Friday, 16 June 2017

Hand in my pocket...

Apologies for depriving you all of my normal early morning bleatings, but yesterday was crammed from dawn to dusk.  

I was going to write about my trip to see The Red Shoes on Wednesday night, but something happened yesterday morning which has to take precedence over this.  To be honest, I still haven't got over the shock.  Let me explain.

I have fallen foul of the scourge of the dressing gown pocket.

Picture the scene.  I'm heading downstairs after my early morning cup of tea, and as well as my mug, I am also carrying my mobile, a hairclip, a spare pair of socks and a piece of foliage kindly left behind on my bedroom carpet by Reg.  I also had four towels and two bathmats which had to go downstairs.  Now any normal person would simply do all this in two journeys, calmly and efficiently taking everything downstairs where it could easily be put in the right place.  I prefer a different tack, not being prepared to do in two trips what I can do in one.

So I crammed everything I could in my dressing gown pockets (including the mug) scooped up the towels and mats and headed down to the kitchen.  Dumping the dirty stuff next to the washing machine, I started removing the contents of my pockets.  Well I wasn't surprised to see the mug, mobile phone, hairclip, socks and foliage come out, but further investigation in the aforementioned pockets revealed that I had obviously been collecting bits and pieces as I wafted around the house in the mornings and evenings.

The first thing to come out was a 50p piece.  There is un unwritten (and unspoken actually) rule in this house that if I find money, then it's mine to keep.  Next came three bits of a mauled dog chew.  Not a plastic kind of chew, but the gluey hide stuff. Let's face it, I have been wandering round with bits of dead cow in my pocket for the last week or so.  Next up?  Three screwed up tissues, a receipt from the Post Office, a pair of tweezers (these are like gold-dust, and should be appropriated on every occasion), and a pair of knickers (don't ask).

But the best was saved till last.  Fourteen bits of chewed up flower pot. Percy and Reg love flower pots, and after the initial chasing round the garden fun has worn off, they simply decimate them.   After I trod on these several times, I have learned to pick them up as I see them and pop them in the bin...or not as it would seem.

So I have officially reached the age where I can pick something up from the floor and not actually make it to the bin, having completely forgotten where I was going and what I was going there for.

Great. I'm so looking forward to what's coming next...

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