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Thursday, 20 October 2011


I'm on holiday for 5 more glorious days, and I can now manage to have a lovely long lie in bed.

Yeah Right.

Woken at 1:45am by my beloved, who has been watching the umpteenth repeat of the ABs thumping the Aussies and has now decided to come to bed.
She gives me a gentle shove and tells me I'm all sweaty.

Get back to sleep

Woken at 2:10am by my beloved who had just switched off her bedside light and given me a friendly (I hope) thump on the shoulder.

Get back to sleep

Woken at 2:45 by bladder pressure.

Got up and relieved pressure.  Made a visit to the fridge (after, of course, washing my hands)where I had a quick snack of cheese, pickled onions and a couple of crackers.

Lovely tasting; not good for evening digestion

Back to bed.
Get back to sleep.

Woken at 3:30 by raging thirst (probably caused by pickled onions)
Got up, drank about a litre of cold water (with just a hint of orange juice).  Went back to bed, and on the way spotted the half bottle of Cabernet Merlot left over from dinner.  Had a quick glug.

Back to bed.
Get back to sleep.

Woken at 4:14 by raging heartburn.
Got up and located the emergency packet of Tums, followed by consumption of 4 tablets, washed down by a large glass of ice-cold (slim) milk.
Belched, felt much better.

Back to bed
Get back to sleep.
My beloved has a very firm grip

Woken at 5:08 by my beloved who suddenly grabbed a rather sensitive part of my anatomy.  She explained later that she had a terrible nightmare, where she had woken up to find me dead.  If she does that "sudden grab"again, I will be. Or she will

Get back to sleep.

Woke up at 6:01.
My son needs to get up at 6:00 to get to work on time, and my Dad radar/ESP/Internal Geosynchronous Clock hadn't picked up any sounds of movement.
Got up, went to his room and woke him.  Heard subdued grunts indicating combined annoyance and gratitude.

Went back to bed.
Get back to sleep.

Woke at 6:27 as son reverses car into fence.  Sounds of breaking wood always wake me up.
Got up to check fence.  Curse son. Back to bed, but pass liquor cabinet.  Decide a small medicinal Dewars will help me sleep.

Went back to bed.
Get back to sleep.

Woke at 6:58 as raging heartburn strikes again. (Did I mention the couple of pickled onions with the Dewars?)

Got up, staggered to bathroom.  NO TUMS LEFT.

DANGER  Don't use if you don't know what you're doing

Stagger through to kitchen, dissolve two teaspoons of Sodium Bicarbonate on water and drink.  I can feel the gas pressure building.

The resultant belch is of such monumental amplitude that it wakes and frightens the dog, who starts barking at the strange monster behind the door who makes such scary sounds. 
Mopped up dog pee (I really scared the little shit machine) and gave him a biscuit.

Went back to bed.
Get back to sleep.

Woke at 8:01 as a Moped put-puts into our driveway.
Get out of bed, grab dressing gown and run downstairs.  Who The F*ck drives with  Moped at 8:01.
Find out.
It's the Genesis Energy Man come to read our Gas meter. Our electric meter is now "smart" and sends the readings over the power lines automatically.  The Gas meter requires a manual read every couple of months.
Greet Genesis Energy man with a muffled curse of "What F*cking time do you call this" but do not say out loud.  He's a rather large Polynesian chap, who I think is either:
  • Drunk
  • Hungover
  • Under the influence of the Evil Weed
  • Any possible combination of the above.
He's also smarting from the exclusion of Tonga from the RWC®, as he has a Tongan flag twice the size of his really noisy f*cking Moped flapping from what looks like a purloined scaffolding pole, fastened to said Moped with about 25metres of Duct Tape

I decide discretion is the better part of valour and also realise that my dressing gown is flapping in the chill morning breeze, exposing my gleaming blue-white varicosed  legs to all and sundry.

Retreat to house, double locking door in case the large Tongan Genesis Energy man decides to take out his sporting (or other) frustrations on me.

Like this, but worse

Watch him drive away whilst hiding behind curtains. Glad I retreated, as his arse is so big, it hangs down on either side of Moped saddle.
Nip up to the liquor cabinet for another shot of Dewars to fortify my poor brain in it's attempts of removing saddle-bag image from my memory.

Contemplate returning to bed in a probably vain attempt to get some sleep.
Head for computer to read some blogs.

Woken from lovely dream involving Bridgette Bardot, a Computer, a Dial-up Modem and a sheep, by beloved shaking me by the shoulder and asking if I'm OK.

I grunt an affirmative, instinctively blanking my monitor screen (there are some things I don't really wish to share with my beloved) whereupon my beloved starts flitting about the kitchen, putting on the kettle and the toaster, humming something particularly inane from the early Disney stable (probably from that really creepy "Snow White")

She tells me she's had a really lovely sleep, and asks why I haven't started the washing machine, because if I've had time to "muck about" on the "Machine of the Devil" (My computer for those new to this blog) then I've surely had time to do the washing and hang it out, and why haven't I picked up the dog poo from the back deck yet, and had she told me that she'd had a really lovely sleep?

There's not a male juror in the country who'd convict me.

But there's always the chance of women interfering. Again.

I went to put on the washing machine.

Yawning non-bloody-stop.

Sometimes life's just not fair


  1. I loved this post. I rarely laugh out loud, but I did as I read this.

  2. Richard [of RBB]: I'm glad. I'm glad my misery made you laugh.

    Seriously, I'm glad I made you laugh after your poor boy had such a nasty time with those thugs in Wellington.

  3. Seriously, cheese and pickled onions at 2.45 in the morning?
    Your beloved (I hope for your sake she never spies the devaluation of her 'b') shouldn't have merely strangleheld your manhood she should have also shoved a bloody great cork up your arse. It reminds me of the JP Donleavy novel 'The Onion Eaters' where the hero, after consuming vast quantities of old port and even older stilton in the early hours did a sneaky fart in bed that was of the consistency of mustard gas and blamed the dog which was innocently sleeping at the foot of the bed.

  4. TC: What's wrong with cheese and pickled onions a 2:45? Clive eats that OK. I enjoyed it. I enjoyed it for approx. 35 minutes before the acid began to eat through ny duodenum.

    The cork didn't work, the pressure being to large. We don't want another broken window thank you. EQC won't give us any more from our "Christchurch" claims for ricocheting corks.

    I do like the idea of blaming it on the dog. Must read that book.

  5. Richard[ofRBB]; I mant to ask, which bit made you laugh out loud?
    Just so I can improve on reader satisfaction.

  6. Seems like many things have kept you awake TSB, none of them being conscience.......

    poor wee wummin!


  7. Alistair: Conscience? I know not of which you speak.

  8. LOL! Here's to a good night's sleep tonight.

  9. Patience_Crabstick: I'm glad my misery enlivened your existence.

    Pinky: Ditto


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