Turning One's Insides Out...

Well, it's hotting up isn't it? No, not the weather. The debate. Whether you're in or out, there's certainly an awful lot of shaking it all about.
As we rumbled down to Somerset this weekend for the most beautiful of weddings, we passed many posters saying "Vote Leave." Clear and unambiguous. So much better than a reference to Brexit. I hate these clever, cocky little names coined by the press or political pundits. No one refers to Breave which presumably is for the likes of me who is risk-averse and clinging to a raft that calls itself the status quo.
Who was it that said he had sat on the fence for so long  that he had splinters in his backside? I don't know, but he certainly summed it up for the huge numbers of us that sway and bend with each political debate, attempting to gain sufficient confidence to make a considered judgement.
Meanwhile, political knives are being sharpened so that no matter whether we leave or remain there will be great rifts in our government which will take years to heal.

So with all the turmoil around I should be seeking inner calm on the domestic front. No such luck. Frankly, I can hardly Breave here. One working lavatory shared by three plumbers and me. I tried liquid rationing to reduce the ebb and flow, so to speak, but found myself tripping over their parched tongues. Thank God I have a bladder like an elephant. I just wish that the lock on the bathroom door was a little more secure. So I have taken to singing loudly to broadcast my presence. It mostly works.

Work has also commenced on our bedroom. This seemed like a good idea in principle. Every other bedroom is jammed with clothes hanging rails and the detritus of thirty six years. I cannot believe that the renovation of two rooms in a house can cause such unutterable mayhem.
I have, however, placed an embargo on the increasingly frequent and increasingly desperate cry of "Where's my..?"  Thank goodness my uterus is an efficient tracking device.

I know that things have to get worse before they get better. It is a blinding demonstration of what lies ahead on the political front whichever way we vote next week.

A Narrow Escape..

Lots of women love buying clothes. I am not lots of women. I don't particularly enjoy it because I am lots of woman.
I know that I am not alone in this, so I will share with you my discoveries in Marks and Spencer this afternoon. Yes, this comes hot off the press. It certainly feels very much that way on this sweltering muggy evening that is an undoubted prelude to a spectacular thunderstorm tonight.

I remember buying my first pair of jeans. On advice of friends I lay down in the changing room (bigger rooms in those days) to pull up the zip.
Can't do that in a 2' square cubicle where the thermostat must have been turned to 80 degrees. And all I wanted to do was to lie down on the floor from sheer exhaustion. My tactical error, forty years later, was to select a jumpsuit to try on.

I can hear your cries of horror and disbelief. But wait. The bottom half slipped on with ease. The top half proved to be a totally different kettle of fish. At one point I was stuck like an Amazonian with one breast bared. I breathed deeply, thought of England, and encouraged myself into the second sleeve. Well, I'll have you know that once in it, I didn't look too bad. But if the effort of putting it on was awful enough, its removal almost proved my undoing. Or rather, not. I couldn't see a way of reversing the exercise. It was only the ignominy of seeking assistance from the luscious lady handing out discs at the entrance that kept me from having either palpitations or my first panic attack.

Dear readers, I kept everything in and eased the wretched garment from my torso. How on earth are you to manage all that in a toilet cubicle for goodness sake? Forget it. Unless you have a bladder like an elephant (which can hold 18 litres, by the way) then heed my words.
On the plus side, I found a little jacket which had the merest hint of shoulder pads. What a difference!
I have been waiting for these ever since Joan Collins took them to extremes in "Dynasty" and ruined them for the rest of us for the next thirty years. So it's about time for a revival. As soon as they come back, I'm stocking up.
Capsule wardrobe? I'll have the whole works. Not being caught out twice.

Dicing with Yoga (Bacteria-Hysteria)

Dearest has taken up yoga.
Not in any grand sense.  I don't find him engaged in a Lotus position on the living room carpet when I stagger down to breakfast in the morning. Rather, he has booked himself a course of ten sessions so that he will actually pursue this notion properly. You know, all part of  the health regime?
Well, he's done two sessions now. The first left him almost crippled for the whole of the weekend. The noise was so great that I insisted that he had a couple of large Nurofen.  With typical male bravura he refused my offer, 'til in the end I said that if he didn't take them I'd use them myself to plug my ears.The second session went way better. No Nurofen required. Merely an accentuation of the usual creaking. Low volume.

However, I was alarmed to read this weekend of the potential hazards that lurk on a yoga mat. Tests carried out by the International Antimicrobial Council in the States say that yoga leggings contain 747,000 bacteria, even after they have been washed in good quality soap powder. Thank God he hasn't gone for leggings, is what I say. But I did find myself picking up his post-yoga joggers (which looked fine to the naked eye) with a pair of barbecue tongs and I wore a surgical mask.
Better safe than sorry, that's my motto.

And as for the yoga mats... Dr Robert Lahita, a microbiologist and professor of medicine at Rutgers school of medicine, New Jersey, describes yoga  mats as " a very fertile source of infection, mainly because people sweat on them and they are rarely cleaned". Well, I almost fainted when I read this. I have been letting Dearest out unattended and allowing him to be exposed to Bubonic plague and the like, spread by other people's yoga mats. What's the chap doing? Trying to get us all killed?

It was enough to prompt me to forage constructively in the Under-the-Stairs cupboard (a bourne whence no traveller usually returns) to search for the two Yoga mats we bought and put away, after it was discovered, many years ago up a mountain in St Paul de Vence, that there was no earthly way a Sun Salutation could ever be imposed on my over- upholstered frame.
It was time well spent as the Plumber required access to the furthermost reaches of the cupboard to put in his pipework.
I offered him my old Yoga mat as a kneeler. The other I put to one side and started searching for a pint of anti-bacterial solution, and a strong alcohol rub.
Wouldn't mind one of those myself.
Day 7 without alcohol and I might have to do some serious sniffing... Or just give me a rub down with an oily alcohol rag.

It's all about the height...

Often at this time of year, I reminisce about the Edinburgh Festival of my student days. We took two productions to the Fringe in the late 70s. A musical version of Twelfth Night, and a theatrical presentation of The Wasteland by TS Eliot.  They were barmy, barking days rehearsing for the big event.  Newspaper publicity was part of the run-up and we were asked by the local rag to attend a photo-shoot in costume.
I  was looking at that photograph the other day. Six of us were asked on a count of three to leap in the air. Now, I have never included leaping in the air as one of my secret skills. Hardly now. Certainly not even in those gilded days of youth. So there I am, as every other of my fellows leaps in the air with gay abandon, I am firmly rooted on terra firma, bottom sticking out, knees bent as if I am an actor in search of a toilet.
So yesterday, as we investigated the best porcelain-ware that Hertfordshire has to offer, I was once more presented with the hard-to-be-resisted urge to sit on a wall-hung showroom model. I mentioned previously that our plumber is top-notch. He heeded my unspoken yearning and took us to a bathroom he had just finished renovating. There we were both able (not at the same time) to sit on a Subway. Perfection.
Do you know why? It looked quite normal, wall-mounted, but it was just a couple of inches higher than the standard height.
Dearest thought it was just an inch too high. I thought it was just right. However,  he is taller than me.
But it is something to bare-in-mind, if you are a short-arse like me....

Not totally to scale or entirely accurate..

Such a Game of Thrones.....

And how did you spend your weekend? Ours was pretty bog-standard really.

We went in search of the ultimate toilet. I say ultimate, not because I expect it to have bells and whistles on it, or a bottom-shining brush,  but because this time round, I want comfort. The one that presently resides in a skip outside, had a crack in it (not guilty: I do believe our previous cleaning lady, Jean, dropped a full bottle of Penhaligon's fragrance on it. We were too distracted by her rejoicing in the expensive wafts she'd created, with only the merest hint of an apology, to notice a small hairline crack in the rim.) Hard water can seal such a crack for only a limited number of years...

I never found that seat particularly welcoming. For me it was always the wrong shape. So yesterday I was intent on finding a better seat for my seat.

You would not dream of buying a bed without lying in it. You would not consider buying a bath without sitting in it (with matching socks, and no stray toes peeking through - experience speaking here..) So why, oh why do we look at a toilet and say, "That'll do me, guv." The stores line them up in full public view attached to walls, with not a dicky bird's chance of trying them out for size. Quite ridiculous.
So tomorrow morning we are going out early with our premier plumber in search of the Subway. Yes, that's the name of the model. Though why a lavatory should select the name of an international sandwich bar, I really have no idea. It will no doubt have one of those sophisticated self-closing lids. The last word in posh. However, in our house we are used to toilet lids coming down like the clappers. Sandwiching has become a common problem.
One we won't miss.

This didn't so much as go down the pan........

Will this be man enough for the job?

                                 

On Squeezing a Quart into a Pint Pot.....

I don't have delusions. Generally speaking.  Though I might have been having one yesterday when I forgot about the plumbers.  And I am not sure if a Bunion Blog Owner is the best authority on fashion. However, I feel impelled to share my joy at discovering that Bodies are back in! Yes, if ever there were a call for a shriek mark, it's at the end of that statement. Go to Marks and Spencer's without delay. I've been, and stocked up.
I have been waiting YEARS for the return of the body. Oh Lord, in every sense of the word. I really haven't looked after the last body I had, because I didn't know the supply would suddenly dry up. So it is very over-stretched, not much elasticity and very floppy in the gusset region. (I am still referring to the garment, in case you misconstrue..)  In fact, I am totally dependent on just one remaining snap fastener that prevents this once wonderful garment from whiplashing up my torso like a manic roller blind.
I cannot understand why they would ever have become unfashionable? They are such a practical item, (apart from the snap-fastening gusset which can become tricky if one is either inebriated or in a dark toilet, or a combination of the two). At the moment, as I grapple with a figure that insists on becoming more matronly as each month passes, I find that blouses ride up and trousers slide down. If I wanted to supplement my pension by joining belly dancers on a Friday night this would be an acceptable look. But now I don't have to. I can be tidy and all tucked in.
Absolutely marvellous.
Now you too can have a body like mine....


Make mine a dinky one....

Lamenting my Soft-boiled Head....

I blame Malcolm. I really do. It gets worse. Dearest's oldest friend. What can I say?

Malcolm's visits from his home in Northamptonshire have crescendoed of late.  He usually comes down for the cricket several times a year. This year, additionally, has involved a few hospital appointments, and an operation, pre-cricket season, and in London. More overnight stays.
So when we stagger back from a brief but glorious sojourn in Cornwall last night, feeling drunk from driving, and ate-lagged from the sheer volume of cream-teas, Dearest says, "Don't forget Malcolm is coming for the Old Boys Reunion tomorrow," I am underwhelmed.
I look at the explosion of crumpled half-worn clothes that stretch from suitcase to washing machine, the heaps of detritus and assorted crud you pull out of the car from the end of a seven hour journey, and sigh. Yes, I sigh. What else did you expect me to do? Leap up and spring into gear?
No, four days of being in a heavenly part of the Roseland peninsula, Veryan, have put me in Mediterranean mood. A strong case of the mañanas . I have another slug of Perrier to toast the commencement of a healthy-eating, no-alcohol regime, wade through the swathes of laundry and go to bed.
This morning I was just considering my first laundry load and idly contemplating whether Malcolm would notice that I had not changed his sheets from the last time, before deciding they had been admirably protected from dust by Dearest's cast-offs as he he tends to use that bed as a horizontal wardrobe, when there was a knock at the door. Nine o'clock on the button. My plumber arrived with his team to take out the downstairs bathroom.

It's on the calendar.  Surely a big day in anybody's calendar? Same day as the OB Reunion. No missing it. But I did.
So, as I said earlier, I blame Malcolm.


Or maybe too much loveliness weakens the brain......?