, and partly because The Boy bought me a new dress  a few weeks ago, from a lovely shop called M Butterfly in Cambridge, which I was saving for Something Special, and people kept telling me how lovely it was – now that I’ve worn it once, I’m not sure that I’m going to take it off.  Although during an unfortunate ‘Magners falling out of the fridge and smashing all over the floor’ incident last night, the dress got covered in cider.  So I may need to take it off to wash, or nasty ‘don’t you ever wash’ accusations may start flying around, and no-one wants that (even if you don’t ever wash, it’s not nice to have it pointed out).

So, those are my excuses/reasons/explanations out of the way, now onwards and upwards…

I’d like to be serious for just a second, if I may (sorry about that).  Lovely Stepdad went over to Germany last weekend, for some motorbike riding/racing, and good, old-fashioned male bonding, with lots of other men who have bikes.  Which was great.  What wasn’t so great was the phonecall that Lovely Mum received on Monday, letting us know that Lovely Stepdad had been in an accident, involving his bike and a patch of diesel.  Very luckily for all of us, he’s ok (unless you count his left arm, which, after being landed on by his bike, is currently at Popeye proportions – not a great look unless you are actually a cartoon character with a fondness for spinach), and was allowed to come home on Tuesday (also luckily, one of the chaps that he was with drove in a car, as Lovely Stepdad’s bike is currently in a very sorry state somewhere near a German race track), and he’s at home recuperating (whilst Lovely Mum and Yes Dear, the guy that works for them) are running around like very speedy things, keeping the garage running as smoothly as possible (Did I mention that my parents own a garage?  It’s a rather good one too).  Yes Dear goes on holiday tomorrow evening.  I’ve offered to help in his absence, but apparently you can’t just sit under cars and make ‘hmmm’ noises, you actually have to do something with them.  So I’ve been informed that my services will not be required.  So my serious point is, some things are more important than shopping.  Yep, that’s right, it’s out there, I’ve said it. 

However, you didn’t come over for a bit of armchair philosophy (I say armchair, I’m actually lying on my bed, but bed philosophy just sounds a bit…well, a bit wrong), so let’s talk about clothes and other frivolous things.  Well, actually, it’s just going to be about clothes. 

 As you know, Boohoo is one of my favourite websites.  As you won’t know (unless you’re one of my lovely workmates), Boohoo sent me an email with these exact words;

‘We haven’t seen you for a while’

And a 20% discount, valid until 1st June.  So you see my problem – it would have been rude not to look at the website with a discount like that, but I wouldn’t be able to buy anything, even if I fell in love with something.  Which I did.  Two things actually – both playsuits (which usually make me look like an overgrown toddler, and like I should be carrying a bucket and spade with a knotted handkerchief on my head, but I’m an optimist).  Then Lovely Mum hit on something of a solution – as my birthday is just around the corner, and she likes to buy me things, she offered to buy me 1 of the playsuits as a gift, meaning that I could order both, then send one back (this agreement was made on Sunday, before all the bike related trauma – I may be shallow, but even I’m not callous enough to bother my Mum about chiffon related prettiness whilst someone we love is in pain.  Well, I like to think that I’m not callous enough to do that, but the situation has, fortunately, not yet presented itself).  Both were consequently ordered, arrived in double quick time, and Lovely Stepdad had to spend his first night back at home making interested noises whilst I discussed the benefits of the green over the floral design (should you be interested, this is the green one, and this is the floral one).  Lovely Mum, Darling Sister and Lovely Stepdad decided that the green would be best, but I always like a third, fourth and often, seventeenth opinion, so I took the playsuits into work, and forced the girls in the office to let me have a fashion show.  They all preferred the floral, which left me a little bit of a problem, as I really, really liked both.  So I put my ingratiating tone on, and fluttered my eyelashes at my Lovely Parents.  And they offered to let me keep both.  See – lovely.  And perhaps slightly relieved that they don’t have to do the usual last minute dash to the shops, when I decide 2 days before my birthday what I’d like (decision making isn’t my strong point – just as The Boy.  He has to ask about 20 minutes before he wants breakfast what I’d like, so that I have time to dither between toast toppings).

In other news, Darling Sister has very definitely moved out now.  I went to her new flat, and all of her things are actually there, not just hiding somewhere in our house.  Weirdly, I still keep expecting her to walk through the front door, so that I can complain that she hasn’t fed the cats.  Her flat looks like a showhome, but she’s still nice enough to invite me over (although she only lets me drink water.  From a beaker.  And I’m not allowed, under any circumstances, to actually sit on the cushions.)

In other, other news, New Look sent me a letter this week, telling me that they’re going to increase my credit limit.  Now that’s just cruel.

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