The Girls

I’m sat in the garden to blog today. I thought I’d write whilst topping up my tan. Unfortunately I have to sit in the shade in order to actually see my computer screen. Still, I’m thankful for the fresh air and dreaming of a ridiculously hot summer.
It’s been far too long since we’ve had a proper nasty oppressive one, the kind of heat that kills old people and dogs in cars. All I can do is hope and dream.
The Girlf has recovered from her migraine and gone to work chirpy. I’m amazed how she can go from deaths door and straight back to everyday life after eight hours sleep. Last night I was contemplating picking her up and taking her to casualty, her crying and moaning actually scaring me. Eventually a combination of Nurofen, an icepack and two hours of fussing and stroking was enough to cure her.
She’s having a tough week, bless her. On Friday she hits thirty. She’s taking it badly bemoaning her lost youth and multiplying wrinkles. I keep telling her she’s still a baby but she isn’t having it. A wardrobe malfunction last week has forced her onto another diet. Squeezed into a tight pencil skirt her arse went supernova spraying fabric and pieces of zip out into the cosmos.
Shame faced she showed up at the shop in search of safety pins and a sixty year old woman to rectify the matter. My mum patched her up and we sent her back to the party embarrassed but secure.
The incident has shocked her. I’ve tried to re-assure her telling her the product was clearly wrongly labelled and it must have been a size ten and not in fact a fourteen.
Personally I think there’s nothing wrong with her booty. It is indeed bootilicious but this falls on deaf ears and since it happened she’s been living on fruit.
All this has delighted the Eldest who has seized the opportunity to remind us both how skinny she is. She stands proudly pulling out the waist band of her trousers and trumpets that they’re a ten and they’re loose on her. The Girlf dryly cuts her short and informs her that they’re hers and they’re actually a twelve.
Undaunted she jumps around in her underwear for a few minutes just to rub it in. The Girlf broods and sulks from the comfort and safety of a baggy pair of joggers.
Luckily for me the girls are now back at school which means I get the Sky and the broadband to myself. I can spend my afternoons watching Youtube videos immediately rather than having to wait for them to load up. I think this is how people feel when they have a plaster cast removed from a healed limb. Fan fiction has been relegated to the evening so I can enjoy my surfing all afternoon long without being impeded and inconvenienced by the Eldest writing her Gossip Girl pseudo porn homage’s.
This weather is gorgeous. I celebrated it today by going to Morrisons dressed as a terrorist. Khaki combats, tight black vest, boots with a beard that now automatically faces Mecca of its own accord. Occasionally one has to fuck with suburbia. It’s good for the soul. The neighbours often ask me if I’m lost when I’m waiting for a taxi so it’s good to give a little back once in a while.
A few worried looks off the natives soon puts a spring in my step and it’s into Morrisons to buy a new wok. One thing you can say about Morrisons is that it’s certainly no Tesco. Where’s the wasabi sauce for God’s (Allah’s) sake?
The Indian guy working there is no help. He gives me the ethnic shrug and bottom lip as if to say fucked if I know. It makes me laugh, my grandmother used to do the exact same thing much to the annoyance of the natives. Apparently it’s rude. I knew where he was coming from.
The Girlf berates me because I haven’t bought anything for the Youngest’s dinner. She doesn’t eat what we eat. She is a ‘fussy’ eater so therefore lives on bread and butter, mash potato and fish fingers. She is also addicted to chips. In my experience ‘fussy’ eaters never have a problem with chips or indeed MacDonald’s. It would be safe to say any manner of junk food makes it past their ever so sensitive palettes.
I mutter something about people starving in the world but she knocks me back telling me I’ll be different when we have kids. My kids will eat what ever they’re given as I did, as everyone I grew up with did. We had to; it was either that or starve. She moans that she‘ll have to drive to the shops after work. I have no sympathy; I’m on foot, hands full of shopping bags with a wok tied to my combats.
Clearly the girl doesn’t want to waste anytime getting home to the love of her life. Lazing in bed this morning, still reeling a little from the migraine she moaned at the fact that I’m not richer thus being able to subsidise her laziness when she can’t be fucked to go in of a morning.

I reminded her it wasn’t the size of my wallet she fell in love with.