Keywords: colds/nudity/motherinlaws/tax

mrs househusbandnot and I woke up with really bad colds this morning - the sort that gets worse every time you move your head. I blame Midget Man from yesterday. Maybe he snuck into our room during the night and snogged both of us to further assert his pint-sized manliness on us. More likely, he left tiny little midget germs on the sofa for us to pick up as we were checking out that new Channel 4 show Skins last night- the main point of which seems to be watching that kid from About A Boy (now grown up) talking about scoring skunk weed and being fancied by women. Weak, very weak. The sort of thing you'd watch if you were single or young or short and or just wanted to see some gratuitous nudity on tv. (Not a patch on its creators' mighty Shameless.) I think I must really be getting old, complaining about nudity on tv. There were times in my life when that was all I needed, or wanted. Speaking of which, I am writing this naked - only kidding.

Seeing the in laws this weekend. They are driving down to see us on Sunday morning with the intention of "really making a day of it". I'm not sure what this means, other than having lunch at approx 11.55 in keeping with my in laws' deep northern-ness. I think it is also an opportunity for them to have a snoop around the flat to assess how I am treating their daughter. (No blood on the walls. Check. Heating on full blast. Check. Fridge so full the door won't shut. Check. 4,000 tea bags in cupboard. Check. Surfaces dusted. Check [my mother in law really does check this]. Cushions on sofa well plumped. Check. Grandchildren. Uncheck etc etc.) And to silently remind us that they don't like South London. mrs househusbandnot moved from Earls Court down to South London when we got hitched/engaged/married. I don't think I have been forgiven yet for moving her from a nice two bedroom, two bathroom flat four minutes away from The Ideal Homes Exhibitions. Years ago, I bought a lithograph called C*&^ at an art fair. The lithograph had normal phrases in white lettering on a black background, except the artist had replaced every third word with the c word. I may have to dig it out and put it up somewhere to see if my in laws approve. (My mother in law does occasionally read hhn, so maybe I should stop there.)

Anyway, have to dig around the flat for the rest of the day for all the paperwork for my tax return. When I was younger, I used to think people talking about having to do their tax returns was rather glamorous. It was like when people said things like "my accountant" or "got a meeting with the family lawyers". It all smacked of big money, and wood panelled rooms and leather chairs. Having done a few tax returns in my life now, I realise they are rather more about missing bank statements, crumpled up taxi receipts, anger about where I should have stored my invoices, and a final mad dash to the end of the tax return form before my head explodes from trying to count - and account for - my life from an April to another April.

(I was feeling a little under pressure about writing hhn this morning because yesterday I got more hits than I have ever had. Writing this today, I was thinking it was dull and not very relevant to anyone but me. But somehow I seem to have addressed some pretty quidditative issues in most people's lives: colds, nudity, mother in laws, and tax. Hit me baby...one more time. )