So, thoughts/suggestions as to where Madame B has gone on holiday this week? The Eden Project? (Remember her partner is a gardener and therefore probably some sort of eco warrior.) The Maldives? (As paid for by her Dad who dislikes the gardener, and is trying to get his daughter to get accustomed to a life style the gardener can't afford.) Outside my flat? (For a week of concerted stalking.) Scotland? (To annoy her Dad, and pacify the gardener.) A darkened car park in The New Forest? (She sounds like a bit of a dogger to me.)
Actually, I have a new theory - well a theory as suggested by someone else that I am now taking as my own - that Madame B is not a woman, and is in fact A.N. Other male commenter to hhn who enjoys pretending to be a vulgar woman. I'm thinking it could be The Waunch (who likes a good bit of writing) or maybe blokewhohascreatedthemadamebpersona.
If Madame B is also someone else, then that takes my actual readership of six on Friday down to five with the double entry. Five? One less than six, and two less than seven (which would at least have given me the excuse to sing that Prince song).
Speaking of readers, I am sorry to report that mrs househusbandnot is no longer a regular reader of hhn. She thinks my observations about the real world not that I am back out in it are not as fun as the vacuum stuff I did at home. Sad but true.
In other news, is it only me who has recognised the striking similarity between Michael Vaughan and the lead singer of Muse?
May 29, 2007
May 25, 2007
Six?
Just checked the site meter, and six of you have read househusbandnot since yesterday. Six? Six? I know it is about to be a bank holiday here in the UK, and that some of you may have lost interest since I failed over the last few weeks to post every week day. But six? The guys who leave their mobile phone numbers scrawled on public loo doors get more responses than that? Paul Burrel has more friends than that. Six is not even near 10, or anywhere near the respectable number of visitors I normally get here at hhn. Six? I should not have bothered even getting out of bed to blog yesterday. I am deeply insulted, and sad because a lot of this is of my own making not blogging every day, which is how the number of visitors was gradually increasing. Six? It only just shows up on the bar chart graphic for the site meter. Six? I almost have that many siblings. (And surely Madame B checks hhn a few more times than that during the day?) Six is fewer than the pieces of sushi you get from Pret A Manger. Six could be scored with the flick of an artful wrist in cricket. Six pence buys you nothing. Six lengths of the pool? I think it would take about three minutes. Six reward points in Cafe Nero doesn't even get you that close to your free reward coffee. Six? Not even one a week. Six is only two more than the number of Prince tickets I have. Six is very very sad (somehow sadder than none or one or five). Was it the holiday snaps that put you off? (I was trying to be ironic btw.) Was it the complaining about nothing to write about? (An entirely valid reason for switching off from hhn I grant you.) Was it something I said/didn't say? I guess I will never know because you have abandoned me to more worthwhile web pursuits. Good luck with Googling yourself and trying to avoid buying Viagra and reading stuff other than hhn. (Six? I am going to go and eat six muffins to console myself.)
I will return next week, and will look forward to talking to all remaining SIX of you.
I will return next week, and will look forward to talking to all remaining SIX of you.
May 23, 2007
One Step Beyond
Stepping back - or beyond - the comments area on househusbandnot and Anonymous and Madame B getting it on, I have news from the real world. (btw I don't know Madame B, but I do know Anonymous. Dude, be mightly fuckin' fly. Mrs Anonymous will bust your commenting little ass from here to Nashville.)
Anyway, news: On the way home this evening, I was asked by a crazy old woman to help her off the bus with her - as I was about to find out - stupidly heavy bags. This request turned into a lugging of lead-filled bags into Waterloo station, which turned into a me helping her find a trolley and getting her onto a train scenario. ('One way ticket to NutsVille please') So, I took part in the real world, and helped a freak get her freaky cargo onto a train...(...)...see what I mean about the difficulties of writing hhn when I am back out there?
Having spent three days out there in real office world, I am going to celebrate by going out for a sybaritic lunch with Styx tomorrow. Conversation topics will (I hope) include:
Anyway, news: On the way home this evening, I was asked by a crazy old woman to help her off the bus with her - as I was about to find out - stupidly heavy bags. This request turned into a lugging of lead-filled bags into Waterloo station, which turned into a me helping her find a trolley and getting her onto a train scenario. ('One way ticket to NutsVille please') So, I took part in the real world, and helped a freak get her freaky cargo onto a train...(...)...see what I mean about the difficulties of writing hhn when I am back out there?
Having spent three days out there in real office world, I am going to celebrate by going out for a sybaritic lunch with Styx tomorrow. Conversation topics will (I hope) include:
- Why work sucks
- Should we ask them to chill the red?
- hhn
- My new job (for approx three seconds)
- Hmmm, this wine has really opened up
- The cricket
- That couple over there
- J Mascis (stoned groover or too grooved loner?)
- Men versus women (an occasional but continual study)
and
- Whether or not we should have pudding
Ahhhh. Back in the land of hhn. Waiter, waiter.
May 22, 2007
The Blogger Formerly Known As HHN
Picking up on Madame B and Anonymous's concern about whether or not my heart is still in househusbandnot, it is dear readers. It is just that being out there in the real world, with real people, and real stuff is so (really) dull.
Sitting here at home listening to my David Cassidy remastered CDs, surrounded by my stuff and life and hopes and dreams, I was full of things to talk about because...well, that was all there was to do. Out there in the real world all there is is metrosexuals eyeing up each others' summer suits, girls wearing very little, and all the rest of us trying to get from A to B and back again before anyone realises how nuts we are. It is not my heart. It is where my heart is during the day that is the problem.
Do you really want to hear about my bus ride to work? Do you really want to hear about what I had for lunch? (And, no sushi is not a sandwich, unless you are Japanese btw.) Do you really, really want me to make up a few gags about Nigerian traffic wardens? Have you heard the one about the white van driver who didn't pay his congestion charge? Laugh? I nearly came in my smart but casual trousers.
It is as big a surprise to me as it is to you people. There is nothing of interest going on out there. Here? Here, I didn't have any limitations or real worldness to measure anything against. Here, I could dream and fly and dream about flying. Here was where blogging was at. Out there. In the early summer dust and dirt and flurry of pigeons and people in purple jackets trying to force free newspapers into my sweaty paw, there is nothing to say that you don't already know. A three for one offer in Boots? Darn, I think I'm gonna wee with interest.
I'm hoping (and I suspect you are too) that I do pick up and find a pace to be of interest or amusement about working back in offices in London. But I am struggling at the moment. I don't fancy anyone in the office because I have eyes for only one L.A.D.Y.. My new job is pretty straight forward, and apart from the growling IT guy everyone seems pretty normal in the office. I am deliberately keeping a pretty even profile at work because I am cultivating a new office persona which is Normal Person Who Gets Things Done And Then Goes Home. As yet, they have not released any wild animals to snap up stragglers in the leafy square opposite my office. And even the central London junkies and beggars and tourists and tramps are such caricatures of themselves that I am looking at them with one eye with the other eye on the look out for Dom Jolly [sp? I can't be arsed to Google him.] to jump out of a telephone box and shout at me on his (so hilarious) enormous mobile phone.
Sorry, but I'm working with what I got, which - as yet - ain't much. I will go to work dressed as a fox tomorrow to liven things up. not...
Sitting here at home listening to my David Cassidy remastered CDs, surrounded by my stuff and life and hopes and dreams, I was full of things to talk about because...well, that was all there was to do. Out there in the real world all there is is metrosexuals eyeing up each others' summer suits, girls wearing very little, and all the rest of us trying to get from A to B and back again before anyone realises how nuts we are. It is not my heart. It is where my heart is during the day that is the problem.
Do you really want to hear about my bus ride to work? Do you really want to hear about what I had for lunch? (And, no sushi is not a sandwich, unless you are Japanese btw.) Do you really, really want me to make up a few gags about Nigerian traffic wardens? Have you heard the one about the white van driver who didn't pay his congestion charge? Laugh? I nearly came in my smart but casual trousers.
It is as big a surprise to me as it is to you people. There is nothing of interest going on out there. Here? Here, I didn't have any limitations or real worldness to measure anything against. Here, I could dream and fly and dream about flying. Here was where blogging was at. Out there. In the early summer dust and dirt and flurry of pigeons and people in purple jackets trying to force free newspapers into my sweaty paw, there is nothing to say that you don't already know. A three for one offer in Boots? Darn, I think I'm gonna wee with interest.
I'm hoping (and I suspect you are too) that I do pick up and find a pace to be of interest or amusement about working back in offices in London. But I am struggling at the moment. I don't fancy anyone in the office because I have eyes for only one L.A.D.Y.. My new job is pretty straight forward, and apart from the growling IT guy everyone seems pretty normal in the office. I am deliberately keeping a pretty even profile at work because I am cultivating a new office persona which is Normal Person Who Gets Things Done And Then Goes Home. As yet, they have not released any wild animals to snap up stragglers in the leafy square opposite my office. And even the central London junkies and beggars and tourists and tramps are such caricatures of themselves that I am looking at them with one eye with the other eye on the look out for Dom Jolly [sp? I can't be arsed to Google him.] to jump out of a telephone box and shout at me on his (so hilarious) enormous mobile phone.
Sorry, but I'm working with what I got, which - as yet - ain't much. I will go to work dressed as a fox tomorrow to liven things up. not...
May 21, 2007
CC Me
It's just all falling apart. What with the new office-based job, and the serious American blog and various other projects, househusbandnot is fading into a shadow if its/my former selfnot. Is it only the unemployed who have time to be blogging on a regular basis? (I don't think we need to dig too deep to get an answer to that one.) And if this is the case, how useful is any information from a legions of people who are not actually taking part in the real world? Mind you, do you need to be taking part to understand what is going on? Answers on my desk by lock up please people.
The other crapper about having to go to an office again is that I have very little to report on, other than about that office, and - as mentioned last week - it all seems pretty normal there. Hey, the minute the receptionist tries to recruit me to Scientology or we get raided by Welsh separatists or the head of finance confesses a long but well-managed relationship with smack, I'll be here telling you about it. But it all seems deeply normal at this new office. The big debate of the day today was whether or not it was illegal to have Hellman's mayonnaise with couscous. Oh, and we did discuss whether or not we should have the window open or not. But that is as good as it got. At one point we were talking about Micheal Aspel....
But I think I need to do the office thing, and use it as a spur to do other things outside the office in order to generate some momentum (and maybe £) to ensure that mrs househusbandnot and I can get out of having to go to offices as soon as possible, and bring up wolves or something. (Did anyone see that wolfman programme the other night? Him teaching baby wolves to howl = possibly cutest thing I have ever seen. Him feeding teenage wolves from his mouth = definitely grossest thing I have ever seen.) I don't think offices are a good idea. There is something about those humming photocopiers and the post it notes on milk bottles in the fridge and the fire extinguishers and the ccing people and the genuine need for staplers. It is wrong, and if not wrong, then odd and possibly unholy.
Incidentally, did I mention that mrs hhn and I have Prince tickets? Yowza.
The other crapper about having to go to an office again is that I have very little to report on, other than about that office, and - as mentioned last week - it all seems pretty normal there. Hey, the minute the receptionist tries to recruit me to Scientology or we get raided by Welsh separatists or the head of finance confesses a long but well-managed relationship with smack, I'll be here telling you about it. But it all seems deeply normal at this new office. The big debate of the day today was whether or not it was illegal to have Hellman's mayonnaise with couscous. Oh, and we did discuss whether or not we should have the window open or not. But that is as good as it got. At one point we were talking about Micheal Aspel....
But I think I need to do the office thing, and use it as a spur to do other things outside the office in order to generate some momentum (and maybe £) to ensure that mrs househusbandnot and I can get out of having to go to offices as soon as possible, and bring up wolves or something. (Did anyone see that wolfman programme the other night? Him teaching baby wolves to howl = possibly cutest thing I have ever seen. Him feeding teenage wolves from his mouth = definitely grossest thing I have ever seen.) I don't think offices are a good idea. There is something about those humming photocopiers and the post it notes on milk bottles in the fridge and the fire extinguishers and the ccing people and the genuine need for staplers. It is wrong, and if not wrong, then odd and possibly unholy.
Incidentally, did I mention that mrs hhn and I have Prince tickets? Yowza.
May 18, 2007
Blink, Dracule, And A Priest On The Blower
Thanks for your various thoughts on me and the new work I am doing. I'm going to go with my blink feelings on it, and continue to think that it is a cool office peopled by nice people until things are proved otherwise. More self validation? Yes, but in a good way I think.
And so it came to pass that hhn eventually became a true blogger by thinking his holiday photos would be of any interest to anyone....
Unfortunately, this new optimism coincides with the beginning of summer - a season I really do not like very much, and one in which I usually turn in hhn dracule hiding from the sun and the sunlight and seeking out dark cool chambers to avoid getting too hot. Will have to figure out how to manage this one at the office, although I have spied a few fellow anti-summerites amongst the troops there.
Speaking of summer, I am not sure our recent Greek vacation has had a good enough mention, and a picture tells a thousand words (or whatever):
And so it came to pass that hhn eventually became a true blogger by thinking his holiday photos would be of any interest to anyone....
May 16, 2007
Yeah Yeah (Yeahs)
Yep, I 100% take Madame B's point about the self validation that I have been getting away with being normal in a real office this week. (I am happy to report that the guy I share an office with in this real office growled at his computer when it did something wrong today - and he is Head of IT. The Head of another department had to take a day off the other day to go queue for his PS3. I am liking it there, and feel this senior management team is one I could fit in with/to.)
While much of it all is arse-numbingly familiar and usual office stuff - we need more money, no-one realises how much extra work we have had to take on since the restructure, the boss wants this and I've done that, can someone help the water guy please, I wrote this last month and no-one has given me any feedback, the website sucks, I love the website etc. - I really really like this office I am working at. It is peopled with the usual freaks and fools, but they do genuinely seem to want to let projects talk and work, and have been really helpful and friendly since I arrived Monday. (I know it is early days, but I am - despite appearances - an optimist, and a believer in the fact that it is only other people and the systems they mould around themselves and their fears that create fucked up offices.)
I am having withdrawal symptoms about not having time to post hhn as often as usual (as I hope you are), but am making up for it by setting up a soap box in lunchtimes and shouting out my random theories and opinions in the park next to our office in between mouthfuls of terrible Pret A Manger sushi and milky crappy coffee that is trying to pretend it does have some coffee in it.
The commute is fairly painless, and even the door code to the office front door is only one digit different from my phone number, so things are looking good.....watch this space though. I am an optimist, but I am also not a complete novice...
While much of it all is arse-numbingly familiar and usual office stuff - we need more money, no-one realises how much extra work we have had to take on since the restructure, the boss wants this and I've done that, can someone help the water guy please, I wrote this last month and no-one has given me any feedback, the website sucks, I love the website etc. - I really really like this office I am working at. It is peopled with the usual freaks and fools, but they do genuinely seem to want to let projects talk and work, and have been really helpful and friendly since I arrived Monday. (I know it is early days, but I am - despite appearances - an optimist, and a believer in the fact that it is only other people and the systems they mould around themselves and their fears that create fucked up offices.)
I am having withdrawal symptoms about not having time to post hhn as often as usual (as I hope you are), but am making up for it by setting up a soap box in lunchtimes and shouting out my random theories and opinions in the park next to our office in between mouthfuls of terrible Pret A Manger sushi and milky crappy coffee that is trying to pretend it does have some coffee in it.
The commute is fairly painless, and even the door code to the office front door is only one digit different from my phone number, so things are looking good.....watch this space though. I am an optimist, but I am also not a complete novice...
May 14, 2007
Or Not
Was packed off this morning by mrs househusbandnot to this new gig I am doing three days a week for a small health promotion organisation. (Not gonna say who they are, because that is how you get fired. And I don't want to get fired from a nice job with some interesting agendas and expectations in the coming months.)
Ended up spending most of the day with the Chief Executive and the website dude in that order. So now have the eye of suspicion on me from the rest of the staff because I spent most of the day with the Chief Executive = possible threat, and with website dude = possible geek. Actually other staff were pretty friendly and pretended to be interested in my dumb ass questions about how the phones work and where to find post it notes, what the sandwich place on the corner was like etc.
Actually, I'd like to write the whole experience up as an MA or something in communications, taking a smallish, interesting organisation and seeing how to improve their profile/funding etc. Will come back to that some time in the near future - or not.
In other writing news, have decided (magnanimously) that mrs hhn should write a book about her chosen profession, and have (equally magnanimously) offered my services to write said book for her. (Don't worry The Waunch. We will call on you as a proof reader you big spelling of fish names pedant you.)
So it is going to be a writing summer, which - I hope - will not impact too much on the regularity of hhn posts, although I am thinking I may have to cut down from the daily posts to something a little less regular. As Howard Devoto said it only looks as though it hurts, but it does take up quite a bit of my time tapping out these random thoughts on hhn posts, so will have a think about it. (Hmm. Writing about thinking about writing a blog. A new blog self-validation first for this particular blogger.)
Anyway, not much else to report other than the fact that I managed to act like a fairly normal human being for a whole day in an office today, and will be returning to try and do the same tomorrow. Wearing shoes for the whole day was a bind, but needs must.
Ended up spending most of the day with the Chief Executive and the website dude in that order. So now have the eye of suspicion on me from the rest of the staff because I spent most of the day with the Chief Executive = possible threat, and with website dude = possible geek. Actually other staff were pretty friendly and pretended to be interested in my dumb ass questions about how the phones work and where to find post it notes, what the sandwich place on the corner was like etc.
Actually, I'd like to write the whole experience up as an MA or something in communications, taking a smallish, interesting organisation and seeing how to improve their profile/funding etc. Will come back to that some time in the near future - or not.
In other writing news, have decided (magnanimously) that mrs hhn should write a book about her chosen profession, and have (equally magnanimously) offered my services to write said book for her. (Don't worry The Waunch. We will call on you as a proof reader you big spelling of fish names pedant you.)
So it is going to be a writing summer, which - I hope - will not impact too much on the regularity of hhn posts, although I am thinking I may have to cut down from the daily posts to something a little less regular. As Howard Devoto said it only looks as though it hurts, but it does take up quite a bit of my time tapping out these random thoughts on hhn posts, so will have a think about it. (Hmm. Writing about thinking about writing a blog. A new blog self-validation first for this particular blogger.)
Anyway, not much else to report other than the fact that I managed to act like a fairly normal human being for a whole day in an office today, and will be returning to try and do the same tomorrow. Wearing shoes for the whole day was a bind, but needs must.
May 10, 2007
Symbolism
On the Gatwick Express on the way back from..er Gatwick on Wednesday evening mrs househusbandnot was reading a discarded Evening Standard. "Hey," she said. "Prince is playing in London in August"...
At this stage in my life things get blurry and go into some sort of slow and also fast motion. I scour the advert for information as to when tickets will go on sale. Something about priority booking for people with O2 accounts WHICH I DON'T HAVE. Normal tickets available to normal people a day later on Friday. It will be sold out. I will not get to see Prince. I try to calm my breathing. We get home. I go on line early Thursday morning. Why am I not a close personal friend of someone who can get me tickets? You need some damned O2 password to buy the tickets. They are already selling for triple the price through ticket sites. Why have I not worked harder in my life, so I could afford these £100 tickets. I check various sites again, and again. Can I get a job as a security guard at the venue between now and the gigs? Why am I not a hot bird that could worm her way backstage? I make a few panicked calls to mrs hhn because...well because. Why did I not work harder at the guitar, so that I was close friends with musicians who could have got me tickets? Thursday morning ticks into Thursday noon, as the tickets continue to sell out. Can I get an O2 account today? Life is so unfair. I love Prince more than anyone else in the world. Should I send a begging comment to his website? Why did I not buy that symbol-shaped tambourine when Prince had that shop in Campden? I could have traded it on ebay for tickets. Do I know anyone who works at O2? Loads of annoying people already have tickets, and I will have to wait until Friday morning for a shot at the normal priced tickets. There is no way I will get any. I feel like crying. I read a few news stories about Prince being in town promoting his tour. I look wistfully at the purple lining of my suit. Maybe I will bump into Prince while he is here, and I can ask him for tickets? Maybe...I can't believe I am not going to get Prince tickets. He is playing two weeks in London, and so many people OTHER THAN ME are going to get tickets. Annoying people. People who don't really care about Prince live. Can I sell something to be able to afford the - increasingly - over-priced tickets from the ticket sites? I drink coffee to pump me up some. Noon gives way to early afternoon. I go for a swim, humming Prince tunes in the changing rooms at the pool in case anyone there has tickets that they want to sell to me. Not a whisper. I swim, sad, realising that I - the person who loves Prince live more than anyone else on earth - am not going to get tickets because I don't have a fucking O2 account, because I am not a millionaire, and because I never prayed to Jesus when I was young. I hate myself, and my life.
I pick up my phone messages after my swim. My mate &^% has called. "Hi there Prince fool. I borrowed my sister's O2 account, and have got you tickets for Prince"...the world stops turning, there is a God (and his name is %^&), I have Prince tickets. I fall exhausted to the floor (well a seat at Starbucks). I have Prince tickets. I call mrs hhn. We have Prince tickets. I drink coffee. I have Prince tickets. I get on the bus home. I have Prince tickets. I am writing my blog. I still have Prince tickets. (I just need to keep from internally combusting between now and the gig.)
Big Prince luv 2 %^& 4 getting me tickets.
At this stage in my life things get blurry and go into some sort of slow and also fast motion. I scour the advert for information as to when tickets will go on sale. Something about priority booking for people with O2 accounts WHICH I DON'T HAVE. Normal tickets available to normal people a day later on Friday. It will be sold out. I will not get to see Prince. I try to calm my breathing. We get home. I go on line early Thursday morning. Why am I not a close personal friend of someone who can get me tickets? You need some damned O2 password to buy the tickets. They are already selling for triple the price through ticket sites. Why have I not worked harder in my life, so I could afford these £100 tickets. I check various sites again, and again. Can I get a job as a security guard at the venue between now and the gigs? Why am I not a hot bird that could worm her way backstage? I make a few panicked calls to mrs hhn because...well because. Why did I not work harder at the guitar, so that I was close friends with musicians who could have got me tickets? Thursday morning ticks into Thursday noon, as the tickets continue to sell out. Can I get an O2 account today? Life is so unfair. I love Prince more than anyone else in the world. Should I send a begging comment to his website? Why did I not buy that symbol-shaped tambourine when Prince had that shop in Campden? I could have traded it on ebay for tickets. Do I know anyone who works at O2? Loads of annoying people already have tickets, and I will have to wait until Friday morning for a shot at the normal priced tickets. There is no way I will get any. I feel like crying. I read a few news stories about Prince being in town promoting his tour. I look wistfully at the purple lining of my suit. Maybe I will bump into Prince while he is here, and I can ask him for tickets? Maybe...I can't believe I am not going to get Prince tickets. He is playing two weeks in London, and so many people OTHER THAN ME are going to get tickets. Annoying people. People who don't really care about Prince live. Can I sell something to be able to afford the - increasingly - over-priced tickets from the ticket sites? I drink coffee to pump me up some. Noon gives way to early afternoon. I go for a swim, humming Prince tunes in the changing rooms at the pool in case anyone there has tickets that they want to sell to me. Not a whisper. I swim, sad, realising that I - the person who loves Prince live more than anyone else on earth - am not going to get tickets because I don't have a fucking O2 account, because I am not a millionaire, and because I never prayed to Jesus when I was young. I hate myself, and my life.
I pick up my phone messages after my swim. My mate &^% has called. "Hi there Prince fool. I borrowed my sister's O2 account, and have got you tickets for Prince"...the world stops turning, there is a God (and his name is %^&), I have Prince tickets. I fall exhausted to the floor (well a seat at Starbucks). I have Prince tickets. I call mrs hhn. We have Prince tickets. I drink coffee. I have Prince tickets. I get on the bus home. I have Prince tickets. I am writing my blog. I still have Prince tickets. (I just need to keep from internally combusting between now and the gig.)
Big Prince luv 2 %^& 4 getting me tickets.
Orfing Around
Back from a great week or so in sunny Greece, where the men look weary from their only international role models being George Michael and Demis Roussos, and where the women appear to have discovered wonder bras.
You will be gutted to hear that mrs househusbandnot took the camera to work with her this morning, so I am unable - in true blogger tradition - to share our holiday snaps with you today. But took a few choice snaps which will make their way onto hhn in the coming days.
After long languid days of sitting on sun decks being served frosty diet cokes and beers ("Mythos: The Hellenic Lager Beer") by attentive young Polish waiters, I waited around until around 11 this morning, and realised that no-one was going to come and serve me breakfast, and - with a further thud back into the real world - that our boiler was broken. So am sitting staring at large piles of unwashed holiday clothes and building up to going out and facing London again.
Actually, I am starting a three day a week contract next week, so need to go and buy some real (rather than comedy/couch potato) clothes. For the last four months I have been pretty much living in jeans and white or black tshirts, but have been told at this new place that jeans are out, and that dress code is smart/casual (which excludes pretty much all of my current wardrobe). mrs hhn has threatened to take me clothes shopping this weekend, but I feel a week and a half of having to sit next to me on a sun lounger with me wittering on about:
You will be gutted to hear that mrs househusbandnot took the camera to work with her this morning, so I am unable - in true blogger tradition - to share our holiday snaps with you today. But took a few choice snaps which will make their way onto hhn in the coming days.
After long languid days of sitting on sun decks being served frosty diet cokes and beers ("Mythos: The Hellenic Lager Beer") by attentive young Polish waiters, I waited around until around 11 this morning, and realised that no-one was going to come and serve me breakfast, and - with a further thud back into the real world - that our boiler was broken. So am sitting staring at large piles of unwashed holiday clothes and building up to going out and facing London again.
Actually, I am starting a three day a week contract next week, so need to go and buy some real (rather than comedy/couch potato) clothes. For the last four months I have been pretty much living in jeans and white or black tshirts, but have been told at this new place that jeans are out, and that dress code is smart/casual (which excludes pretty much all of my current wardrobe). mrs hhn has threatened to take me clothes shopping this weekend, but I feel a week and a half of having to sit next to me on a sun lounger with me wittering on about:
- dolphins
- capers
- an hhn A -Z lists of what you want in a good hotel [to follow some time soon btw]
- how much the bloke who reads the news on Greek TV looked like Lloyd Cole
- my feet
- whether or not the guitarist in Mansun really was in love with the lead singer
- missing my ipod (which I didn't take on holiday with me for some dumb ass reason)
- how unfair it is that I am not allowed to use made up words in Scrabble (I squandered an early 6 to 1 lead in the hhn/mrs hhn best of 20 holiday Scrabble tournament, which mrs hhn eventually won 11 to 8)
- how much I hate European chill out music, which was on offer on MP3 players on the sun deck
- that time at university that Bad turned his car into a tent
- why it was unfair that we could not call mrs hhn's mum to check if mrs hhn's Scrabble word of 'orf' was real or not (mrs hhn's mum has a fish pond with - allegedly - a Golden Orf in it)
- that couple over there
- how funny it was that I had spent all of yesterday morning in character as John Malkovich
- what to have for breakfast tomorrow five minutes after finishing breakfast
- gayers
- mountain flowers
- this really funny photo I just took
- pools I have loved around the world
- people I have magnanimously decided to forgive for some wrong doing to me in recent years
- olives versus peanuts
- the hhn theme park
- life coaching
- my blogs
and
- the fact that I was getting sunburned
was quite enough a test for any good woman.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
