Faithful blog followers may have recognised a bit of a rubbish bin theme developing here. There was the hanging out in the swing bin era and the time LB chucked the egg of trust in the bin. Tonight, it’s another bin tale.
A few years ago we had a family get-together at our gaff and my two young nephews turned up with an electronic bug each they’d just got from a local shop (well a pretty cool local shop really, so I shall give em a plug here)*.
Wow. I am reeling. Seriously in shock.
We’ve seen LB onto his school bus (which is now a car) for years and years and years. I’ve lost any inhibitions about being seen in public (and we live on a very public street) in pyjamas, daggy dressing gowns, frightwig hairhead as I’ve waved him off. And he’s never once waved back.
“Ok, LB. I’m going to get the washing in and then we’re off.”
“Prick.”
“Wha? Whatdidyousay????”
“Per…prank Mum. I said prank. Not prick. I’m sorry Mum. I won’t say it again Mum.”
Back from work this evening and, as agreed with Tom, start investigating why Sims 3 isn’t working. The ipatcher keeps quitting before it installs. Yep. That’s what I’ve been told. And the challenge is on.
“Can I buy some kroner please?”
“Danish kroner, Miss?”
“Yes please. I’m off to Copenhagen for a couple of days.”
“It’s going to be very cold then.”
“Blimey! In Copenhagen? Are you sure?”
“Well you’re the one wearing the thick woolley hat, Miss.”
A year or so after we moved into our gaffe, a delivery man knocked on the door. I signed for the parcel while he looked wistfully at the house across the street.
“Ah, those were the days…,” he said, shaking his head. “Pussy Parlour. I used to deliver there every few weeks.”
“Hi, return to the railway station, please.”
“That’s £2.90”….
….
“Hey Missus! Missus! Missus! At the back of the bus!”
“Wha? Me? Sorry?”
“You’ve got to get off the bus!”
“Sorry?”
“You’ve got to get off the bus. I forgot I don’t go to the railway station.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, I only go this far and then head back. But don’t worry, I haven’t over-charged you or anything. It costs £2.90 to get this far anyway.”
“Oh, OK.”
“Have a nice day.”
“Yes, you too.”
“Where was Steve Wright born, Mum?”
“Southend.”
“Why, Mum?”
“I don’t know. It’s just where he was born.”
“Where was Steve Wright born, Mum?”
“Southend.”
“Where does Steve Wright live now, Mum?”
“Central London I think.”
“Central London, Mum?”
“Yep.”
“Does Steve Wright wear glasses, Mum?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“Has Steve Wright got a moustache, Mum?”
“Yep, I think so.”
“How long has Steve Wright been a DJ, Mum?”
“Wow. About 30 years now. He used to be on Radio One.”
“What’s Steve Wright got, Mum?”
“What?”
“What’s Steve Wright got, Mum?”
“Erm… DJitis?”
“Yes Mum.”
Since Stan was a pup, a peepy thing in our garden has driven him crazy at different times of the year. He scrabbles to get out of the back door, charges the few metres to the end of the garden and barks furiously, looking up at the overhanging bushes and trees.
“Peep peep. Peep peep.”
“RUFF RUFF RUFF RUFF [I’ll get ya Peepy Thing!] RUFF RUFF RUFF!!!!”
“Peep peep. Peep peep. [You’ll never get me, short arse] Peep peep. Peep peep.”
“RUFF RUFF RUFF RUFF [I’ll get ya and I’ll eat you for my dinner!] RUFF RUFF!!!.”
“Peep peep. Peep peep. [Go away corgi features] Peep peep.”
It drives us mad too. The combination of peeping and barking is relentless.
“PEEPY THING!” someone shouts, “Get Stan back in!” And whoever is nearest (or doesn’t manage to successfully feign ‘ensconsed in very important task’), has to go and persuade Stan to forget about his vendetta and come back in doors.
I’ve noticed, recently, that the dynamics are changing between Stan and Peepy Thing. He still scrabbles to get out the back door and charges to the end of the garden. But there is a note of pathos in his bark.
“Ruff ruff ruff ruff.”
“Peep peep. Peep peep. [Get lost loser dog!] Peep peep.”
“Ruff. Ruff. Ruff. [Do I really look like a corgi?] Ruff.”
“Peep peep. Peep peep. [Stop interrupting my peeping with your pathetic needy barking] Peep peep.”
It’s easier to persuade Stan back in now. And he usually goes and hides somewhere for a bit.
I got to thinking tonight about LB’s agency. I suppose this is because the work I’m doing at the moment is looking at the inclusion of people with learning difficulties in research. As usual, the research doesn’t bear an awful lot of resemblance to the experiences of people I know (including LB).
mydaftlife 