More, more, more (2)

There are some things in life that we can never have too much it seems.

Women, all women love shoes. And bags.

Me, I can never have enough watches (I stopped buying when I realised it was costing me nigh on £150 a year in batteries to keep them ticking). Shoes (yes I'm in touch with my feminine side). Property (I've never been able (willing) to sell when I ought). Bank accounts (or rather overdrafts). And there's plenty more.

Inspite of my best endeavours to teach the boy not to follow in the footsteps of his father, he too is a compulsive acquirer (acquisitionalist?). Hair products...her gel, hair mouse, hair wax, hair spray. All in the cause of teenage vanity. Bags (is he in touch with his feminine side too?)..he always needs a new one. Watches (following in my footsteps, but at least here I can say no). Socks (he has enough to cloth a millipede) but they're always in Brighton when he's in Buckhurst Hill and in Buckhurst Hill when he's in Brighton. Guitars ( I bought him one, he bought him one and step Granddad gave him one). Three seems a lot to me who's never been able to learn an instrument. Books (he has a bigger library now than I had when I'd passed through our educational system) but that's a good thing and I'm always ready to expand my overdraft on this count.

More, more, more (1)

I celebrated a no-small victory this morning. And the reason for my glee was that I had escaped the house without having got into a verbal scrap wih the boy. And that was an achievement. One (endearing) thing he inherited from his mum was the ability to keep gently winding me up for no reason until I wolud snap. I became wise to this early on with the boy's mum, and generally enjoyed the sport which could provide a whole evening's entertainment at a far lower cost than heading down the pub. Almost invariably I would lose...I would just get to the point of thinking I'd won, fending off gentle dig after gentle dig, that I could smugly sit down with a little grin on my face knowing that I'd WON. Only to be caught out by a final glancing comment that would fill the room with a red mist.

Realising that the subtlties of all this will be lost as I've editied out so much...here we go...please have patience...

So the digging started after I had been taxi-driver for Friday night's Halloween party. Are we going to Brighton? Yes, why? No reason. Saturday. When are we off to Brighton? Soon why, do you want to say something? No. 10 minutes later. Oh it's just that some of us are meeting up in Loughton, but it doesn't matter. Are you sure? Yes, it's fine. OK good - you've not been to the south coast for a month. Yes....ur um.

FFWD to Sunday (missing out why it took us four hours to drive to Brighton on Saturday) and a brief visit to Wakehurst Place for a long walk. Sulky bored looks. And it was time to go. Sunday evening. Is it alright to put my rugby kit on for a quick wash. But I've done the washing...has that been festering in your bag for the last two weeks? Yes. Well see what else there is. There's nothing. OK if you're sure. 10 minutes later. What are these underpants on the bathroom floor? Two hours later. I guess I'll put all the towels on to wash now?

FFWD to Monday morning. It's nice to have clean towels isn't it? I don't know, it's been so long.

Grrr