Here’s the story of hammers, calamity, and a blackout.
Don’t you hate wind? You battle so hard against it when you’re walking down the street. Yet the strong gusts keep battering you. But then the wind betrays you. It suddenly calms down leaving you looking like a dick still battling against wind that doesn’t exist anymore. You look like an inadvertent mime artist. You have a terrible choice, one that I imagine is similar to that Sophie faced. Do you stop and look like a moron for not stopping sooner? Or do you keep going and take a chance you might get out of the situation not looking a fool? Do you carry on and pretend to be a mime caught in an unfortunate situation of what you’re miming actually happening to you? It’s a conundrum. My advice is to stop, run like the proverbial wind, and hide in a bush. Top tip of the week, there.
It’s been a very cold week. Whilst deep into the coldest March for 50 years, our heating blew up. Not literally, because if it had literally blown up, I wouldn’t be complaining about being so cold. I have a cardigan to protect me against the inevitable frostbite. A cardigan and tea. That’s how the English keep warm. That and furious Morris Dancing.
It’s Easter so nobody could come out and fix it. In this house, we have a rule. If something is broke, you rule out all the obvious ways to fix it. When you’ve exhausted all the ways to fix it, you break out the hammer. Seriously. I’ve lost count of how many times dad has fixed the heating by bashing the pipes with the sturdy thump of the metal hammer head. Kicking it works, too. Sometimes shouting at it works. Not sure why, though.
We have a plumber friend in the family. He could’ve helped, but he’s busy. Although he may not be the best choice, anyway. Last time he tried to fix our heating, he set the floor on fire. He had a broken leg, too. And his baby daughter was watching on. Laughing and clapping at the bright lights. I was in my room at the time. I remember being quite delighted that dinner was nearly ready. I was only alerted to the sense of danger when comical panicked screaming came from beyond my door. The plumber told me to stay in my room. I wouldn’t have gone for that option personally, but I obliged. He put the fire out with the can of lager he was drinking. He’s a great plumber, honestly. He’s just a little unorthodox. One could argue that must have been a terrible Christmas, but on the plus side, at least the fire had warmed me up.
No such luck this week. A terrible week. Well, terrible for me. I’m sure for other people, terrible will be defined differently. It’s a very multi-layered word, is what I’m saying. The heating was the tip of a very cold iceberg. Not that there is such a thing as a warm iceberg. A warm iceberg does exist. It’s just not called a warm iceberg. It’s called a puddle.
I was in Church last Sunday. The first part was outside. Bishop. Palms. Choir. A dude waving his arms. Many priests. Then there’s a procession into the church. I didn’t go outside. Very cold on Sunday. I stayed in the Church with all the old people. Some would argue what happened next involved the phrase ‘incurring the wrath of God’.
I was standing up, joining in with the play, and suddenly, my stomach felt very warm. I felt tingly. My vision started to spin; bright lights started flashing all over my field of vision. I started sweating, I became very hot. I went pale. Started shaking. Felt very hungry. Everything went black and the next thing I remember was sitting on the bench drinking some water. It was a sugar crash. Very painful and scary. I have low blood sugar. It happens now and again. I don’t think it was the wrath of God, though. The play in question was The Passion of the Christ. Maybe I need more sugar. Or maybe it was a religious experience. I don’t know.
Did my week have any good highlights, or was it all misery? Started with a blackout, ended with a… blackout, of sorts. Anything good in-between? No. Of course not.
Sunday was the blackout. I stood on a staple on the same day. Not a regular staple, oh no. It was a carpet underlay staple. Big. Sharp. Pointy. Metal. It entered my foot in such a way that it looked like I’d been stapled. I could tell you all the gory details about all the blood all over the new carpet, but I won’t. Suffice to say, the screwdriver we used to try to pry out the staple only made things worse. Considerably worse. Oh, the horror.
Over the following week, I dropped my iPod in the sink, spilt several glasses of water, one of which landed on me resulting tears that were indistinguishable from the water I was drowning in. I went to get a towel out of my wardrobe. Everything fell out on top of me. But it was soft. The real pain came on Friday. The neighbours wanted to borrow our scales. I opened the cupboard door the scales resided in. A myriad of pots and pans fell on me. There were that many I’m surprised there isn’t an indent of me in the floor.
The same day, mum was trying to get her wedding ring off because it was a little tight. She never takes it off. It wouldn’t come off. Dad had been hacking away at the ring with increasingly large knives. Poor mother. That didn’t end well for her. My suggestion was to heat the ring. Mother didn’t like that idea. Not that there is any heat around here.
Yes, it’s been a cold week and it’ll be a cold Easter. I hope you have a nice Easter, and I hope you’ll think of me sat here munching on chocolate in my woolly hat, scarf, gloves, thick jacket, three jumpers, leggings and ten pairs of socks. Sob, sob. Oh, it’s so cold.
It would be remiss of me not to mention the thing I’m sure you’ve seen in the header. Two years old, this blog this week. Turned two on Friday gone. I don’t know what to say that you don’t already know. Thank you so, so much for sticking with this nonsensical crap for two years. Following, liking, commenting – oh, it’s so refreshing and nice. Always puts a smile on my face reading my emails in my cardigan with tea. You’re the reason I’m still blogging today. It’s a tiny, tiny blog, but has a support that is incredibly loyal. I don’t know why, but I can’t thank you enough. Here’s to the next two years! Oh, what a wonderful prospect…
American comedian, actor and writer, Steven Alexander Wright (b. 1955), once said: “If you were going to shoot a mime, would you use a silencer?”
Happy Easter :|:
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Please feel free check out the latest posts from my other two blogs:
To Contrive & Jive
Would You Consider Yourself Chivalrous?
Hark Around The Words