Why I'm Called The Un-Working Girl #27868704

Incidentally, the reason my Dad has not phoned me back yet about the below leak is because he's currently out and about sorting out another one of my problems.

Yesterday during its MOT it transpired that my car has actually had the wrong numberplate on it for years...

Why I Never Do Housework: Reason #473

Oh hell and damn nation. Hot on the heels of our major electrical fault just one week ago, me and Mr G this morning uncovered a new problem chez nous.

Since we have some visitors popping round this weekend, we thought it only polite to clean up a little bit. When you start leaving footprints in the dust, you know it is time to locate Henry the Hoover.

I was quite merrily Ecover-ing down the cupboards in the kitchen and singing along to a bit of Rihanna when Mr G came in and declared that, having lived here for three years, perhaps we should attempt to lift the washing machine onto the blocks it was always supposed to be on, so that we could actually put the plinths down under the kitchen units. The thought process behind this being that it may one day inspire us to lay an actual floor - going by the current work rate, in about 5 years' time.

So, down on my hands and knees, I removed the carrier-bag barricade (originally installed to prevent the dog from eating the mouse poison laid down under the sink) and promptly heard a familiar, desperate, expiration of breath coming from Mr G. I knew what this meant, and it wasn't good.

"What now?!" I dared ask.

"Brilliant. A massive leak" came the answer.

I peered under the sink, positioned between the washing machine and dishwasher. Running the length of the two appliances were soaked, rotting, mushroom-covered floorboards, overlooked by a black (formerly white), mould-covered rear wall.

"Excellent!" I declared, choking. Mr G rolled his eyes and slowly shook his head.

"What?!" I coughed. "I'm surprised it hasn't killed us! Mould spores are really dangerous! Don't you remember that episode of CSI?" I asked.

And then I did what experience tells me is best in these situations...

Sent Skipper a picture message with a :( and am currently pretending none of this has happened until the inevitable phone call:

"Alright love, what's that?"
"A massive leak from behind the dishwasher Dad!"
"Well it shouldn't be!"

Welcome Home.... Weeeelllllcome....

I forgot to mention that when we got home yesterday, me and Mr G discovered that all our downstairs electrics had gone off. In a state of total bewilderment, I phoned Skip. The Mothership answered and laughed when I told her what was happening. As she passed the phone over to Skipper, I heard him huffing and puffing in the background; "How can her electrics have gone off?" - This is Skip's alternative response to "Well, they shouldn't have!".

Dad, I literally have no idea. 1) I'm not an electrician. 2) I'm a girl. 3) Just get over here and sort my life out!


Several of my friends rather sweetly, and I have to say naively, thought a fuse had just blown. I did find myself wondering where they had been for the past three years since we bought this absolute money pit of a house as I fail to see how they could have avoided hearing me wang on about the various disasters we have encountered. Oh no, of course it was nothing as simple as a blown fuse...

No no... A floorboard has been quietly rotting in our sloping hallway (possibly as a result of the botched roofing job we had done by a cowboy builder which left us with a massive leak that was cannot afford to get fixed and are unable to claim from our insurance) and over time this has meant walking down the hallway has  gradually pushed down on the wiring beneath the floorboards and somehow a nail from the floorboard has ended up pushing through into the main wire that hooks up to the electric thing that powers all of our downstairs sockets.

Mr G said he could have cried when we first realised we were faced with yet another drama, and I must admit that even my blitz spirit is fading fast. After three years of disasters I have now lost sight of the vision we once had for this lovely little house.

Thank God Skipper was able to patch up the latest problem for now.
Right, I'm off out for that coffee. And checking my Euromillions ticket on the way. Wish me luck...

I Heart Menorca

Touchdown! I survived the family holiday to Menorca.

Had to go on a wild goose chase round Plymouth the afternoon before we left, trying to pick up my Diazepam prescription for the flight. I'm convinced it would have been easier to score some heroin but eventually I got my fix. It might sound dramatic (who, me?!) but I HATE flying. I really can't describe how much I hate everything about it, pretty much from the moment of turning up at the departure airport right up until I walk out the doors into another country. It turns out that what makes flying even worse is being surrounded by your entire family, including a one year old and a three year old, all of whom could not care less about the fact they are on an aeroplane.

If I'm totally honest I was also a little worried about the whole prospect of the family holiday. I was sure it would rain for the entire week and we would all be couped up together in a villa, winding each other up.

Thankfully, we had brilliant sunshine almost every day and spent our time reading, swimming, sunbathing and exploring. Menorca is really anglicised - probably more than half the people we came into contact with were English - which, as a linguist, I find a bit of a shame, but I was expecting it to be characterless and built up, like the Costa Del Sol.  In fact, I was really surprised by how quaint and picturesque it was. One day I went for a drive with Skip and Mothership and we remarked how it felt like we were driving along a Mediterranean Dartmoor; single track roads, remote farm houses and fields separated by dry stone walls. I liked it so much I would happily go back. I've taken a few photos to show you what I mean. I'm not too good with the descriptives - I prefer to just take a picture.

We had a few hiccups during the week. The Mothership inexplicably turned into The Mothershits for 24 hours in spite of eating and drinking the same as everyone else. Then Squiffy came down with it a few days later, although I suspect that was more down to the fact he had eaten 4 yoghurts for his tea and drank about a litre of strawberry milkshake before going to bed.

We went to a glorious beach a couple of days in and of course the first thing I spotted as I strode into the turquoise water was a jellyfish (this literally happens every time I go to the beach in any country) so that pretty much ruined my enjoyment of that. Ironically, my anxiety levels go into overdrive on holiday. But I did still manage a little swim so I am proud of myself for that.

I also got to spend the week playing with my gorgeous nephews, JEdwards and Squiffy. JEdwards is a placid, contented, smiley, cuddly little chap and Squiffy is an adorable yet disobedient maniac.

One evening, mid-way through my eight-zillionth made-up bedtime story in an attempt to get Squiffy to go to sleep, he sat bolt upright, looked me in the eye and said "Perhaps I should go and look in that mirror to see if I look posh". No, I have no idea what he was on about either, but it was bloody funny.

I'm a touch embarrassed to admit we had a TV showing British telly so I am fully up to date with X Factor (more on THAT later), and I also found a shop that sold Cadbury's Flakes. But I feel I was entitled to these two indulgences because I spoke lots of Spanish as well.

OK, that's all for now as I'm off to meet some friends for coffees but I will, of course, be back later to talk about the total hoo ha that is the X Factor. I cannot wait to see what unfolds tonight!

Here's a pic of Jellyfish beach. I tried uploading more but it appears that in the week that I've been away the process I followed for the past 15 months has somehow changed and they are all coming out sideways. Will investigate and correct later. By that, I mean when Mr G gets up I will get him to fix it...

Two Classics From Skipper

As mentioned earlier, on Friday I went to the Flavour Fest with my Dad, Skipper.

We caught the bus down and he admitted to me that he couldn't remember the last time he had been on a bus (living in a village outside of Plymouth it is not worth relying on public transport to get anywhere unless you don't mind leaving one day and coming back the next, ergo everyone learns to drive the second they turn 17). Similar to the way he was mesmerised by the cup holders built into the seat arms at the O2 Arena, he was flabbergasted to discover that when the bus stops, it lowers down to become level with the pavement.
"I can't get over that! Look at that!" He kept saying, all the way up Royal Parade.

Then he dropped the bombshell that he checks my blog every so often just to see what his latest tip is (how has he learned to use the internet? That's what I want to know) and has now recruited a colleague to help him come up with advice. They've got a winter special planned already!!

Tasty Feedback from the Flavour Fest

The Flavour Fest is one of my favourite Plymouth events, and since Mr G is away on a lads' holiday I decided to take advantage of the opportunity to buy lots of fancy food that he would never eat and went with Skip.

After sampling the various ciders, wines and liqueurs on offer we were sufficiently inebriated to part with our cash. Skip practically depleted the stocks of the entire festival but I was on a tighter budget so came away with a more select haul - posh sausages, posh squash, posh tea and posh rice pudding.

Mr G thinks I have ridiculously expensive tastes. He's probably right. There's nothing worse than crap sausages. I hate cheap squash. I don't like bargain biscuits.

I make no apologies. I buy VERY cheap loo roll to even out the balance.