Leaving home. Had enough. No, not at all...just off to do my grandmaternals in Buckingham.
So checklist:
Shirt ironed - check.
Sandwiches made for Dearest's lunch tomorrow - check.
Note on front door to remind him sandwiches in fridge - check.
Recycling bins emptied so I return to fragrance - double check.
Charlie Bingham's fish pie for one in fridge - check.
(Dearest disappointed, as he'd enjoyed the fish pie for two, I'd inadvertently left for him last time, and has accused me of portion control. 474 calories, portion control?
"My ass," I told him. "You don't want to become a Charlie Big'un."
Anyway, he was all prepared for his one night of independence and fending for himself. With a little remote help from me.
I rang him this evening.
"How was the fish pie?"
"It was ok, I think."
"What do you mean, you think?"
"Well, I warmed it up, and I'm not sure it was exactly piping. I hope I haven't given myself the gallopers..."
I think he'd focused on the pouring a glass of wine part (see above), and not the turning on the oven part. Maybe he'd expected Charlie to do more? Who knows? I just think that in a week where Theresa May and her husband discuss Boy and Girl jobs ( dear Lord, what century are we in?) that I quite possibly have overdone the Girl jobs.
Now who's the Charlie?
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| Very strong resemblance to my Dearest husband except we do not have a dog of our own |
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