Throwing it all away...
Daughter number two's LSB (long suffering boyfriend) turned up yesterday with his little brother in tow. It's difficult to give him a name as such, as he looks like the result of the LSB on a boil wash then a rather fierce tumble dry. He's the same, just a lot smaller. The LSB insisted that Mister Will was only 12, but I'll be honest with you, his level of chat far outweighed anything experienced with the husband, so either he is a lot older than he looks, or he has had one hell of an education.
Coming here yesterday, I managed to extend his education somewhat further.
Daughter number two, having finally finished clearing out her bedroom, had managed to amass 17 bin bags full of clothes, shoes, makeup, and stuff - much of which had been designated as rubbish. I'll be honest with you, I wasn't brave enough to take it down to the charity shop, doing the walk of shame down the high street leaving a trail of her old knickers and the odd dried up lipstick in my wake, so it was off to the tip.
Getting there was a bit of an issue. I had everything crossed that it wouldn't rain, as I had to keep the roof down to get all the bags in. Peeking out above the bin bag parapet, with a pair of 6" heeled glitter wedges digging into my left hip, my car resembled a skip. All I needed was a old mattress thrown on the top, and you would never have known the difference.
Hauling all the bags around to the clothing containers ('No duvets, pillows or table cloths' - this means you've had it if you're looking for something to wear to a Demis Roussos Look-a-Like competition) we started unpacking and launching the clothes in. It was then that Mister Will spotted a pair of white Nike trainers sitting in isolated splendour on top of something which looked suspiciously like a duvet (someone will be in trouble).
'Size 9...it's a sign', he said, gazing at the neatly paired trainers. 'Can I take them?'
Surely he couldn't be thinking of taking them OUT of the container?
'They're Nikes', he said reverently, 'and they cost over £70'.
I'm not too sure what I was shocked at to be honest. The fact that they cost £70, the fact that someone had discarded them, or the fact that Mister Will knew everything about them. He's obviously got friends in high places, that one.
It took some doing, but we eventually managed to talk him out of bringing the trainers home, and we walked back to the car. I was silently quite relieved that he hadn't noticed the fake Armani hoodie which had been peeking out of the pile, sandwiched between several cheap bras and a green parka. He would have been well on the way to the full ensemble then.
'Typical', I said, 'You've only been here ten minutes, and already I've turned you into a pikey'.
He'll be developing an Irish accent and getting a Jack Russell next.
Coming here yesterday, I managed to extend his education somewhat further.
Daughter number two, having finally finished clearing out her bedroom, had managed to amass 17 bin bags full of clothes, shoes, makeup, and stuff - much of which had been designated as rubbish. I'll be honest with you, I wasn't brave enough to take it down to the charity shop, doing the walk of shame down the high street leaving a trail of her old knickers and the odd dried up lipstick in my wake, so it was off to the tip.
Getting there was a bit of an issue. I had everything crossed that it wouldn't rain, as I had to keep the roof down to get all the bags in. Peeking out above the bin bag parapet, with a pair of 6" heeled glitter wedges digging into my left hip, my car resembled a skip. All I needed was a old mattress thrown on the top, and you would never have known the difference.
Hauling all the bags around to the clothing containers ('No duvets, pillows or table cloths' - this means you've had it if you're looking for something to wear to a Demis Roussos Look-a-Like competition) we started unpacking and launching the clothes in. It was then that Mister Will spotted a pair of white Nike trainers sitting in isolated splendour on top of something which looked suspiciously like a duvet (someone will be in trouble).
'Size 9...it's a sign', he said, gazing at the neatly paired trainers. 'Can I take them?'
Surely he couldn't be thinking of taking them OUT of the container?
'They're Nikes', he said reverently, 'and they cost over £70'.
I'm not too sure what I was shocked at to be honest. The fact that they cost £70, the fact that someone had discarded them, or the fact that Mister Will knew everything about them. He's obviously got friends in high places, that one.
It took some doing, but we eventually managed to talk him out of bringing the trainers home, and we walked back to the car. I was silently quite relieved that he hadn't noticed the fake Armani hoodie which had been peeking out of the pile, sandwiched between several cheap bras and a green parka. He would have been well on the way to the full ensemble then.
'Typical', I said, 'You've only been here ten minutes, and already I've turned you into a pikey'.
He'll be developing an Irish accent and getting a Jack Russell next.
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