Why do I even care that England won yesterday and have thus now gone through? Why? Answer me that? But no, as per usual, I have been swept along into the annoying frenzy of World Cup obsession, and yes, I too was shouting happy expletives at the television yesterday afternoon when Defoe scored. Get in.
D was not quite so impressed. In fact, the poor mite nearly leapt out of his skin when his father screamed a particularly rude word at one point, and was possibly more shocked still when said father scooped him up and hurled him into the air in a celebratory fashion.
Footballing shenanigans aside, D and I had a productive day yesterday, as did the plasterer who has now finished D's bedroom, which is now a fetching shade of soggy grey. (God, how does one go about painting a room that a baby needs to sleep in? Time to go and camp at the in-laws perhaps...)
I have nearly finished painting the (sodding, blasted, damned) dining room, though am sick to death of the sight of it. Oh the irritation of watching fresh paint slide merrily off shiny wallpaper and not even be able to swear at it, because you know deep down, that if you had been less lazy and took the wallpaper off first, not only would it have looked better, but would have been far easier to paint as well. Hmm.
But will I learn a lesson from this? Nah. Already, my response when hubbie peeled up the carpet in D's room and stated that there weren't quite the lovely floorboards there that we were hoping for, was to just say 'put another carpet in then'. I just cannot summon up the enthusiasm for the prospect of having to hire a sanding machine, get a carpenter to replace some of the knackered old floorboards, and paint the bloody thing three times over with varnish. Nope, at this stage, after a month of slogging, I am fully whole-heartedly for the notion of paying someone to do it for me.
I made D a lovely pancake last night with a bit of maple syrup as a treat. Do you know what he did with it? Do you? He threw it on the floor.
Then he cried. (I'm not quite sure why. Perhaps an inate aversion to egg-based commestibles?)
Then I felt like crying, as I could have quite happily consumed it instead, but since being on the floor, it had accumulated an unfortunate layer of plaster dust (from upstairs, how did it travel so far?) and a few of my hairs. It didn't look quite so tasty after that.
We're off back to the homelands today to go and visit my friend / ex neighbour / business partner and her lovely boy, who D adores, and watches with great fascination. I may well go and rap on the door of our old house - mainly to ask for the bottle of wine back that we so kindly left the new inhabitants, given that they are WRITING THREATENING LETTERS via their solicitor, over the fact that there are (wait for it, this is genius) 1) a few holes in the wall, where some pictures were hung, 2) one of the hobs won't light (it did when we left!) 3) the extractor fan is a bit noisy and 4) one of the curtain rails is missing. It cost £5.99 in Ikea.
It was actually so bletheringly pitifully trivial that I couldn't even be bothered to get annoyed about it. Some people really are very delusional about what living in a 100 year old house is like. (perhaps in his homeland of America, they don't have houses that old?)
Oh, D is awake. That was quite good for him...twenty minutes!
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