What a political pantomime this week. The Principal Boy has taken his final bow; the Chancellor has jumped down a trap-door (or was he shoved?); Theresa May is Fairy Godmother brandishing a wand and declaring that all will be Fairer. And we have Boris. Yes, Boris, can you believe it? As Widow T'wanker. No, neither could anyone else. I can only imagine that the Duke of Edinburgh who competes with an equally toe-curling line in non-pc quips, was already booked. I am bringing the curtain down on this political extravaganza.
It was curtains this week chez nous. Bedroom curtains arrived, that is to say. Much to the huge disappointment of the neighbours who had been enjoying a late evening performance of our own devising. It certainly was a performance too. Flinging ourselves in darkness illuminated by distant landing light and the passing headlights of cars across ill-fitting, nails-protruding, wooden floorboards that creak and groan with every footfall.
"Did you remember the water?" or "Did you lock the French door?" and the whole bloody performance called for an encore.
I am very pleased with the curtains; Dearest also pleased, but rankled by the lack of Axminster underfoot. "Must get a bloody carpet asap," he said, nursing a small puncture wound on his foot. This was my moment...
"I think we need the step down into our room to be made bigger, and not be covered in carpet. So I think we have to ask Anthony if he will make a step for us like the one he made for us downstairs."
There was an intake of breath, and a Jeezus, as the imagined luxury of softness underfoot receded into yet another week of ouching his way out of the bedroom. At the end of a long wearying day, it was not surprising that he might feel that this would be a step too far.
The next day I called Anthony.
"It's me," I trilled.
"Yes,?" came the terse reply.
Two steps too far. Obviously.
Yesterday, Anthony measured up. Result!
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