Monthly Archives: January 2010

By the time we’d finished our lunch in Sainsbury’s Graham had relaxed and settled in to enjoying a mini-break from his work.

We were laughing and joshing over cold coffee (Graham) and cold black tea (me).

“Let’s not bother with the shopping or anything,” I said.  “Let’s just sit here, get more coffee, and enjoy the afternoon.”

“That sounds awful nice.”

“Well?”

“Nah.  Stuff to do.  Come on, chicken, let’s get going.”

It would have been fun, though.

The living room project has been one of those that drag on and on.  Yesterday saw the finish of the big shelving project, though, and the results are sitting on the wall waiting to dry hard and to be peopled with stuff.  Photos will be forthcoming when there’s something less like an empty shop to show.

Now attention returns to the floor, which has a bad case of failed varnish.  So Graham’s done a test piece with harder, more suitable stuff.  That has proved successful so far and is likely to be followed by the full Monty during the rest of this week.

And then we’re going to go out for a trip, and a picnic, if I have to put a collar and chain on him and drag him out willy nilly.

Other than that it’s been another non-day, kept alive by viewing back numbers of missed TV programmes–mostly documentaries–on the BBC iPlayer.  It’s difficult to remember now what life was like without fast broadband.

You’d think that after 70 years of trying, zits on the chin would have given up by now.  And they have, really. I can go years without the smallest facial pimple. It’s been so long since the last one that I had almost forgotten how to deal with such things, leaving the knowledge safely in my adolescence.

“Do we have any Germolene?” I asked, tilting my head sideways in the mirror so as to get a better purchase on the darn spot that had sprung up overnight.

“What do you want Germolene for?”

“Because this pimple is about to meet its maker and I want to have something soothing and curative to hand when I’ve done.”

“You don’t need Germolene.  Time has marched on since Germolene was the appropriate treatment.  Put some tea tree oil on it instead.”

“I don’t know from tea tree oil and I don’t know how to apply it.  Just gimme the Germolene, willya?”

“No.  I’ll put the tea tree oil on when you done your thing with it.  Ye Gods!  All that stuff in such a small spot!  Hang on.”

Dab.

Scream.

“You didn’t say that tea tree oil would sting!”

“No.  I didn’t say that it wouldn’t sting, either.”

“Germolene doesn’t sting.  Germolene has a mild anaesthetic in it so’s it doesn’t sting.”

“Tea tree oil is better than Germolene.”

“It’d better be.”

That all happened this morning.  This evening the spot is almost disappeared, healed over and being quietly miracle-cured.

“Jungle magic, I reckon,” I said.

“How’s that, then?”

“Well, it’s almost gone already.”

“It’d be gone altogether if you didn’t keep poking it.”

Now that’s a bit of jungle wisdom if ever I heard it.  Didn’t say so, though. He’d probably hit me if I said so. And then put something painful on it to heal the bruises up quick as quick.

Living with a fully qualified and certificated aromatherapist isn’t all sweet smelling bath oils and roses, you know.

It’s been a perfectly lovely day.  Blue skies.  A bit of sunshine.  Barely a breath of wind.  And no rain.

“What a great day!” Graham said.

“Ennit just.  Shall we take our lunch and go out up to the Beacons?”

“No.  I got stuff to do.”

“Ah well.  It was worth trying.”

We’d just concluded a safe return-and-refund deal on an unsuitable bit of network routing gear at Maplins in Llansamlett and Graham took mercy on me as I looked all confused at a wall display full of telephone sockets and interconnectors.

“Why don’t you go and wait in the car?” he said.  “I can handle this, no problem.”

“You do realise that I shall be walking past the burger van, all on my own?”

“Oh.  I’m sure you can handle that.”

I was certain I could detect a slight smirk on him.  And I was right.  When I got to the corner of the car park that’s normally all redolent and rich with the smell of cooked onions and singed burger meat it was silent and odorless.  And closed.

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Burger bar in Maplin's car park. Closed.

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Oh well.  Into every life…