Saturday Showers and Enormous Pants

I went and had a haircut today. And whilst I had a haircut (note that I didn't say, 'a haircut and colour', which is my usual menu du jour at the hairdresser but more of that later) I left Andy in charge at home because Dave the Plumber was due to visit 'sometime in the morning', he didn't specify when but then plumbers don't, do they?

And the reason that Dave the Plumber was visiting was twofold - 1) the new shower has sprung a teeny tiny occasional dribble of a leaklet and 2) the downstairs bathroom is feeling a bit jaded and jealous of the upstairs bathroom posh-hotel-make-over look and thinks it deserves a bit of a tart-up, too.

Andy texted me as I emerged from my haircut (not colour) with the message, 'I think Jam and Jerusalem may have arrived' which wasn't code for some mad old relative turning up unexpectedly and wanting to be entertained and please could I come home NOW!? but that the postman had delivered Series 3 of that wonderful TV series by Jennifer Saunders. 'Jam and Jerusalem' is like 'The Darling Buds of May' - I watch it when I get the urge to live in a Middle England all-lovely-and-nice community, where quaintly funny things happen every day and everyone knows your name and there is no spitting and swearing and people have dogs called Pip and Badger. I've watched the first two series over the last weekend or so whilst being creative with the cross-stitching and felt in need of the third and last series as I am experiencing wistfulness and desire to escape the midst of Overcrowded Kent.

The postman had also delivered, I was to discover later, the Classic Chillout Piano Music CD which I ordered at the same time because I wanted some plinky-plonky background music to write to. I now await two books for my March reading programme - a Jane Austen biography and another Stella Gibbons novel - and my Amazon bonanza will be complete.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yes, well, Andy joined me in town just before mid-day for a tea and baguette lunch at our favourite tea shop, Dave the Plumber having been, inspected and gone.

'What's the verdict?' said I.
'Well,' said Andy, 'the shower is leaking because the seal betwixt the drain hole and the shower base has come adrift.'
'Oh,' said I.
'Apparently,' said Andy, 'the shower tray has a bit of 'give' in it. And as we've stood on it, to have a shower...'
'....like you do,' I said.
'...it has caused the sealant to crack,' finished Andy.
'Chicken and bacon and egg and cress on wholemeal?' said the waitress.

I thought about this for a moment. The shower revelation, not the baguettes.

'So what Dave the Plumber was saying,' I said, 'in the nicest possible way,' I said, 'is that we are too heavy for our shower tray.'
'Sort of,' said Andy.
'Can I mention at this juncture,' I said, 'that the shower has not deigned to leak when I have been in it.'
'That,' said Andy,' is because you are in and out of it like a shot because you are worried it will leak.'
'That theory is debatable,' I sniffed, because it was bloomin' hard work losing that 2 stone and it's been even harder work keeping it from coming back.

Anyway, Dave the Plumber is returning at some point in the not-too-distant-future (he didn't say when but then plumbers don't, do they?) with some appropriate bolstering which he intends to insert 'neath the tray so it doesn't 'give' when us heffalumps enter therein. He is also going to send a quote for tarting up the downstairs bathroom.

'Did you tell him about the way the pipes scream when the water pressure goes above a dribble?' I said.
'Yes,' said Andy, 'but I don't think he knew what I was talking about. He did tighten the bath tap without me asking though. With a massive wrench.'
'That's nice,' I said.

After I'd had my haircut (pas de couleur) and before Andy arrived for baguettes, I went shopping for pants. Like shoes, I don't own that many pairs. I tend to buy half a dozen pairs and then wear them to death, because, like shoe shopping, I find pant shopping a tiresome thing and providing they keep coming out the washing machine in one piece and remain around my nethers without the aid of tights then they are serviceable.

However, with Spring in the air and thoughts of tights being consigned to the back of the underwear drawer (hurrah!) I was aware my current pant set mightn't survive the gravity test for much longer. (I have suddenly thought here that my American guests at the Manor may be confused because 'pants' means 'trousers' doesn't it, in Americanese? It's crisps and chips and biscuits and cookies and taps and faucets and Bush and Blair all over. What I mean is 'knickers.' I hope that makes things clearer!)

So I went a-knicker shopping and thanks to a discount at BHS I got ten pairs for £10.50. 'That'll do me for a couple of years,' I thought triumphantly, and then I thought, 'Oh. I forgot. I've lost more than 24lbs. Will these knickers be too big? Will they fall down, not through frailty but through lack of enough of me to keep 'em up?'

So when I got home I tried on a pair. And let's say that they do stay up, presumably because of their springy newness, but that they will also keep all my stomach and some of my rib cage warm, too.

Ah well, at least I know I can now go down a knicker-size when next I decide to do a pant shop.

Back to the haircut. I have decided to stop having my hair dyed. I now sport what my work colleagues charmingly call a 'gamine pixie look,' and I think that this type of short hair-do can cope with grey hair. And so does my hairdresser, who is called Stacie. So I'm giving it a go. I thought, 'You have managed to avoid watching television for two months now. You have will-power. You can avoid having your hair dyed.'

And so ends a busy sunny bee-flying Saturday. And now I am going to write, accompanied by some plinky-plonky piano music and the promise of new pants in the morning.

Late night raid and invisible ants

Before I start, I have to mention that I'm having trouble with my 'p' key at the moment, so if any 'p's' render themselves absent from today's blog, that's the reason why. I'm giving the key a good whallop as I ass it by but sometimes, when a writer is caught up in the art and insiration of the moment, it can be too easy to let one's fingers dance over the keyboard as whalloing disturbs the fine balance a creative mind needs in order to erform to their best.

To this end I shall be avoiding the mention of eas, sweet eas, ants (the ones you wear, not the ones who live in anthills) chilli eers (think about it), antomimes or omegranates as much as ossible during this blog. In fact I shall never mention omegranates in any blog on account of the fact the thought of them induces severe feelings of nausea in me. (This stems from an incident when I was ten years old involving a omegranate whilst watching an episode of 'The Duchess of Duke Street'. The carpet was never the same.)

Last night, Andy and I conducted a moonlight raid on the Eglu. During the day my attempts to capture Mrs Umhrey, I mean, Pumphrey, failed and the exertion on both our parts (mine in pursuit, hers in escape) resulted merely in making her bottom and my face even pinker than usual. I tried the usual tricks. I pretended to be a garden gnome so, when curiosity got the better of her and she came to investigate the 'new and interesting garden ornament' I could grab her with my fishing net and shove her inside my gi-normous gnome hat, but that didn't work when she saw straight through my novelty beard. I tried enticing her in for Earl Grey and Jammie Dodgers, but she said she was off all jam-related products since eating a doughnut last week and almost suffocating when she got her beak stuck in the centre. I even offered to make a new dress for her. She is due to bring out a second range of cosmetics, following the phenomenal success of her perfume, 'Poulet by Pumphrey'. She is already thinking about the advertising campaign.
'I thought, having gone down the chiffon route for the erfume, I mean perfume,' she said, 'I might try something a bit more raunchy for this product.'
'What's it called?' I asked.
'Fat Crop,' said Pumphrey. 'It's a range of facial fillers for the older chicken.'
I suggested maybe a nice twin-set and pearls would be more appropriate (my 'p' finger is going numb) to advertise a product for 'the older chicken', rather than the latex and leather catsuit Mrs P had in mind. As we spoke, I got within a finger's width of grabbing her but she took off in an artistic huff so I gave up for the day my mission to spray Mrs Pumhrey's bottom.

Andy arrived home and, after dinner, when the hens had been in bed for a couple of hours and all was quiet and dark, we crept into the garden, opened the pod and slid a dozing Mrs P from her place between Mrs Slocombe and Mrs Miggins, smuggling her indoors with barely more than a squeak or a ruffle. Quickly and quietly, we sprayed her bottom and then nipped her back outside, re-inserting her between Miggo and Slocombe before she'd barely woken.

Easy, easy (insert 'p' where applicable)!

'Ere' said Mrs Poo. 'What's that smell?'
'What smell?' said Mrs Slocombe, who was spoiling for a cold and couldn't smell a thing unless it was chips.
'It's Mrs Pumphrey,' said Mrs Miggins. 'She was here smelling like a chicken, then she disappeared for a few seconds and now she's back smelling like Johnson's Anti-Peck Spray.'
'I disappeared?' said Pumphrey, blinking sleepily.
'Yes. Not for long though. It wasn't martians,' said Miggins.
'Oh,' said Mrs Pumphrey, who thought the idea of martian kidnap rather glamorous.
'I think Denise and Andy finally caught you and gave your bare pink bottie a spray,' said Miggo. She adjusted her pale lilac sleeping mask - the elastic was pinching the feathers at the back of her neck.
'I thought my nethers felt a tad chilly,' said Pumphrey.
'Do they feel damp, too?' asked Mrs Poo.
'They do,' said Pumphrey. 'How do you know?'
'You're sitting on my foot,' said Poo. 'I wish you'd wear ants.'
'I would wear ants,' said Mrs Pumphrey. 'Only I think they'd move about too much and bite.'
'I meant pants, not ants,' said Mrs Poo, wishing Denise would get her keyboard sorted out.
'I thought wearing ants was an odd thing for even you to suggest,' said Mrs Pumphrey.

Mrs Poo wiped her damp foot on the duvet. 'Shut up and go to sleep,' she said.