Curtains for TSB

I had the weekend all planned.

A gentle day of minimal dusting, occasional vacuuming and snoozing with a good book (not THE Good book, but A good book, full of violence, blood, sex and copious gunfire), with a few healthy libations of beer/wine/whisky, culminating with the All Blacks attacking playing the Australians in the evening.

Apparently, I was completely wrong, as my Beloved said we were off to Wellington to shop for curtains.

I then asked what was in retrospect a rather silly question.

"Curtains?" "Why do we need curtains", "and what room needs curtains my Dear?"

"The front room obviously" she replied with rather a condescending sneer in her voice.

"But Darling, we've been in this house for 7 years now, and we haven't had curtains in that room for 6 of them"

"And if I remember correctly, wasn't it you that told me to take down the existing curtains when me moved in?"

"And wasn't it you who said we didn't need curtains because it made the room so nice and bright, and that anyway we had complete privacy because no one could see in?"

"And wasn't it you who said that curtains just gather dust and spiders, and that nobody in their right mind would want them?"

"The sunshine glares on the TV" she snarled said.

Ah, the light dawns.  My Beloved, being mostly a woman of leisure, is a devotee of Rugby Football in all of its forms (apart from League) and she's recently become an avid viewer of College Rugby on the Rugby channel. 
These show at odd times of the day, and apparently some of these matches are being broadcast at the same time the sun blazes in through our front windows and causes too much glare on the big Sony flatscreen, for my Beloved to make out all the details of the young men running around in tight shorts, covered in mud and blood.

So off we went to Wellington and bought the curtains.

I didn't know that curtain material was so expensive.  I could have bought a new laptop for the price of the bloody curtains, but what must be must be, so we bought them.

On the way home, we detoured slightly to go into the small town/suburb of Petone.  This area, traditionally a working class town by the sea, has undergone considerable gentrification over the last 5 years, and there are some nice shoe shops in Jackson Street. 

So I was told anyway.


We did the usual thing as we strolled along the street towards the show shop with the woman-enticing sign hanging outside - SALE 30% OFF  -, we looked into the shop windows as we passed down, pausing (lengthily) at various clothes and junk antique establishments along the way.  Funnily enough, when we reached a really interesting tool shop, where I wanted to stop and peruse the wondrous collection of specialised planes, moulding planes, spokeshaves and beautiful Japanese dovetail saws, my Beloved harrumphed impatiently at this obvious waste of our time, so we reached our objective, the shoe shop.

Bliss

I did what every bloke would do.  I let my Beloved go in, and then I rapidly exited to go back to the tool shop.

A ½ hour later, when I returned to the shoe shop, my Beloved was still examining shoes and talking to the saleslady.  There were about 10-12 ladies in the shop, and they all stopped what they were doing and glared looked at me. The saleslady smiled (rather condescendingly I thought) at me and said:

"There are various shoe cleaning materials available for your examination at the rear of the premises, Sir"

She pointed to the rear of the shop.

"You will find various and exhaustive lists of technical specifications, which for some reason most Men seem to find fascinating."

I just pointed to my freshly polished and gleaming shoes, and she sighed.
"It's funny how many men do the same thing"

I just smiled gently and switched my brain off for the next 15 minutes.

My Beloved showed me a pair of shoes she had selected and (after a force 7 elbow nudge) I nodded benignly (I know my place) and she completed the purchase.

God, they were horrible.  A basic design of a traditional "Granny Shoe" but using a curiously mottled green and hairy leather.

As the shoebox was put into the fancy carrier bag, the saleslady again smiled at me in obvious dismissal.

I then said something I shouldn't have.

I said to the saleslady (but being overheard by all the other ladies in the shop)

"I always like coming into a ladies' shoe shop"

She cocked an enquiring eyebrow.

"It always puts me in a good mood"

Her eyebrows elevated further.

"When I see something like that" I pointed to a particularly repulsive creation disporting a huge wedge heel and sole, and displaying various yellow, blue, red and purple pieces of leather, "I can hardly contain my laughter, and I feel good for the rest of the day"

Something like this, but much, much worse.

She glared at me.

My Beloved glared at me.

Every bloody woman in the shop glared at me.

"I used to have one like that " hissed my Beloved.

I just smiled (condescendingly) at all and sundry, and left with that feeling of Male superiority known to every bloke who has just managed to insult the common-sense of every woman who has ever lived.

I paid for it later of course, but sometimes one has to pay the price of invincible self-superiority.

I kept smiling in fond rememberance whilst I hung up the bloody curtains.

And to finish the day off perfectly, the All Blacks thumped the Aussies 22-0.



Tough luck guys *snigger*

And I had beer to go with it.