Wondering what to call this blog...

Yesterday I discovered that housework is just bloody dangerous. I wasn’t even being THAT ambitious. I made myself a list in the morning, and it said “carrots” and “sort out socks”, (“carrots” being more of a shopping list).

It was more than just “sort out socks” as well, really – I was doing all sorts of related tasks – washing, ironing, distributing clean clothes, and so on. I was putting some stuff away in the bedroom when I managed to scrape my knee on the open drawer – there was blood everywhere! Then I started the mammoth job of pairing up socks. It’s always a nightmare – and I always have about 60 odd socks left over at the end – and they are not necessarily the same socks.

Last time I did this I didn’t even attempt to match up the husbands socks – I thought that if I left a huge pile of unsorted socks on the bed, he might match them up himself. They disappeared, and I assumed he had dealt with them. How wrong was I? What he had actually done was to put them all in a carrier bag and hidden them in the wardrobe. I thought it was strange that he kept moaning about having no socks, because I know he’s got millions of the buggers!

Anyway – after an hour or so of pairing up the ‘female’ socks, and asking Kate to email me a photo of her odd socks in Bournville, (so I could see which ones in my odd sock pile matched up with hers), and still having about 30 strays, I started on the ‘male’ socks. I always find them an ordeal, because they are mainly black or navy blue – it’s much easier if you are looking for something with Tigger or Snoopy on, which is why I leave his till last. I’d got about 15 or so left over that weren’t even a close match, then he confessed to having a bag of odd socks. So I got him to bring them down, and managed to make about 10 pairs, but there were still loads of odds left over, and bizarrely, 2 pairs of pants that had also been in the bag! I thought this a little odd – and made some stupid comment like “Well, these are PANTS – they are never going to be matched up!”

“I can’t wear them – the elastic has gone in them.”

“So – throw them away!”

“Oh no – I couldn’t throw them away – they can be used for rags”.

Rags??? Who the bloody hell uses RAGS these days! He’s not living in Welshpool now!! I told him that was disgusting and I wasn’t using his old pants as rags – even when he explained that they were clean! So he said he would take them round to the clothing bank.

“No! You can’t do that!” I said – horrified at the thought. “You can’t have some poor bugger in Africa with your saggy baggy old pants!”

“They don’t send them to Africa – they make them into rags. They use them on ships.”

Ships?

I said I still thought it was disgusting. Then he said (in a scarily wistful way) “Oh I don’t know, I rather like the idea of my pants ending up on a ship.”

Perhaps he ought to start going out with sailors?

Is this normal? I’d be mortified if I thought someone was using my old undies to buff up their foghorn.

I know he likes ships, and the sea – but he doesn’t like them enough to want to travel; to go on a cruise and see the world. As far as I know, since I’ve known him, the only time he has been on a boat was (a) the little ferry at Hampton Loade and (b) the slightly more substantial Mersey Ferry – and on both occasions he refrained from handing out bags of discarded knickers to the captain.

But, what do I know? He was a Customs officer for several years. Who knows what went on.

While I was looking for washing yesterday I ventured into the lair of the resident daughter, whereupon I discovered one of her ‘traps’ as I stood on the evil plug end of a phone charger, and, had the window been open, could have taught the neighbours one or two choice expressions (probably last uttered by a weather-beaten old sea-dog brandishing a pair of Marks & Spencer’s finest). I now have an interesting purple bruise on my foot, which goes nicely with the slashed knee. As these things come in threes it didn’t surprise me when I ran upstairs with a basket of ironing only to stub my toe on ‘Of Mice and Men’ – hardback version).

Today I have managed (so far) NOT to injure myself – however, I am intrigued to know where the plug has gone out of the bathroom sink – because there was one there last night – I know – I used it. I’ve looked for it, but really, when it’s not on the end of it’s little chain, where the hell do you start looking?