Slap That Bass Whitey

Returned home last night after a long day of househusbandnotnoting aka being at work to a seemingly innocent pencil written note on a pad on the kitchen table from mrs househusbandnot asking me to 'feed the wormies if you have time darling'.


Now, to you (and the other five of you who read this blog), this note may have seemed innocent, polite, sweet even. But I knew, and mrs hhn knew, that I have been ignoring the wormery for a week or so because last time I looked in there I was attacked by a swarm of insects straight out of the early parts of The Old Testament, an assault I responded to by throwing half a loaf of bread and a bowl of rice into the cavernous hell that is the worm-inhabited bit of the wormery, and running for cover into the sitting room hoping that the whole wormery/Hades thing would just disappear. (And here mrs hhn's colleague who I have often judged for leaving a live wormery when you left your last house, I applaud you for your sense and courage.)


But, being the trooper/sucker that I am, I responded to mrs hhn's leadened note, and ventured out onto the balcony clutching my worm stick (don't ask) in one hand and a large glass of scotch in the other. I took off one layer (imagine three or four large perforated hat boxes each stacked on top of each other, the idea being that as the worms breed you encourage them to move further up the boxes until you start over by putting the top layer back into the bottom [the sort of thing people used to get burned at the stake for in the middle ages]) to reveal not only an appalling Parfume Du Somme but also a whole layer of rotting food that the worms had not ventured up into. So I had to empty that layer of food out into a bin liner, drain three full buckets of worm juice aka Satan's Death Oil into buckets, and then rake out the layer that the worms were still in and then feed the fuckers. hhn + wormery - attention to wormery + this experience = a need to die. I spent most of the rest of the evening lying in the bath trying to rid myself of the Parfume Du Somme and the thought of those worms just a few feet away on the balcony, and that oh so innocent note from mrs hhn.


I know in the end of the day the chores do get divied up within a relationship, but why do my chores always involve dirt and shit and decaying things? And I should have known something was up when mrs hhn called me during the day, before I'd got home to the note/order, and sweetly told me she had taken a steak out of the freezer for my supper since she was going out for supper. I should have cut my losses and fed the worms the steak, drained the scotch into my mouth via the bucket, written mrs hhn a similarly pencilled note asking her to 're tile the roofey-oofey if you have time when you get back from supper darling', and spent the evening with my new chums on facebook.


In other news, off to a breakfast meeting this morning. Can't fuckin' wait. Like people wearing trainers with their suits to work, I refuse to embrace this American idea. The theory is that we are all so busy and keen that we are happy to get up at a berzillion o'clock and tramp off to some crowded coffee house to juggle our note pads over the milky coffees and stale pastries. The practice is tired people looking tiredly at each other trying to work out why we could not have met later for lunch.


Incidentally, watched The Departed this weekend. Can someone explain to me why Marky Markkk had to shoot the bloke at the end? (Great live version of Comfortably Numb by Van The Man on the soundtrack btw.) And loving Sons And Daughters too, if a little distracted by the memory of that terrible Level 42 song of the same name.