Sunday, 19 December 2010
Saturday 20th November 2010 - Grey Sky – Walker!
Poor Tree! If only we could click a giant met-mouse somewhere and change back to yesterday’s gorgeous winter blue. Today’s sky looks a forgotten bucket of bleach and old knickers. It would be an indoor day. More chance of vitamin D on the sofa.
Hoobiz began the day with his usual weekend warning. ‘I’ve no problem with a list, but please, please at least try and make it realistic’. Hoobiz used to be terrified of my obsessive list making, but has now conceded that when managed well they do have some merit. Firstly Hoobiz has a shocking memory and my constant scribbling has occasionally been noted a useful prompt. Secondly, with a firm line through one of my actions Hoobiz has an irrefutable record of his industry.
Hoobiz is all kinds of everything and most of them wonderful; yet he is a constant, which both delights and infuriates me. He is in fact 96% Hoobiz, 2% Anewbiz the perfect Husband and 2% Eargon the perfect Git. I’ll let Anewbiz show himself and I don’t care to give an example of Eargon as the story usually starts with me being a complete monster. The only exception is Half-Arsed; although still technically Hoobiz, he’s just a slightly diluted clumsy version. I supposed there might be an epic internal struggle between Hoobiz and Half-Arsed, but I think that one is just a more knackered version of the first. Half-Arsed tends to the minimum and speaks without thinking. Half-Arsed will wash up anything except glasses, ( well they’re see-through, how would he see them?), he might wash clothes occasionally, but he’ll never put them away and Half-Arsed’s signature nail clippings can be found anywhere except the bin.
A couple of hours after I had given birth to The 10lb Little Perfect One and what must have been a 15 ton placenta I felt positively sylph-like. Seriously, it was as if people might see me and gasp, ‘Give that girl a good meal’. I was ready to spring back into my skinny jeans. Well, ‘back’ is a bad choice of words, as I haven’t ever actually owned a pair, but I was ready for them now. Swishing about in my maternity nightdress I turned to Hoobiz, grinning smugly and asked, ‘So how pregnant do I look now?’ Hoobiz –Half-Arsed smiles back and says ‘I don’t know Lovely, about eight months?’ Oops. I come over all Catherine Tate with my, ‘Eight months? Eiggght months?’ Then Half-Arsed really kicks in and replies, ‘It’s a lose- lose situation when you ask my opinion, as I either have to lie or tell you something you don’t want to hear.’ Fortunately, I felt too thin to argue and Hoobiz redeemed himself promptly by opening the custard creams.
Hoobiz would say that I have a thousand different personalities to his 3, but not in an adoring ‘I’m every woman’ type way. Hoobiz actually hates that song, I’m not quite sure why, but suspect that it might remind him of a herd of drunken ‘Madams’ stampeding the dance floor at the end of a wedding. No, Hoobiz means that sadly I’m not a constant. On a really bad day he could go shopping with Misserina, bump into Anita and end up in bed with his Nemesis the dreaded Muriel. Still there are ups; his favourite is Jessica, wild and bad.
Still what we do, a lot, is laugh. Hoobiz’s Dad Helmut, his Mum Bridget and brother Axle provide us with a lively stream of amusement and there’s always the telly, so we never run dry. In fact, as couples go, we are Beavis and Butthead. We regularly lose days chanting random words at each other and giggling on a tireless loop. Also my jaw-line is less pronounced than Beavis’, but it unfortunately has the same sort of manic inclination.
Today, despite poor Hoobiz’s caution I was manic in my inclination to write the list to end all lists. Hoobiz must have endured this particular story at least a hundred times throughout the last ten years, but constant, patient Hoobiz listened again as I spoke of the mythical Master List. I’m just so ridiculously twisted up about going back to work and leaving The Little Perfect One, that repetitive ‘listing’ seems like the only thing which might help to straighten me out. I’m pretty sure Hoobiz knows this, as he indulged my frantic jotting, tutting and pacing for about half an hour before insisting I have a coffee and so something ‘nice’ with him and The Little Perfect One. I am in a bit of a tizz by then and so I flap my arms about, grind my crazed mandible and begin a muttered rant of, ‘Nothing ever gets done! Ever! Nothing! I haven’t got any time! None! Nothing!’ Before I can spiral into a tornado of ‘ifs’, ‘buts’ and moose noises The Little Perfect One pops out from behind the curtain and roars with laughter. OK, so Hoobiz is right and I’m a big fat nit-wit. Even the Lord of The Lists is no competition for game of Pee-po with our gorgeous baby.
‘Dern-nod!’ The Little Perfect One squeaks excitedly pointing at the massive Siamese cat bounding into the living room. ‘Dern-nod! Dum! Dum! Dern-nod!’ Bernard has been amazing with The Little Perfect One, but he’s not quite ready to ‘Dum’ when called. Bernard pulls up abruptly, his long gloved legs scrambling hopelessly into a pirouette and he skids bottom-first into the back of the sofa. The Little Perfect One is delighted by this, blowing raspberries and bouncing on his knees. Bernard has now settled indignantly on the sofa and is licking his bits in protest. ‘Idiot cat’ says Hoobiz and our laughing signals a ceasefire in The List Wars for today.
‘Very clever.’ I say, noticing that The Little Perfect One has pushed himself up from his knees and is now freestanding in the middle of the room. He has been doing this for the last two weeks and just when it looks as if he’s about to take a step his knees buckle slightly and he’s back on his bottom. This was different. This time The Little Perfect One took two considered steps forward towards Bernard and the sofa.
‘Wow!’ Hoobiz and I clapped incessantly. ‘Well done, you clever little man!’ Yes and I cried, just a little bit, but I actually cried. These were mostly tears of pride, but a couple trickled away in sadness as I was waving goodbye to that tiny little baby and maybe half a drop seeped out in terror as this beaming toddler was now waving hello.