Bachelor Boy
Monastic calm has descended upon the place, as my wife has decided to spend the weekend holidaying with her family.
This is not, I should point out, any indication of marital strife. Not at all. Indications of marital strife are easily identified as a kitchen knife embeds itself three inches deep in a door just next to my head with a thrumming sound like a ruler being twanged on a school desk and the farewell line ‘bloody well go to the bloody pub then’.
Rather, the dark spectre of caravanning raised its head this weekend. Not in the sense I always associate with the word – camels across the desert, the occasional arab and enough hashish to kick-start the economy of a small country or a decent album. Rather, we’re talking about a tupperwear box with substandard noise insulation and inadequate plumbing which has, through a marvel of acoustic science, the ability to amplify the constant drizzle associated with caravanning into a never-ending drum solo from hell that has you reaching for the bottle opener before realise none is supplied.
I have elected to stay at home. There is much that needs to be done on the allotment and, more importantly, I’ve not been watching nearly enough telly recently.
So what can we expect from a weekend spent flying solo. Well, obviously, I expect to destruction-test as much porn as possible, but even that gets dull after a while so I suppose it will be watching quite a lot of ‘Heroes’ via streaming pirated video.
And drinking.
We shall see.
Actually what I’m most looking forward to at the moment is my fried breakfast. I’ve bought a mountain of stuff from the supermarket. Bacon, sausage, egg, tomato, baked beans and liver. I predict that my arteries are going to harden whether I watch porn or not.
I also intend to post some entries. We shall see.
This is not, I should point out, any indication of marital strife. Not at all. Indications of marital strife are easily identified as a kitchen knife embeds itself three inches deep in a door just next to my head with a thrumming sound like a ruler being twanged on a school desk and the farewell line ‘bloody well go to the bloody pub then’.
Rather, the dark spectre of caravanning raised its head this weekend. Not in the sense I always associate with the word – camels across the desert, the occasional arab and enough hashish to kick-start the economy of a small country or a decent album. Rather, we’re talking about a tupperwear box with substandard noise insulation and inadequate plumbing which has, through a marvel of acoustic science, the ability to amplify the constant drizzle associated with caravanning into a never-ending drum solo from hell that has you reaching for the bottle opener before realise none is supplied.
I have elected to stay at home. There is much that needs to be done on the allotment and, more importantly, I’ve not been watching nearly enough telly recently.
So what can we expect from a weekend spent flying solo. Well, obviously, I expect to destruction-test as much porn as possible, but even that gets dull after a while so I suppose it will be watching quite a lot of ‘Heroes’ via streaming pirated video.
And drinking.
We shall see.
Actually what I’m most looking forward to at the moment is my fried breakfast. I’ve bought a mountain of stuff from the supermarket. Bacon, sausage, egg, tomato, baked beans and liver. I predict that my arteries are going to harden whether I watch porn or not.
I also intend to post some entries. We shall see.
1 Comments:
Well you certainly have managed to post some entries and again to make me laugh. But what I don't understand is why you should have to wait until your wife goes away to eat fried breakfasts. What particularly concerns me is that your watching of porn (should it be true) must happen precisely when your wife is THERE, not when she is away. My advice is save the porn till Monday.
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