This morning the electrician come round to fix the oven and some of its many problems. After narrowly avoiding gas leak/fireball scenarios before Christmas, we have finally managed to get the gas back on and the oven back in the wall. Which means dinner, not made in the microwave. Which is good, as making soup and meraingues in a microwave is no joke. The electrician came round at 10.30am, but said that he'd be here at 7.30am. I fell asleep on the sofa, and I woke to the alarming buzz of the doorbell I had dribble running down my chin...What a state I looked! Or so I thought. I tidied myself up for the electrician and hurried down the stairs. I should not have bothered. The man leaning his forehead on the glass with his eyes closed stank of pure booze and stumbled in wordlessly. The job took an hour, which included the 45 minutes spent drinking delicous caffine and talking about his son who has just dropped out of college and works in Debenhams part-time. His daughter is doing child develpoment studies and he was keen to ask me lots of questions about this, I literally have no idea why. I have never met him or his daughter before and I do not work in this field. I decided to terminte the random coffee morning by putting on my boots and coat and jangling my keys. He asked me if I had left college when I was yonger too - what will become of his son? He asked. I attempted to clumsily comfort him by saying that indeed, I had had my share of failed courses etc. But was now the proud holder of 3 degrees! Oh! Yes, respectable me. And what did I do, he asked, that allowed me to be home at 11am with a matted hairball balanced on my head counselling the help? I'm a writer, I said. Ah... came the response. Then he arose and walked to the door. I left at the same time as him and walked to the shops. When I go to the zebra crossing a the traffic on one side stopped , but in the other direction did not - I stepped out onto the street to be confronted by none other than the screech of electricians van. The sweet poetry of being nearly run down by my newly accquired friend. I waved and skipped accross to Costcutter to get the flour for my cookies. A narrow miss.
The best bit of today was buying a set of fake pearls that attach to the ends of my glasses, so that I could fulfil my dream easily putting my glasses on and taking them off whilst having them suspended around my neck on a fake pearl necklace. This means that they won't be perched on my head all day long with me running around looking for them and squinting attractively. Nice.
What a day, what a day.
What I've learned:
Three degrees does not a good job get.
I look a bit like JB Fletcher from Murder She Wrote with my new pearls/glasses combo.
Cookies and tarte gives you a 'bread baby'.
Goodnight Chaps x
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That this post is not entitled "Meringues in the Microwave" is a scandal and an offence to decency.
ReplyDeleteIn fact, from now on, I decree that all works of writing, fiction or non, be so entitled.
Back-dated to Dickens.