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May 8th, 2019

May. 8th, 2019

Smashed gym again last night, really pleased with myself!

Rod came and made some space for the long awaited visitors, I did a simple dinner. First Dates and lemonade. The female version of Full Monty was very emo for me, and him too.

At 1am he came to bed and apologised, which I really appreciate. I am still upset and angry, but hope he takes some time to have a ponder about why he's doing what he's doing, and why he feels the need to put me and things I like down, only to do exactly the same things with somebody else. That's a clear indication it's him, not me. And this morning I brought him a travelcard, so he can get to London to visit Kate cheaper. And her thinks I'm vindictive, LOL. At some point, when the newness subsides, he will take a good long look at things. I still won't be docile and compliant, however, there is lots of room for movement and discussion. But for now, my priority is my very welcome visitors, just TWO MORE SLEEPS!!!

Big Learnings

Greg has suggested that instead of going to the work commercial forum in Heathrow, I go to his new house and do painting, LMAO! The Heathrow trip is an almighty draaaaag, it's so far to do so little.

In top news, I have a hand held cordless hedge trimmer! This actually excites me, I think I may be turning in to a lesbian.

In really good news, I have a rather superb pea green 1970s full length chiffon gown! I love it, SO much. There needs to be a par-tay!

The Dyson does nae work. I was irritated, but then they are coming for the love, not the housework outcome. I've never even pretended to be spotless or scrupulous in my housekeeping. Our home is comfortable, and clean-ish. It isn't perfect, and I'm happy with that. I want people to lounge and chat and feel comfy and welcome.

I've been chatting on and off with Santi whilst he's in Brazil. So he pings me and asks me if I wanna go cycling in Belgium with him. Naturally I think he means somebody else, wrong chat. But he doesn't.


Now, I don't know if it's viable due to Corfu, Bruxelles and Amsterdam falling in June, and Pride in July, but I sez when you have a rough idea of where you'll be and when, lemme know and I'll see where I could join in. He sez, awesome. So he actually did mean me. I explain I have a 20 kilo ancient German lady as my trusty steed, he doesn't care a jot.


He knows my current max is 50km a day-ish. I have no time to improve on that, some busy weekends coming up. He's actually walked further than that in a day on Camino. But he's prepared to do my distance and pace. I'm actually gobsmacked. Really. Some cycling overseas! Yanno, even if I can't catch him up somewhere, to even be asked knocks me out. I am so used to pedalling along by myself.

Work today was long, but in a good way. Learning about a new thing, which, if I stick with it, will allow me to take a Big Step in a year. The last year or so has been about pushing myself a bit more and getting out of my comfort zone. I've always done that, but never in a work-related way.

Rod awesome, not only tidied the room but stripped the bed and re-made it.

The Lounge

Sitting room, parlour, cosy, whatever you wish to call it.....

Outside is a clothes rail, where you can select oversized t-shirts, all types of dressing gowns, mumus, snuggly jammies or blankies of all types. There are also a multitude of Uggs, slipper socks, baggy bed socks and flip flops in all colours. You wear what you choose. Or not.

Inside there are three super-sized sofas, 2 mid green and 1 Schiaparelli pink. Worn and just a tad sunken. Two leather winged armchairs, aged. Bean bags, various colours, and a vintage shaggy long. The floor is barely discernible, but there's a plethora of rugs. There are cat hairs clinging on most things, sticking out at precarious angles, and the faint aroma of wet dog in the air. But the heady aroma of fecund and feckless humans pervades, in a sensual way. You can still smell the wine, and the almost-dead roses. And if you care to lower your head just av few degrees, to the coffee table, a whiff of Lemon Pledge. Just.

The walls are adorned with all sorts of junk from travels and boot fairs and Freecycle and roadkill. And from the odd cheapo shop, and a couple of handmade items. It isn't a curated collection, just a representation of lives. Although nobody alive shot the wild boar or stuffed the meerkat. The donkeys and goats stare with unashamed vicariousness from beyond the walls.

There's a ton of books, both read and unread, new and old. Fact and fiction. Not a library; a selection of opportunities. A thousand photos, not cleverly arranged, just there as testament. Coffee mug rings and red wine glass remains stain the wood. Once every now and then, they are polished out, only to reappear like the stigmata.

There's a wine rack, half full. Some cheapies and some good stuff. Likewise for the gins. A few bottles of half hearted gunk from travels. Pub glasses and cut crystal on the shelves.

There's a telly box, the master has the remote control. The mistress watches what she wants, when she wants, but knows to give way to the TdF. The likeness to Giles and Mary grows daily. Together, films and documentaries mostly.

A good stereo blares out her TED talks and ska, 80s disco and opera. His ballads and rock. Radio stations are tuned in and out, depending...

In the summer, when the doors are open, a hapless chicken, curious piglet or righteous goose, often wanders in. If the master is in, he'll chuck them out, if it's the mistress, they'll be feted and comfy for a while. Or for as long as the cats are prepared to tolerate them. Cats, being wise, understand that it's easier to eat the food post mortem.

From the windows, a not-terribly-well-kept garden can be seen. If the nets have been washed. The heavy velvet curtains, which keep the heat in during the winter and the sun out during the summer, are second hand, and don't really match anything. But then again, what does?

Every now and then, the mistress takes it upon herself to create a new colour scheme and look. Rabidly painting, not so accurately, a new and vivid colour, and rearranging the bits and bobs. The master doesn't help or approve. But he doesn't stop her or resist either. The lounge is a living work of art, a representation of lives and loves.

The remnants of tasty snacks slip in to the crevices of the sofa cushions. Nobody cares. Late at night it becomes a cuddle zone. Perhaps to snooze n snore a while.

It is home. A place of sanctuary and relaxation.


Call me Madam

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