So phase… er… three? (I’ve lost count) of English Towers’ race for self sufficiency began last week after lovely C (the one with the boat) and Hubby came to some drunken, pub-induced agreement that we could have the greenhouse that he’d purchased for his wife, the lovely K, but that she didn’t really want. Hmm. Have you ever seen a greenhouse in bits? It looks like some enormous and very dangerous meccano kit.
Still, not to be put off by the prospect of losing a limb, Hubby set to work putting the bloody thing together. The first thing I’d say is that you need time, an endless supply of patience, and some kind of technical/engineering type background. Well, he’s okay with the technical stuff, but the patience? Dearest reader, the air was several shades of blue.
Then, it transpired that several of the panes of glass were broken, prompting a extremely bad-tempered drive up to a glazier in Cavan town. And then it transpired that some of said panes didn’t fit, prompting much more swearing and an even more bad-tempered return trip to the now terribly apologetic glazier in Cavan town. And as for fitting 40+ panes of razor-sharp 3mm glass with fiddly little clips whilst holding them above your head? Sheesh. I spent the entire time hopping around going ‘ooh, be careful!’…’ooh..mind your fingers…don’t drop it…’ and various other bits of worry-mongering until I was finally sent indoors in disgrace (in a not very pleasant way, I can tell you).
And of course, all through this bad-tempered couple of days, it rained, and it rained, and it rained a bit more. And then (still with me? Good) it transpired that a 6′ x 8′ greenhouse isn’t actually 6′ x 8′, it’s more like 6′3 x 8′3 and wouldn’t fit in our 8′2″ wide kitchen garden, and so had to be turned round the other way. Well. I learned a few, incredibly creative, new expletives. By this stage, D had been roped in, so we got a couple of Scottish ones too. Bonus.
Anyhoo, it’s up now. Hubby has a few fingertips left unsullied and I’m sure we’ll be talking again in a couple of days. Probably.
Edit:
And here, especially for Roy (Irish Taxi) is the finished article, complete with some ominously dark clouds. Ah well, half a day of sunshine should see me through until Christmas, I guess:
So today’s FP is dedicated to that most wondrously lazy and patchily hirsute of individuals, the Bertmeister, aka Burpy, the Biffer, Biff Sniff, Sir Biffington Sniffington, Bishous, Mumma’s bubby (sorry), the fella, the geezer, yer wan, that f*cking dog!!!, and any number of other stupid nicknames depending on how loved up we’re all feeling and whether he’s nicked one of your trainers and you really, really need to go out in a hurry.
‘Tis a glorious thing for a greyhound to be retired to a comfy sofa rather than being, er, retired in a completely different, somewhat euphemistic way. I’m a realist, and let’s face it, people aren’t exactly queuing up to adopt a retired greyhound, and there’s a serious glut, which is a shame as they’re rather good company. And for a greyhound quite as utterly, totally, completely, thoroughly, uselessly rubbish at racing as Bert was to have lived to have seen his fourth birthday is practically a miracle. Thanks, Jen.
Once, when we were at the races, I remember #1 asking someone how long greyhounds live. ‘Hmmm’, came the answer, ‘depends how good they are’.
So here’s wishing the gangling, clumsy great duffer a happy fourth birthday. He might be shite at racing, but he always seems to get to the sofa first. Bless.
I’m an alien, so I didn’t vote. But I would have voted no, having a basic suspicion of saying yes (founded upon a very misspent youth) to things that I don’t understand.
Okay, seeing as I’m now all au fait with YouTube, and we’re having a little musical end to the week, here’s one of my all time favourite songs (and videos). How cool is the girly rockin’ her guitar?!
So okay, I know at this exact precise moment it’s still Thursday but I’ll be FAR too busy tomorrow to post anything so you’ll have to indulge me. What’s that you say? Why will I be busy? Well, dear reader, I’m having a PARTAY!!
You see, people, in Ireland you definitely have to go with the flow a bit. A party can often start for the most inane reason. For example, last Friday we popped over to D Next Door’s sister A’s house to pick up #2 who was round there playing with little K, and ended up staggering home some time after 2am, sans child (he stayed over having lost the hope of ever dragging us home somewhere around 11) and last night turned into a bit of a sesh round D’s (Hubby popped in for a chat, cracked a beer with D, then other people popped in and suddenly there was a houseful and, well, it’d be rude to leave), so we ended up staying until 11pm (headaches all round again this morning). And this, apparently, is only the beginning of the summer barbecue season. Now you know why the kids here have such bloody long school holidays, it’s because the parents are planning on being so hungover they can’t possibly do the school run for three whole months.
Anyhoo, so we thought we’d get in there quick and invite all the lovely people we’ve met here for a little gathering: D and the kids, obviously, C and his lovely wife C (the ones with the boat) and D’s sister A and her Hubby J and their kids, and T & L who live next door to A & J, T who fixes the cars and his wife G, and probably a few other stragglers from GAA (that’s Gaelic Football to you foreigners, heh).
We got the usual burgers and sausages, etc, and I thought I’d marinate some chicken in different stuff like honey, mustard and soy, and Thai green curry paste, etc and do kebabs with various dips, plus those minced lamb kebab things and then just round it all off with an enormous plate of pistachio brownies and ice lollies for the kids. Drinks-wise, I thought as well as wine and beer, we could whizz up a big blender-full of Frozen Strawberry Daquiris just to get things going, plus various non-alcoholic fruity smoothies for the children (no, don’t worry, I won’t mix them up and get the kids drunk).
So Hubby and I went up north again today (the £ being terrifically bad against the Euro, it’s cheaper for us to do our shopping there) and came back with a car load of food, beer, wine, champers and….er…jelly. Yes, jelly. Well I’ve always wanted to make jelly shots and… oh dear, this could be another late one.
So, there was much excitement at the schoool this week. The children were strangely interested in being at school early and, frankly, I didn’t blame them. An enormous film crew descended upon the 200 year old pile, magically taking it back in time to the 1930s. It was really quite bizarre, when picking up your children, to bump into a 1930s schoolgirl, complete with bobbed hair and pinafore dress, or park up next to a beautiful old car on the drive.
The far end of the cricket pitch was a mass of trailers, catering wagons and trucks full of equipment, and the fellas tell me that some of the interior was repainted and altered as well. They’re miffed that it was supposed to be a girl’s boarding school as some of the senior girls got paid (yes! Paid actual money!) to be extras (’and they got to use the catering wagon’ added #2, huffily). I did, I admit, have a very interesting conversation with one of the make-up ladies (who let me have a look in her see through make-up bag… woohoo!) so I could tell you what film it is that they were shooting, which incredibly famous and rather beautiful actress is starring and who the director is, but sadly I would imagine it’s top secret so I’d have to kill you.
Ah, the greyhound: companion of kings… majestic, affectionate, adorable, a bit lanky, a bit more stupid, a teeny bit bald and motheaten and those ears? Well, they’re plainly ridiculous. He did sit still without his lead on for about two minutes though. Result.
