So I woke up this morning and the sky was as blue as contact lense cleaner. I jumped out of bed and put my Spongebob Squarepants shorts and shirt on, so that I looked like a walking block of cheese, and I danced downstairs. And then I smelt it. Cat poo. Then I saw it. Darn that ginger cat who seems to think that the corner by the front door is a supplementary litter box. Yeuch. I went to the loo to get some paper to swab it up with and discovered nothing. No rolls of paper, no spares on the door, nothing by the side of the computer, nothing anywhere. Grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr I stomp upstairs and burst into son's bedroom where a full loo roll sits by the side of his bed. A little fact he can't seem to comprehend is that his nose is not as important as the person whose bottom is perched on the lavatory. Or the person who needs to hurriedly pick up poo. Protestations ensue, as I grabbed the roll and went into cleaner mode. Double Yeuch. It's at times like these I wonder at the pleasure of cats. Ten minutes later after I had bleached the floor, my hands and all surfaces within touch radius, and I watched my bus trundle past as I left the house.
Not a great start to the day. Not much better when at Oxford Circus the bus decides it is terminating and I have to get off. But the sun is still shining, and though I exchange a rueful smile with the man in the seat in front who gets off at the same time as me. And then the smile turns into a sentence, and the sentence turns into a conversation, and the conversation turns into a smiley walk up New Oxford Street, as we fall into step with each other. Can't remember the last time I spoke to someone who was not a candidate for care in the community. Can't remember the last time I spoke to a man within ten years of my age who was actually deliciously attractive. And this man was. Tall, broad, gorgeous face, sweet smile, little touch of the Mills and Book grey at the temples. Oh swoon. Reminded me I had a heart. I smiled at him all the way along the road and only thought I might well have lipstick on my teeth after we'd shaken hands and he'd left. Lovely, lovely man. I wonder what it feels like to be the sort of woman that men like that find attractive. It used to be me, when I was about twenty and didn't know it, so I can't even look at past experience.
Anyway, sailed along the street the rest of the way to Russell Square, walking on air, a little boxy walking cheese, with a big cheesy smile...
Not a great start to the day. Not much better when at Oxford Circus the bus decides it is terminating and I have to get off. But the sun is still shining, and though I exchange a rueful smile with the man in the seat in front who gets off at the same time as me. And then the smile turns into a sentence, and the sentence turns into a conversation, and the conversation turns into a smiley walk up New Oxford Street, as we fall into step with each other. Can't remember the last time I spoke to someone who was not a candidate for care in the community. Can't remember the last time I spoke to a man within ten years of my age who was actually deliciously attractive. And this man was. Tall, broad, gorgeous face, sweet smile, little touch of the Mills and Book grey at the temples. Oh swoon. Reminded me I had a heart. I smiled at him all the way along the road and only thought I might well have lipstick on my teeth after we'd shaken hands and he'd left. Lovely, lovely man. I wonder what it feels like to be the sort of woman that men like that find attractive. It used to be me, when I was about twenty and didn't know it, so I can't even look at past experience.
Anyway, sailed along the street the rest of the way to Russell Square, walking on air, a little boxy walking cheese, with a big cheesy smile...
