My husband is decompressing in Cyprus following his six months of aggressive housekeeping in theatre. Don't you just love military terminology and the images it conjures up? I see him as a teeny tiny soldier, dressed in a pinny, coming out from behind red velvet stage curtains and suddenly puffing up into gargantuan proportions on a mediterranean beach. I'm sure the reality is entirely different (he may well have left the pinny behind in Afghanistan). Similarly, I went to circuits the other lunchtime and the new, young (I felt like a pedo when I realised I thought he was quite good looking) PTI told us to 'dress up' for our pre workout briefing. Dress up as what, I wondered aloud, fairies? Nobody laughed.( I must stop being flippant; it's just inappropriate for someone of my age). So, yes, Major Bumsaw is on his way home and due to arrive at exactly the same time as my Tesco delivery (which is handy - he can help me out with putting away) and this gives me less than 24 hours to complete my list of jobs, which comprises: cleaning the oven, finishing the filing & sorting the office, two massive baskets of ironing, and losing a kilo from each thigh. Yep, I know, not very likely really. Furthermore, the Brazilian blow dry is not scheduled until Thursday, so my concerns about him coming back home to Wurzel Gummidge from the skip are fairly likely. Okay, I might get the ironing done (I've run out of lemonade to have with my Pimms, so I may be a little more efficient than I was last night - or I could just drink it neat....), but that's about it.
Right, better go and get on with it I suppose. Take care xxx