Our life in boxes.

Feeling very strange.  Emotional. Grace Brothers came yesterday to pack up the stuff we are sending over with us. It will stay here in Australia for a month then be shipped to the UK to be ready and waiting for us in London. Today we moved the rest of our stuff out in a big Budget truck to store at my sister’s place. My dad and brother helped. Now there’s just boxes and little piles of the kind of dust and fluff that accumulates behind the fridge and washing machine. It brings to mind a scene from an old spaghetti western with boxes instead of rocks and swirling piles of fridge-fluff tumbleweeds. Tricky just needs to play her jangly guitar and we’ll be in a Clint Eastwood movie

Gonna make the wardrobe my bitch.

Almost finished that fucking wardrobe.

It looks remarkably stylish and is very functional. I’ve outdone myself. Especially, when considering I did most of it whilst being crippled.

More bruised and broken.

Woke at 4:30 am.  I can’t sleep due to the pain. it takes me a few minutes to brew up the courage to move out of bed. Tricky asleep. My body feels as though I’ve had the crap beaten out of me and there are hardly any bruises to show for my ordeal.

I hate that!

Bruised and broken

Well, bruised at least. Fell off a ladder yesterday. Our ceilings are 3 metres high. I was finishing off a wardrobe I’m installing and was stupidly near the top rung of the ladder, shifted my weight and down I went. Fell onto my shoulders and then crunched my back. I yelled for Tricky but the fall had knocked the breath out of me. I floundered on the floor like a stunned fish, gasping for air while Tricky screamed at me. I thought I had broken something for sure but after a few seconds realised I could move ok and could talk and was still breathing. Saw a doctor today who said I am just bruised- nothing broken, no permanent damage.  Thank God (insert deity of your choice). Tricky is most relieved.
I’m going to say a prayer tonight cause someone was watching over me. And I’ve still gotta get that wardrobe finished. 
The moral of this story is, like it says on the DANGER stickers on all new ladders. “Do not step above this rung”.

Mice and cheese.

A limerick.

I’m a little mouse named Keith.
I circumcise men with my teeth.
I don’t do it for leisure,
or any kind of pleasure.
I do it for the cheese underneath.

My beloved Tricky, sent me an SMS message today. A lovely modern-day limerick about a little mouse, dicks and smegma. I had a laugh and shared it with a few friends one of whom insisted I pass it on to her immediately. She reeled off her number. I keyed it in but she didn’t seem sure.  Are you sure that’s your number? mmm.. I think so. Are you positive? Yes, I’m sure. I pressed the send button and it was gone, off into the ether. We both stood there staring blankly at her ‘phone , waiting for the beep that would signal the arrival of her new message.  It never came.  I was sure there was some old Granny somewhere fumbling with her mobile ‘phone, reading her message and thinking to herself ..Mouse, cheese?? I don’t get it.. Or maybe she had a bit of a laugh herself and sent it on to Grandad.

Sometimes, I wish there was a BACK button on my ‘phone. Or a big red ABORT button.