Bucket pissed

Season's greetings!  (It may be Boxing Day but I'm a firm believer in the 12 Day of Christmas mantra so we're only getting started).

We had a great day yesterday (thanks for asking).  The kids seemed happy with their lot, which is always pleasing. 

Jamie and I shared one present.  Yes, we're off to see The Eagles in concert next summer.  Jamie's been a big fan since I took him to see a tribute band earlier this year. Eagles tunes have also encouraged him to push on with his guitar practice.  Money well spent, I say.

Charlotte was just as excited to learn that she and her mummy will be going to see Little Mix in November.  I'm not so keen for Miss White to follow in their scantily-attired stiletto steps, but still.

In the early evening, I did my big family phone call back home.  Everyone was gathered at my eldest sister's.  Jacquie has had a time of it in 2018.  She returned from holiday in the early part of the year to discover that her house had flooded.  Completely.  Ceilings, carpets, furniture all destroyed.  She's had to reside with family and friends ever since whilst the inside of her home was essentially reconstructed.  The kitchen and bathroom were only finished last weekend, finally enabling Jacquie to move back in.

However, my father phoned me in a grump on Christmas Eve to report a problem.  Jacquie's toilet wasn't working and everyone was going to have to use a kindly neighbour's loo for all of Christmas Day. But my dad wasn't having any of that.  Not a chance.

So when he arrived at Jacquie's for his Christmas lunch, his hands were full.  One was carrying his presents.  The other was clutching a "portaloo," otherwise known as a bucket.

It was only when he went to "try it out" that the rest of the family revealed the toilet was indeed working and always had been.  It was all a wind-up and everyone else was in on the joke - including the kindly neighbour. 

The Whites can be so cruel.     

Murder on the living room floor

We went to church today for a bit of a singsong. A carolokee, if you will.

Vanessa’s dad was reading a lesson and delivered it like the pro he is.

We then came home for tea. Vanessa said she wasn’t hungry. Fine. But not a morsel of curry or lemon chicken remained shortly after I served up. Jamie, Charlotte and I managed to grab little a bit each when she wasn’t fully concentrating.

But here’s the thing. I got annoyed. Charlotte was wearing a big white fluffy coat thingy that Auntie Jacquie bought for her birthday on Wednesday. And, somehow, Charlotte managed to dip it into her curry. Yes, I forgot to get naan bread, but that’s not a proper excuse.

I hurtled out to the kitchen to apply wet wipes and Vanish before Charlotte’s cherished attire hit the washing machine. I followed-up with a swift lecture on not being so bloody careless. 

It was just as I was catching my breath that Jamie’s curry flew off his lap tray and landed upside down on the living room carpet. And then I kicked over my glass of wine. And then, as Vanessa was cleaning up Jamie’s mess, she dipped her dressing gown into the lemon chicken.

We truly are a family made for each other and not for laptray teas (which are rightly a rarity).

Have a wonderful Christmas Eve.

I didn't see that coming

I've worn contact lenses since I was 18 years old.  I got them so I could catch the ball better when playing rugby, but quickly realised that my butter fingers were more responsible for me dropping it than my eyes.

I've had glasses since then too but rarely wear them because I look every bit as silly as you think I might.  I don't do hats for the same reason.  Nor sunglasses (not that there's a great need for sunglasses when you live in Leeds).

I've now entered that tragic "needs must" stage of middle age.  All sorts of bits are falling off and the few powers I once had are beginning to wane. That includes the ability to read without screwing my eyes up.

I never understood why people wearing reading glasses often looked over them when talking to me.  Maybe, unlike me, they thought they looked cool and regarded their specs as a fashion accessory.  But over the last few months the reason became more clear (unlike sentences on a page).

I first noticed my diminishing up-close vision when I was trying to decipher the cooking instructions on the side of an SFC bargain bucket.  (The "FC" stands for "fried chicken" but it comes from Morrisons so the "S" doesn't stand for "succulent").  The bucket had white writing on a red background (just like in Kentucky, so not a coincidence) and I couldn't make it out.  Over subsequent weeks, I continued to struggle with reading non-black letters on non-white backgrounds. One particularly embarrassing moment came when I misread how many units were in a bottle of wine, drank half a glass too many and fell over.  (Always drink responsibly, kids).

After careful consideration and a further period of denial, I decided it was time to head to Specsavers to book an appointment.  On the way, I called into the local Sue Ryder charity shop to buy Charlotte a set of cat ears (pretend ones) after she left hers behind at a music lesson.   And I noticed one of those spinny stand thingys displaying a selection of "readers."  They ranged in strength from -0.5 to, well, it was very difficult to read.  But I found a pair that made a positive difference after testing them out on a children's book (which Charlotte got instead as they didn't sell cat ears.  "Never have done," declared the assistant, arms folded ).

And how much, pray tell?  £2.  Brand new.  £2.  (So I bought some more stuff because I felt bad).

I suspect they make me look like this.

But I've not looked in the mirror with them on as yet.  I've been far too busy going through our wine rack and marvelling at how much each bottle differs in strength.  That, and sorting out the kids' chicken suppers.

But my new reading glasses have definitely made my life just that little bit easier.

This weekend, I plan to return to the Sue Ryder shop to check out their man wig collection.