Well, I’m not sure what’s going on at the moment. Bizarre things always seem to happen to me at this time of year. Last year I lost my brain function and couldn’t drive or spell anymore. This year… I don’t know…
I accompanied Mr Man to another Table Tennis match on Sunday. After watching a ball flying around for three hours I usually begin to lose the will to live, but this time we were there for over six hours! I hate to say it but… I really enjoyed it – what’s going on?
And…
This evening I went to the shop for some milk. Now usually I would come home with various bars of chocolate (and probably forget the milk), but you know what? I didn’t buy any chocolate! Now I know there is something wrong!
What I did come home with though was some lovely sweeties! No, I’m not talking about Foxes Glacier Mints, Werther’s Originals, or some other hard boiled sweets designed for the over 60’s. I’m talking about the “hazardously sour candy” – Toxic Waste!
On the plastic pot reads:
How Long Can You Keep One in Your Mouth?
60 seconds – Full Toxie Head!
45 seconds – Toxie Wannabe!
30 seconds – Cry Baby!
15 seconds – Total Wuss!
Not knowing what to expect, Mr Man and I both popped one in our mouths at the same time to see who would be the first to spit it out! I’m very proud to announce that we both lasted 60 seconds and beyond!
So now it’s your turn! If you don’t try this out and tell me how long you managed to keep one in your mouth for I’ll presume that you were just too scared!
Showing posts with label Life with Mr Man. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life with Mr Man. Show all posts
Monday, November 05, 2007
Saturday, October 27, 2007
The Things We Do For Love
We snuggled up on the sofa together. It was a few minutes past midnight.
“Happy Anniversary” we said to each other.
“Thank you for marrying me” I continued.
“Thank you for marrying me” Mr Man replied.
“Well, thank you for having the courage to ask me! Or even the courage to tell me you liked me!” I argued.
We then recalled how our relationship began…
I’d known Mr Man since 1993. For him it was love at first sight. He used to meet me at work and walk me home sometimes, but it was a few years later when we really started to become friends. Mr Man was living with his mother at the time and they had been receiving silent calls at their home, which was more than a little unsettling for her.
A friend was visiting me one night when I decided to call Mr Man to invite him round for the evening. As I reached for my phone book my friend reeled off the number to me.
“How do you remember that?” I asked.
“I just have a head for numbers” she shrugged.
Hmm… very strange, I thought.
Later that evening when all my guests had left, including Mr Man, I could hardly wait to call him to tell him what had happened. I called him on his mobile phone. He hadn’t reached home yet so he pulled over into a side road.
“I think I know who your silent caller is” I blurted out, and I explained what had happened.
“Why would she keep calling our house?” he asked.
“It’s obvious; she likes you!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, that backfired a bit then” he mumbled.
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“I was hoping for someone else to like me” he replied nervously.
“Who’s that?” I asked shyly.
“You” was his simple reply.
“Well, it didn’t backfire then did it?”
And so began ourridiculously high telephone bills romance on the 25th October 1996, as Mr Man sat freezing in his parked car and we chatted on the phone until the small hours. The things we do for love eh?
One year and two days later we were married, and the rest is history as they say. Today we celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary.
Incidentally, the silent calls stopped when I just happened to mention to my friend one day that the police were going to trace the calls.
What I love about Mr Man
“Happy Anniversary” we said to each other.
“Thank you for marrying me” I continued.
“Thank you for marrying me” Mr Man replied.
“Well, thank you for having the courage to ask me! Or even the courage to tell me you liked me!” I argued.
We then recalled how our relationship began…
I’d known Mr Man since 1993. For him it was love at first sight. He used to meet me at work and walk me home sometimes, but it was a few years later when we really started to become friends. Mr Man was living with his mother at the time and they had been receiving silent calls at their home, which was more than a little unsettling for her.
A friend was visiting me one night when I decided to call Mr Man to invite him round for the evening. As I reached for my phone book my friend reeled off the number to me.
“How do you remember that?” I asked.
“I just have a head for numbers” she shrugged.
Hmm… very strange, I thought.
Later that evening when all my guests had left, including Mr Man, I could hardly wait to call him to tell him what had happened. I called him on his mobile phone. He hadn’t reached home yet so he pulled over into a side road.
“I think I know who your silent caller is” I blurted out, and I explained what had happened.
“Why would she keep calling our house?” he asked.
“It’s obvious; she likes you!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, that backfired a bit then” he mumbled.
“What do you mean?” I asked, confused.
“I was hoping for someone else to like me” he replied nervously.
“Who’s that?” I asked shyly.
“You” was his simple reply.
“Well, it didn’t backfire then did it?”
And so began our
One year and two days later we were married, and the rest is history as they say. Today we celebrate our 10th wedding anniversary.
Incidentally, the silent calls stopped when I just happened to mention to my friend one day that the police were going to trace the calls.
What I love about Mr Man
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Back So Soon?
I accompanied Mr Man to a Table Tennis match tonight. I didn’t have much choice; I’m his chauffer and the match was too far away for me to drop him off and pick him up again later. I don’t get any extra pay for waiting around though.
So faced with three hours of watching a ping pong ball flying to and fro before my eyes, what else could I do but get out my pen and note pad?
Being in a permanent bad mood, as I am at the moment, I had absolutely no desire to talk to anyone and took an instant disliking to everyone I met. Well, everyone in the opposing team anyway.
The middle aged woman was far too chirpy and chatty for my liking. Don’t you find that when you feel like you want everyone to die you always want the happy ones to die first?
“I hope she doesn’t speak to me” I said to Mr Man.
At least when she played she wasn’t afraid to give credit where it was due to the opposing player, which is more than I can say for the young lad who was in their team.
I suppose he must have been in his late teens or early twenties. Spraying his bat with a fancy solution and using a specialised cloth to wipe it with, he obviously fancied himself as a serious player. Do you know what Mr Man uses? Gob. Yep, he spits on his bat and wipes it on his trousers* and that’s enough to give his bat the sticky surface he requires for his spiny shots.
This young lad was so incredibly confident of his own abilities; he oozed arrogance. He first played against our Rastafarian player, who is so laid back that when I first saw him play last week he was actually whistling. I’m sure that’s all part of his hustler routine. Picture the scene; an old man with a grey beard, turns up to play wearing a jumper and a woolly hat over his mass of locks. During warm up he moves slowly around the table and you’re not quite sure if that’s because of his age, his Jamaican “soon come” attitude, or the weight of his hair. The young, athletic looking player was obviously confident of an easy win and even during the warm up he smirked as he smashed the ball across the table and past our old Rasta man. Now that's just not cricket.
The game started and our Rasta player allowed his opponent to win the first few points before deciding it was time to play. Even Mr Man was fooled.
“I bet he smokes Marijuana” Mr Man said.
“You can’t be so prejudiced and stereotype people like that these days” I replied.
“Yeah, but I bet he does”
Whatever he lights in his spare time, tonight he was on fire at the table. As he won point after point I could see the young lads’ frustration growing, and finally he retreated back to his chair with his tail between his legs, after being beaten 3 - 0**.
The only player from the opposing team who seemed inoffensive to me and least likely to irritate was the round bald man who spoke with an Irish accent. But when he got up to play I didn’t know where to look to stop myself from laughing.
“What the hell was that?” I asked Mr Man, referring to the bald mans serve.
He looked like he was juggling a hot hard boiled egg between his bat and his free hand, and when he finally decided to hit it across the table he cocked his leg at the same time. I didn’t know if he was playing or peeing. So that brightened up my evening somewhat.
When it was Mr Mans turn to play the cocky young lad I whispered in his ear:
“Annihilate”
Ok, I know I said annihilate but 11 – 3** in the first game? I almost felt sorry for the boy. Almost.
Mr Man played a killer shot, right across the table to his far right. The lad nearly did the splits trying to reach it.
“That was mean” he said to Mr Man.
No, that’s Table Tennis.
The final outcome of the evening for the team was 10 – 0**. Is this the silver lining you were referring to Aiders?
*He's not the only player to do this I have learnt. Some of the top players in the county lick their bats like lolly pops. Eurgh. Where's the mouthwash?
**There are 3 players in each team, and they all play each other. Finally two players from each team play in the doubles, which brings the total number of games played to 10. In each game, the players play the best of 5 (or the first to 3). In each individual game, or “end” as they call it, the winner is the first to win 11 points by 2 clear points.
So faced with three hours of watching a ping pong ball flying to and fro before my eyes, what else could I do but get out my pen and note pad?
Being in a permanent bad mood, as I am at the moment, I had absolutely no desire to talk to anyone and took an instant disliking to everyone I met. Well, everyone in the opposing team anyway.
The middle aged woman was far too chirpy and chatty for my liking. Don’t you find that when you feel like you want everyone to die you always want the happy ones to die first?
“I hope she doesn’t speak to me” I said to Mr Man.
At least when she played she wasn’t afraid to give credit where it was due to the opposing player, which is more than I can say for the young lad who was in their team.
I suppose he must have been in his late teens or early twenties. Spraying his bat with a fancy solution and using a specialised cloth to wipe it with, he obviously fancied himself as a serious player. Do you know what Mr Man uses? Gob. Yep, he spits on his bat and wipes it on his trousers* and that’s enough to give his bat the sticky surface he requires for his spiny shots.
This young lad was so incredibly confident of his own abilities; he oozed arrogance. He first played against our Rastafarian player, who is so laid back that when I first saw him play last week he was actually whistling. I’m sure that’s all part of his hustler routine. Picture the scene; an old man with a grey beard, turns up to play wearing a jumper and a woolly hat over his mass of locks. During warm up he moves slowly around the table and you’re not quite sure if that’s because of his age, his Jamaican “soon come” attitude, or the weight of his hair. The young, athletic looking player was obviously confident of an easy win and even during the warm up he smirked as he smashed the ball across the table and past our old Rasta man. Now that's just not cricket.
The game started and our Rasta player allowed his opponent to win the first few points before deciding it was time to play. Even Mr Man was fooled.
“I bet he smokes Marijuana” Mr Man said.
“You can’t be so prejudiced and stereotype people like that these days” I replied.
“Yeah, but I bet he does”
Whatever he lights in his spare time, tonight he was on fire at the table. As he won point after point I could see the young lads’ frustration growing, and finally he retreated back to his chair with his tail between his legs, after being beaten 3 - 0**.
The only player from the opposing team who seemed inoffensive to me and least likely to irritate was the round bald man who spoke with an Irish accent. But when he got up to play I didn’t know where to look to stop myself from laughing.
“What the hell was that?” I asked Mr Man, referring to the bald mans serve.
He looked like he was juggling a hot hard boiled egg between his bat and his free hand, and when he finally decided to hit it across the table he cocked his leg at the same time. I didn’t know if he was playing or peeing. So that brightened up my evening somewhat.
When it was Mr Mans turn to play the cocky young lad I whispered in his ear:
“Annihilate”
Ok, I know I said annihilate but 11 – 3** in the first game? I almost felt sorry for the boy. Almost.
Mr Man played a killer shot, right across the table to his far right. The lad nearly did the splits trying to reach it.
“That was mean” he said to Mr Man.
No, that’s Table Tennis.
The final outcome of the evening for the team was 10 – 0**. Is this the silver lining you were referring to Aiders?
*He's not the only player to do this I have learnt. Some of the top players in the county lick their bats like lolly pops. Eurgh. Where's the mouthwash?
**There are 3 players in each team, and they all play each other. Finally two players from each team play in the doubles, which brings the total number of games played to 10. In each game, the players play the best of 5 (or the first to 3). In each individual game, or “end” as they call it, the winner is the first to win 11 points by 2 clear points.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Fight Night
Today I can hear a bit of cluttering around next door; no doubt clearing up after last nights fight.
“Did she just shout “help”?” Mr Man asked me at 1.30 this morning.
“I don’t know, I couldn’t make it out” I said.
Screaming, shouting, and banging are not unusual sounds from next door. Sometimes it’s accompanied by screams of laughter; other times by aggressive shouting. How do we know when it’s time to call the police? Maybe their relationship thrives on fights? It’s not a concept I personally understand, but so many people seem to live like that; how can that many people be wrong?
Mr Man and I had an argument ourselves last night.
“We’ll have a spare bit of money soon. I know you’ve been really missing your Mum, why don’t we pay for her flight over here?” I suggested.
“No, I want you to get a new laptop; you’ve put up with that rubbishy old thing for ages” Mr Man replied.
“I can wait a bit longer, it won’t hurt. It would be nice for you to see your Mum” I said.
“I know, but I want you to get something for yourself. It would be nice for you to have a new laptop instead of something that conks out every five minutes” he insisted.
“But I want us to spend it on something for you” I protested, “isn’t there something else you’d like?”
“No, I want you to spend it on yourself, you deserve it”
And so it went on…
Phew, we’re normal. I was beginning to think there was something wrong with us because we never argue.
“Did she just shout “help”?” Mr Man asked me at 1.30 this morning.
“I don’t know, I couldn’t make it out” I said.
Screaming, shouting, and banging are not unusual sounds from next door. Sometimes it’s accompanied by screams of laughter; other times by aggressive shouting. How do we know when it’s time to call the police? Maybe their relationship thrives on fights? It’s not a concept I personally understand, but so many people seem to live like that; how can that many people be wrong?
Mr Man and I had an argument ourselves last night.
“We’ll have a spare bit of money soon. I know you’ve been really missing your Mum, why don’t we pay for her flight over here?” I suggested.
“No, I want you to get a new laptop; you’ve put up with that rubbishy old thing for ages” Mr Man replied.
“I can wait a bit longer, it won’t hurt. It would be nice for you to see your Mum” I said.
“I know, but I want you to get something for yourself. It would be nice for you to have a new laptop instead of something that conks out every five minutes” he insisted.
“But I want us to spend it on something for you” I protested, “isn’t there something else you’d like?”
“No, I want you to spend it on yourself, you deserve it”
And so it went on…
Phew, we’re normal. I was beginning to think there was something wrong with us because we never argue.
Monday, June 04, 2007
Confused
I had no inkling at all. The thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. I wasn’t worried, neither was I hopeful.
Mr Man, on the other hand, was impatient for an answer. Saturday night I took a test, but the faint blue line which threw me into panic wasn’t even visible to Mr Man with his glasses in another room and with poor night lighting. He was satisfied enough to get a good nights sleep.
I, on the other hand, was awake for a good deal longer, worrying about how he would react once he realised the truth.
I had to confess my concerns to him the following day, and after the initial shock and panic had worn off he seemed fine. The line was very faint though, and I needed to be sure. I took another test this morning… actually I’ve taken five in all over this weekend, and the only test to give a positive result was the first one I took, which was what started all this confusion in the first place.
So, I had a plan…
In the good old days women used to wait two months before consulting their doctor.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
En Route to Madness
Map reading is my new hobby. I bought an A-Z Street Atlas for our town and surrounding area yesterday and I have to say that it’s absolutely fascinating; I can’t put it down.
Mr Man keeps saying “I can’t believe you’re so engrossed in a map!” He thinks I’ve finally gone to Cuckoo Land.
I would, but I haven’t found it on the map yet…
Mr Man keeps saying “I can’t believe you’re so engrossed in a map!” He thinks I’ve finally gone to Cuckoo Land.
I would, but I haven’t found it on the map yet…
Thursday, November 23, 2006
Sweet Revenge
After about 12 hours sleep last night I feel much more human, and as mentioned in the comments previously I did manage to get my own back on Mr Man on Wednesday morning.
Most of the time I sleep with earplugs in. This started years ago when some medication that Mr Man was taking made him snore horrendously. Although he doesn’t snore often these days I have become so used to wearing earplugs that even the sound of Mr Mans breathing can keep me awake, especially if I’m not sleeping well anyway. Wednesday morning was one such time. As I reached for my earplugs I recalled a time previously when I had reached for them during the darkness of night and knocked everything on my bedside table flying, obviously waking Mr Man: “What are you doing?” he asked. “I’m getting my earplugs” I replied. “Why? I wasn’t snoring was I?” “No, but I can hear you breathing”. “Sorry for breathing” he huffed sarcastically.
Recalling this event, as Mr Man slept peacefully beside me I burst into laughter, obviously waking him again. “What are you laughing at?” he asked, which made me laugh louder. Through my laughs, which were becoming increasingly louder, I tried to explain. “Alright, settle down” he said – a common expression from him when I have a laughing fit, which always makes me laugh even more. After laughing hysterically for several minutes I think it’s safe to say that his sleep was suitably disturbed.
Most of the time I sleep with earplugs in. This started years ago when some medication that Mr Man was taking made him snore horrendously. Although he doesn’t snore often these days I have become so used to wearing earplugs that even the sound of Mr Mans breathing can keep me awake, especially if I’m not sleeping well anyway. Wednesday morning was one such time. As I reached for my earplugs I recalled a time previously when I had reached for them during the darkness of night and knocked everything on my bedside table flying, obviously waking Mr Man: “What are you doing?” he asked. “I’m getting my earplugs” I replied. “Why? I wasn’t snoring was I?” “No, but I can hear you breathing”. “Sorry for breathing” he huffed sarcastically.
Recalling this event, as Mr Man slept peacefully beside me I burst into laughter, obviously waking him again. “What are you laughing at?” he asked, which made me laugh louder. Through my laughs, which were becoming increasingly louder, I tried to explain. “Alright, settle down” he said – a common expression from him when I have a laughing fit, which always makes me laugh even more. After laughing hysterically for several minutes I think it’s safe to say that his sleep was suitably disturbed.
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Let me sleep, and dream of sheep
A line from "And Dream of Sheep" by Kate Bush, "Hounds of Love" album 1985
Well, it’s silly o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept all night. Another one of these stupid phases I go through. I tell you, sometimes I can sleep 10 or more hours a night and have a nap in the day as well, and other times I can’t sleep for toffee. When you can’t sleep you become obsessed with it. As soon as you wake up you want to know what time it is and how long you have slept for. The tiredness drives you insane. I swear I could murder sometimes just through lack of sleep. And that’s another thing: why am I having trouble sleeping when I’m already run down and exhausted anyway? I’m really not very happy about that.
Back to the murder thing though. Last night I couldn’t sleep either. Mr Man was tossing and turning, bouncing the bed around and huffing and puffing, and moaned “I can’t sleep”. It made me laugh when I saw this happen in a comedy sketch recently. Not so funny when you're lying next to it. Finally he got up for a cup of tea. Of course he had to bring it back to bed with him – which means the light has to go on until his tea has reached the optimum temperature for drinking. “Finally, I’m going to get some sleep” I thought, once the light went out.
It was only a few hours before my alarm went off for Mr Mans medication. I nudged him and then rolled over to go back to sleep. Unfortunately though we have the creakiest floor boards in our bathroom in the whole world. So, awake again I thought “While I’m awake I might as well use the loo, and then I can go back to bed and have a nice long sleep”. How wrong was I? I got back into bed and that was it – I was wide awake.
I decided to get up for a while and catch up on some blog reading instead of lying there looking at our ceiling. It’s quite a nice ceiling though. Mr Man painted stars on it in the shape of some constellations with some paint that glows in the dark. Very romantic. Still, not much to look at in day light. You can barely make out the greenish yellow dots in the day time.
By about lunch time I thought maybe I could manage to have an afternoon nap. It still took me ages to drop off to sleep, and then…
the phone rang.
It’s a friend of mine. “Sorry, were you asleep?” “Yes, it’s ok though, don’t worry”. Where did that come from? Of course it’s not ok. I was asleep, and now I’m awake again, how is that ok? She apologised and said goodbye so that I could go back to sleep. That was the theory anyway. I lay there for a while, struggling to get comfortable, and then just as I could feel myself drifting…
the door knocked.
It was nothing of great importance; just a leaflet. I say that as if there could possibly be anything “of great importance” worthy of disturbing my sleep.
By this time I want to put a very large notice on the door saying “GET LOST” for anyone foolish enough to want to knock on my door again; and unplug the phone, switch off the mobile and go back to sleep.
Sleep. Is that too much to ask for?
Now here I am again, and this is where the murder comes in. I have Mr Mans axe here; as you know, all Schizophrenics own an axe in case they decide that they want to run around chopping peoples heads off one day. So if you see the headline "Wife of a Schizophrenic Kills Postman with Axe" that will be me.
Well, it’s silly o’clock in the morning and I can’t sleep. I haven’t slept all night. Another one of these stupid phases I go through. I tell you, sometimes I can sleep 10 or more hours a night and have a nap in the day as well, and other times I can’t sleep for toffee. When you can’t sleep you become obsessed with it. As soon as you wake up you want to know what time it is and how long you have slept for. The tiredness drives you insane. I swear I could murder sometimes just through lack of sleep. And that’s another thing: why am I having trouble sleeping when I’m already run down and exhausted anyway? I’m really not very happy about that.
Back to the murder thing though. Last night I couldn’t sleep either. Mr Man was tossing and turning, bouncing the bed around and huffing and puffing, and moaned “I can’t sleep”. It made me laugh when I saw this happen in a comedy sketch recently. Not so funny when you're lying next to it. Finally he got up for a cup of tea. Of course he had to bring it back to bed with him – which means the light has to go on until his tea has reached the optimum temperature for drinking. “Finally, I’m going to get some sleep” I thought, once the light went out.
It was only a few hours before my alarm went off for Mr Mans medication. I nudged him and then rolled over to go back to sleep. Unfortunately though we have the creakiest floor boards in our bathroom in the whole world. So, awake again I thought “While I’m awake I might as well use the loo, and then I can go back to bed and have a nice long sleep”. How wrong was I? I got back into bed and that was it – I was wide awake.
I decided to get up for a while and catch up on some blog reading instead of lying there looking at our ceiling. It’s quite a nice ceiling though. Mr Man painted stars on it in the shape of some constellations with some paint that glows in the dark. Very romantic. Still, not much to look at in day light. You can barely make out the greenish yellow dots in the day time.
By about lunch time I thought maybe I could manage to have an afternoon nap. It still took me ages to drop off to sleep, and then…
the phone rang.
It’s a friend of mine. “Sorry, were you asleep?” “Yes, it’s ok though, don’t worry”. Where did that come from? Of course it’s not ok. I was asleep, and now I’m awake again, how is that ok? She apologised and said goodbye so that I could go back to sleep. That was the theory anyway. I lay there for a while, struggling to get comfortable, and then just as I could feel myself drifting…
the door knocked.
It was nothing of great importance; just a leaflet. I say that as if there could possibly be anything “of great importance” worthy of disturbing my sleep.
By this time I want to put a very large notice on the door saying “GET LOST” for anyone foolish enough to want to knock on my door again; and unplug the phone, switch off the mobile and go back to sleep.
Sleep. Is that too much to ask for?
Now here I am again, and this is where the murder comes in. I have Mr Mans axe here; as you know, all Schizophrenics own an axe in case they decide that they want to run around chopping peoples heads off one day. So if you see the headline "Wife of a Schizophrenic Kills Postman with Axe" that will be me.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Mr & Mrs Man
While surfing the net one night I was surprised to come across this explanation for the name “Mr Man”.
Obviously my Mr Man is absolutely nothing like this. He adopted the name simply because he loves the Mr Men and has been using the name “Mr Man” since the early days of his musical expression in the mid – late 1980’s. At that time he composed computer generated music for two Amiga demo groups, one British, one European, and used the name Mr Man for his contribution to the groups. Since then he has composed music ranging from classical to techno, with everything else in between, my favourite being his “experimental” ragtime tracks.
Recently I have found that there is more than one “Mr Mans Wife” using the internet. I had been reading the rather new but very interesting blog of Trainee Paramedic, and in order to leave a comment I had to create an AOL account. During the registration process I was asked to provide a display name, but “Mr Mans Wife” was unavailable as it was already in use!
So if you go by the name “Mr Mans Wife” this message is for you:
Obviously my Mr Man is absolutely nothing like this. He adopted the name simply because he loves the Mr Men and has been using the name “Mr Man” since the early days of his musical expression in the mid – late 1980’s. At that time he composed computer generated music for two Amiga demo groups, one British, one European, and used the name Mr Man for his contribution to the groups. Since then he has composed music ranging from classical to techno, with everything else in between, my favourite being his “experimental” ragtime tracks.
Recently I have found that there is more than one “Mr Mans Wife” using the internet. I had been reading the rather new but very interesting blog of Trainee Paramedic, and in order to leave a comment I had to create an AOL account. During the registration process I was asked to provide a display name, but “Mr Mans Wife” was unavailable as it was already in use!
So if you go by the name “Mr Mans Wife” this message is for you:
If you were married before 1997 and your husband has been known internationally as “Mr Man” since before the mid 1980’s you should let me know – otherwise step down as you are clearly an impostor!
Friday, November 17, 2006
Oh listen sister, I love my mister man
From the song "Can't Help Lovin' Dat Man". Lyric by Oscar Hammerstein II, music by Jerome Kern. From the musical "Showboat" 1927.
Ok, I’m writing this blog from the (rather cold) upstairs room of a working mans club. Following on from Mr Mans success in last years table tennis league*, he has decided to play in this years season also. Being the dutiful wife that I am, it is my great pleasure to sit here for 3 hours, freezing my butt off, sitting on a padded bench that is less than comfortable, watching a ping pong ball fly backwards and forwards at varying speeds.
Watching the players is more amusing than interesting: an old lady in shorts enthusiastically bounces the tiny plastic ball on the floor several times before serving, as if she was playing at Wimbledon, and then crouching low she sways keenly from left to right, clutching her bat and staring intently in anticipation for the return of serve, just like they do on the telly – only she misses nearly every ball that comes back to her. It’s then funny to see how she switches from “Wimbledon player” mode to “little old lady” mode as she scurries off in search of the ball. No ball boys here I’m afraid.
There are three players in each team. On our team we have a young lad with his proud parents sitting about 8 feet away from me. With each shot he tends to step forward, stamping his foot hard on the floor, as he pushes his bat from his chest in a deliberate and forceful manner, as if pushing a lawnmower. If he’d like to strengthen that back hand further he’s more than welcome to train on our lawn - lawn mower provided at no extra charge. I almost forgot to mention the hilarious flick of the head that he does each time he serves, which is obviously funnier to see than to read about, not to mention the facial expressions. I’d love to have taken a photograph of him but obviously this would interfere with anonymity.
The other player in our team is the only Chinese man in the league – a nation notoriously good at table tennis, it being their national sport. He gives us the pleasure of being able to see his legs, which are shaped like chicken drumsticks (although clearly shaved rather than plucked), and make me feel even hungrier.
In the opposing team is the old lady mentioned previously and also an old man who is quite tall and lanky, and he poses at the table like a Tyrannosaurus Rex; legs apart, knees slightly bent, leaning foward at a 45 degree angle, and holding his left wrist to his chest, dangling his hand in front of him. I couldn’t resist taking a photograph of this man; I’m not so concerned about anonymity with him as I guess one Tyrannosaurus Rex looks pretty much the same as another.
Later…
I’ve just been downstairs to the bar to get myself a drink, and the prospect of sitting there in an empty bar with my drink, which tastes more like fizzy water than the Pepsi it’s supposed to be, and listening to Lionel Richie with the ugly young barman, is far more appealing than the alternative. Still, I trundle off back up the stairs in time for Mr Mans match. He’s quite a lazy player; he hardly moves his feet at all, unlike the third member of the opposing team, who is forced to run 20 feet back from the table to return Mr Mans shots. The opponent is quite normal looking, even quite good looking (sorry Mr Man), although a bit goofy... and he has a big nose... and his eyes are a bit small... ok, he’s actually only good looking from a distance. He’s almost given up hope after losing the first two games 11-2 and 11-2 but after some mid match coaching from one of his team mates (you’d never get away with that at Wimbledon), he finally manages to triumph over Mr Man, although probably not through a huge change of his own game play; Mr Man is not yet as fit as he used to be, and was hanging over the table by this point. Obviously his opponent thought this would be an easy match as Mr Mans team has just been promoted from a lower division, but suitably impressed by Mr Mans technique, he approaches him after the match to “fish” for information about his table tennis back ground. “You must have played for quite a high division before your break away from the game” he prompts. Mr Man, preferring to remain the enigma that he is, simply replies with “yeah” **. I love that man.
The last game of the evening is a doubles game, played by Mr Man and Chinese Chicken Legs against T Rex and Navratilova’s mother – Goofy and the Lawnmower Kid sit this one out. Soon it’s time to finally go home. Just before we leave though the Wimbledon woman wants to examine Mr Mans bat. It seems she can't quite believe that someone else could possibly possess more skill than herself and outplay her. Baffled by his very ordinary bat, she hands it back and we set off.
Cold, hungry, aching, and looking at chicken legs all night, how could I resist nipping into good old KFC on the way home?
* His team finished at the top of the division and he won the highest percentage of games in his division, winning himself a nice shiny trophy.
** Mr Man previously played for the Premier division before a break away from the game of about 7 years, due to illness.
Ok, I’m writing this blog from the (rather cold) upstairs room of a working mans club. Following on from Mr Mans success in last years table tennis league*, he has decided to play in this years season also. Being the dutiful wife that I am, it is my great pleasure to sit here for 3 hours, freezing my butt off, sitting on a padded bench that is less than comfortable, watching a ping pong ball fly backwards and forwards at varying speeds.
Watching the players is more amusing than interesting: an old lady in shorts enthusiastically bounces the tiny plastic ball on the floor several times before serving, as if she was playing at Wimbledon, and then crouching low she sways keenly from left to right, clutching her bat and staring intently in anticipation for the return of serve, just like they do on the telly – only she misses nearly every ball that comes back to her. It’s then funny to see how she switches from “Wimbledon player” mode to “little old lady” mode as she scurries off in search of the ball. No ball boys here I’m afraid.
There are three players in each team. On our team we have a young lad with his proud parents sitting about 8 feet away from me. With each shot he tends to step forward, stamping his foot hard on the floor, as he pushes his bat from his chest in a deliberate and forceful manner, as if pushing a lawnmower. If he’d like to strengthen that back hand further he’s more than welcome to train on our lawn - lawn mower provided at no extra charge. I almost forgot to mention the hilarious flick of the head that he does each time he serves, which is obviously funnier to see than to read about, not to mention the facial expressions. I’d love to have taken a photograph of him but obviously this would interfere with anonymity.
The other player in our team is the only Chinese man in the league – a nation notoriously good at table tennis, it being their national sport. He gives us the pleasure of being able to see his legs, which are shaped like chicken drumsticks (although clearly shaved rather than plucked), and make me feel even hungrier.
In the opposing team is the old lady mentioned previously and also an old man who is quite tall and lanky, and he poses at the table like a Tyrannosaurus Rex; legs apart, knees slightly bent, leaning foward at a 45 degree angle, and holding his left wrist to his chest, dangling his hand in front of him. I couldn’t resist taking a photograph of this man; I’m not so concerned about anonymity with him as I guess one Tyrannosaurus Rex looks pretty much the same as another.Later…
I’ve just been downstairs to the bar to get myself a drink, and the prospect of sitting there in an empty bar with my drink, which tastes more like fizzy water than the Pepsi it’s supposed to be, and listening to Lionel Richie with the ugly young barman, is far more appealing than the alternative. Still, I trundle off back up the stairs in time for Mr Mans match. He’s quite a lazy player; he hardly moves his feet at all, unlike the third member of the opposing team, who is forced to run 20 feet back from the table to return Mr Mans shots. The opponent is quite normal looking, even quite good looking (sorry Mr Man), although a bit goofy... and he has a big nose... and his eyes are a bit small... ok, he’s actually only good looking from a distance. He’s almost given up hope after losing the first two games 11-2 and 11-2 but after some mid match coaching from one of his team mates (you’d never get away with that at Wimbledon), he finally manages to triumph over Mr Man, although probably not through a huge change of his own game play; Mr Man is not yet as fit as he used to be, and was hanging over the table by this point. Obviously his opponent thought this would be an easy match as Mr Mans team has just been promoted from a lower division, but suitably impressed by Mr Mans technique, he approaches him after the match to “fish” for information about his table tennis back ground. “You must have played for quite a high division before your break away from the game” he prompts. Mr Man, preferring to remain the enigma that he is, simply replies with “yeah” **. I love that man.
The last game of the evening is a doubles game, played by Mr Man and Chinese Chicken Legs against T Rex and Navratilova’s mother – Goofy and the Lawnmower Kid sit this one out. Soon it’s time to finally go home. Just before we leave though the Wimbledon woman wants to examine Mr Mans bat. It seems she can't quite believe that someone else could possibly possess more skill than herself and outplay her. Baffled by his very ordinary bat, she hands it back and we set off.
Cold, hungry, aching, and looking at chicken legs all night, how could I resist nipping into good old KFC on the way home?
* His team finished at the top of the division and he won the highest percentage of games in his division, winning himself a nice shiny trophy.
** Mr Man previously played for the Premier division before a break away from the game of about 7 years, due to illness.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Trick or Treat?
It was definitely a treat; every time I think about it I start laughing again.
We have a poster in the window of our front door, saying “No trick or treat, please do not disturb”, so when the door knocked shortly after 6pm I thought “I wonder who that is? We’re not expecting anybody”. Mr Man jumped up to answer the door and was greeted by two young children with their faces painted. “Trick or treat?” I heard them say. “Can’t you read?” asked Mr Man, in his usual grumpy fashion, pointing to the poster. “No” they replied in unison, shaking their heads innocently. Mr Man didn’t really know what to say to that. He just said “No thank you” and came in laughing.
What a treat.
We have a poster in the window of our front door, saying “No trick or treat, please do not disturb”, so when the door knocked shortly after 6pm I thought “I wonder who that is? We’re not expecting anybody”. Mr Man jumped up to answer the door and was greeted by two young children with their faces painted. “Trick or treat?” I heard them say. “Can’t you read?” asked Mr Man, in his usual grumpy fashion, pointing to the poster. “No” they replied in unison, shaking their heads innocently. Mr Man didn’t really know what to say to that. He just said “No thank you” and came in laughing.
What a treat.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Relight my fire
A disco hit sung originally by Dan Hartman in 1979 featuring Loleatta Holloway, but best known as sung by British boy band “Take That” and Lulu in 1993. Dan Hartman died in 1994 from brain cancer.
As it’s our anniversary, and the weather has turned decidedly wintry, I thought I’d light our open fire tonight for a cosy romantic evening in. To make the job cleaner, quicker, and easier, I sometimes buy these “Home Fire Logs” which come wrapped in paper, and you simply place the whole thing on the grate and light the paper at each end. Sounds very “clean, quick, and easy” doesn’t it? Except the paper kept going out. So I placed a lit “fire lighter” at each end, which are supposed to be used to aid lighting a more conventional log or coal fire – and those bloomin’ things went out as well! Mr Man made a very valid point that “it makes you wonder how on earth home fires start, when you can’t even start one deliberately!”
It's just as well "I've got my love to keep me warm"*
*Written by Irving Berlin and sung by just about everybody, including Billie Holiday. Probably first performed about 1937.
As it’s our anniversary, and the weather has turned decidedly wintry, I thought I’d light our open fire tonight for a cosy romantic evening in. To make the job cleaner, quicker, and easier, I sometimes buy these “Home Fire Logs” which come wrapped in paper, and you simply place the whole thing on the grate and light the paper at each end. Sounds very “clean, quick, and easy” doesn’t it? Except the paper kept going out. So I placed a lit “fire lighter” at each end, which are supposed to be used to aid lighting a more conventional log or coal fire – and those bloomin’ things went out as well! Mr Man made a very valid point that “it makes you wonder how on earth home fires start, when you can’t even start one deliberately!”
It's just as well "I've got my love to keep me warm"*
*Written by Irving Berlin and sung by just about everybody, including Billie Holiday. Probably first performed about 1937.
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