Summer's Here (almost)

No it is. It must be.

Because yesterday I walked to the train station sans jacket.

I looked the very epitome of a cool, relaxed, man-about-town, casually strolling along, whistling my way to work. I could have been out of a Frank Capra film.

Only, secretly, I was freezing my bollocks off.

It may have looked sunny but I was never so glad to get in a nice , warm train carriage and guzzling piping hot coffee.

I should have known beter than to trust the sun.

The duffle coat comes out tomorrow

Few happy returns

I awoke to an empty house this morning.
I had to drive to work, which meant I arrived in a bad mood.
Work was pretty stressfull.
I sweated in the gym - it's almost bikini season! (and people in bikinis
will laugh at me if I don't drop a few pounds. Must be careful not to pick
them up again)
I spent three frustrating hours stripping wallpaper. Last night it was five
hours.
The house is still empty.
I have just poured myself a glass of wine.

It is my birthday.



I'm being positive. It means I can eat, drink and scratch what i like. (I am currently doing all three)
Whooppeee!!

holy technobabble

This bloody new version of blogger keeps driving me nuts!

Every time I muster up a few remnants of the day's energy to blog, the bloody thing keeps asking me about passwords I've long forgotten - along with a host of other things I use to think were important, like the colour of Mrs S's eyes, the first Number One by Howard Jones and the capital of Mozambique.
(Only one of those answers is green but I'm not sure which).

Anyhoo, there I was, persuing around a pretty church is County Tipperary (which, disappointingly, isn't a long way at all) when I spy two elderly nuns struggle to carry a large bucket of holy water.
They both looked like they were about to collapse with exhaustion (but I suppose they had a helping hand from the bloke above) when I decided to do the Christian thing - quite a leap for me, given I'm borderline Satanist with a tendency to wear black and detsroy clergymen's homes at will* - and offer a lending hand.

It was doubly good of me, given that moments before, they'd accused Stark Jnr of being both male and Polish! Not that there's anything intrinsically wrong with either, just that she looks less male and Polish than most.

So, the big strong (and ocassionally atractive) man that I am, duly carried their bucket of the holy stuff to their car.
The first nun got in and sat in the passenger side. She then asked me to pass her the bucket, which was full to the brim and placed it at her feet.

The other nun got in the driver's side. They thanked me and drove off.

And I couldn't help but wonder - what would happen if they braked. Or turned a corner. Or just generally stopped? I had visions of a nun emerging from the car, totally soaked from the waist down, carrying an empty bucket.


*When I visited the minister who would marry the future Mrs S and I, I was upfrfont and told him I didn't believe in God (much to some violent nudging from the future Mrs S). At that exact moment, his living room wall collapsed. No, really. The look on his face said it all - get out heathen!

Actually, he did marry us and turned out to be an OK bloke.

Mysterious ways, eh?

What the...?

Hey, what happened?

Who stole March? Last thing I remember it was late February, Stark Jnr was teething/not taking a bottle/being grumpy/being incontinent, work was mental and I had a few "side projects" on the go.

In all this confusion, I clean forgot about you lot.

"Side projects" sounds distinctly dodgy, doesn't it? If only it were that exciting.

All that coupled with a "lock-out" of my Blogger account (they said I had to take gardening leave until I was funny again) meant Stark was AWOL. Personally, I blame the "side projects" and consequential delusions of grandeur.

Sorry for the vagueness, it just happens to be a convenient excuse for couldn't-be-arsed-ness.

Mrs and Jnr S and I are off to the land of black drink, soda bread and something called a crack for easter.

If I see a decent crack I'll bring back photos!!

trials and tribulations

Today...

I have been screamed at, scratched, ignored, hung up on (as it the telephone, not in a strange infatuation way), swore at and urinated on.

And that was when I got home.

I had decided today that, almost two whoole months into 2007, I was due some time off work, to spend at home.

I think I may have changed my mind.

Nursery Ryh..Rty...Rythm...Songs

Rub-a-dub-dub, three men in a tub...

What the hell is that about?

I think Stark Jnr is a little too young to hear about three-in-a-bath homosexual swingers parties!

Sunday Morning Call

I know all men probably say it at one time or another but... it had never happened to me before. Honestly.

There I was standing outside the supermarket, waiting for it to open. IT WAS SUNDAY BLOODY MORNING!!!

I was up so early on Sunday - a contradiction in my house - that I had to stand outside the local supermarket waiting for it to open. What was wrong with me?

There I was, tracksuit bottoms on, jangling my car keys awkwardly, refusing to make eye contact with the couple who were also waiting. They looked like they'd been up drinking all night and were desperate for the shop to open so they could buy some lighter fluid to keep ther party burning.

They probably thought the same about me.

Pre-9am shopping?

Aah, the lure of a good bacon sandwich does strange things to a man.