I spent the morning ironing shirts. Not my favourite past time. Though I have gotten quicker over the years, I have to admit I have little competitions with myself and try and best my most fantastic time of 4:03 minutes. I know, I know, the dull tales of a bored housewife...
Then I head over to Mary's for lunch, she just had a delivery of coal and rang to tell me all about the cute guy whom she got to carry all ten bags as far as the coal chute the other end of the garden for her.
"He was soooo gorgeous, you should have seen those muscles..."
Poor Mary, ever since her husband left her a year and a half ago ("...and ten days, Amy, and ten days, the bastard!") she has turned into a raging nymphomaniac. We all know that this, of course, is all just a front and is to compensate for her definite lack of man, she was besotted with that husband of hers and he didn't deserve her. She only found out a few months ago that her dreamy "Dec" had actually bedded three different women in their four-year marriage.
So when her 999-come-quick-I secretly-took-a-pic-of-his-buns-of-steel call came I rushed out the door cos I knew she was lonely and just needed a shoulder.
Oh crikey, did I switch the iron off? Why do I always do this to myself? I decide that I have and uneasily finish my tea.
After an hour in Mary's I need to get back, the tile people are calling with our new tiles. They are plain and they are boring and they are white but they are the right size. The tiles, not the people, obviously.
They are late, of course. The people, this time. Why, oh why, was I rushing?) At least I now know that I had unplugged the iron.
Rory the wonderful is calling tomorrow to reinstate our favourite shower. I can't wait!
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