The FrumplingtonsWakes up. Stretches. Yawns. Stumbles down to kitchen. Makes tea. Looks out of window. A grey and murky day outside. Mist rolling in off sea. Thinks: Lincoln more than thirty miles from sea. Hell, must be James Herbert-style spooky fog. Wooo-ooo-ooo…scary! Stumbles to living room. Rifles through cupboard. Grabs post-it notes. Scrawls, “Wake me up when sun out.” Drinks tea. Stumbles back to bed.
The 4-day outlook:
Dunno. Asleep. Bye.
Chris
Tiny things please tiny minds, or so they say. Of course, this doesn’t apply to us. Besides, we’ve just received something bigger to amuse us. Lest you think this is going to turn into a post full of double entendres, let me explain: the 2 kilowatt Challenge Xtreme wallpaper stripper and steam cleaner that we ordered online a couple of days ago arrived this morning.
So it looks like a busy weekend ahead, getting rid of those last stubborn vestiges of 1970s ‘art’ wallpaper that were put up by the combined forces of half a dozen previous tenants.
We had only just opened the box when we found something beige, fluffy and not a little sheep-like — a floor-cleaning accessory, I think. (This was straight after the jack-in-the-box surprise of three miles of flexible piping that leapt out and immediately wrapped itself round Shana’s neck like some kind of deranged plastic octopus.)
“What’s that?” I said. “Looks like a little lamb to me.”
Not that this stopped me putting it on my head and pretending to be Judge Frumplington:
Or trying the weirdy beardy look. Anyone want to employ me as Santa this December? No, thought not.
It also looked like a lot of other things. A possible partner in a ventriloquist act, should I ever wish for a change of career:
There is, however, one flaw in this particular scenario: before one can have a career change, one usually needs to have a career to start with. Well, I have always described myself as a freelance philosopher, so I guess mop-sheep ventriloquist is about as big a change as I’m likely to get.
Gottle o’ geer, gottle o’ geer…
Chris
A quick trip to the Post Office this lunchtime was one of the highlights of our day. The weather was nice and sunny and we didn’t even need our jackets on. Summer’s here already. (Just watch: we’ll be under six-foot snowdrifts by Thursday.)
It’s a much more enjoyable walk towards town from the bottom end of the High Street and there’s less traffic as well. Lincoln drivers are for a big shock later this year: major roadworks are due to start in July, and traffic will likely grind to a permanent standstill at the junction of Broadgate and Monks. (Y’know, however hard I try, it just never sounds as good as 43rd and Broadway or whatever those American crossroads are called.)
We didn’t have to go as far as the town centre though: the Post Office is only five minutes’ stroll away.
En route, we had to cross Dixon Street and a couple of other side roads, and on one of these crossings we spotted something rather interesting. A small pile of refuse sacks had been left on the pavement for collection. Most of these were of the lurid purple colour that Lincoln Council like. In fact, they like them so much that they don’t actually collect sacks of any other colour! (This is not me ‘aving a larf; this is simple fact — official Council policy.)
Two men were crouched over one of the refuse sacks (this one was a black sack of the sort that one is now prohibited from leaving out for the binmen) and had actually opened it. The men, as far as we could tell, seemed to be on some sort of official business; one of them appeared to be wearing an identity badge. And not only had they opened the bag, but they were reading something on a sheet of paper they had taken out of it. I’ve heard of this sort of thing being done, but this was the first time either of us had seen it. Presumably, the men were looking for evidence of the name of the person who had put this banned black bag on the heap with all the purple ones.
So, if that piece of paper was someone’s bank statement or an old gas bill or something else with their details on, they will, I assume, also be getting a visit from the Black Bag Police — and, no doubt, a fine, to boot.
Of course, these two chappies could have been well-dressed tramps. But somehow, I doubt it.
So, if you are in Lincoln and you’re thinking of chucking black bags out on the street, you have two choices:
Chris
“Here, take a look at this,” said Shana, and passed me a slim vol entitled Home Essentials, a mini shopping catalogue containing just about everything you could ever want.
On the front cover was a picture of a woman on one of those aerobic exercise machines. She is pictured gripping the handles of this fiendish contraption; anything to do with exercise immediately qualifies for the adjective ‘fiendish’ as far as I’m concerned. Just in case you are still unsure of how this dastardly piece of equipment operates, two curved arrows indicate the sophisticated for’ard and back’ard motion that is possible when you eventually get used to using it. Personally, I think five minutes at a time would be enough; then I’d need a sit down.
Apparently this devilish item of machinery is ‘ideal for calorie burning and body shaping’ (as one Homer Simpson…or was it Winston Churchill?…once said: “Round is a shape!”) and also ’strengthens problem areas such as thighs, stomach and waist’.
It all sounds a bit dangerous if you ask me.
But the best bit about this exerciser — which, incidentally, can be yours for only sixty quid — was its name:
The Nordic Airwalker.
“That was one of the characters in Star Wars, wasn’t it?” I said.
“No, you’re thinking of Darth Vader,” said Shana.
I always knew Shana’s liking for sci-fi would come in useful one day.
Chris
In direct contravention of the general blogging rule that you should never write about what you had for lunch, I am about to describe, albeit briefly, what I had for breakfast.
It is popularly, though erroneously, believed that writing about one’s meals is, in a way, wasting some of the precious bandwidth (airtime?) of that valuable asset, the Blogosphere. Our opinion on this is utter rubbish.
No, hang on, more punctuation needed there, I think.
Our opinion on this is:”Utter rubbish!”
There is, as the Americans might say, “a whole bunch” of stuff cluttering up and wasting space on the Blogosphere already (Hello, S.P.Loggers!). Compared with some of the dross out there, writing about one’s meals might rank as minutiae, but it can easily be done in an entertaining way. And, as we all have to eat, no-one can ever say the subject is irrelevant.
And so I shall continue to fly in the face of convention, break all the rules as it were, and reveal what I had for brekkie.
Today’s breakfast was not just any old breakfast but also one of my favourite food-related spoonerisms. I’ll let you work it out for yourself — it shouldn’t take too long:
Forlorn cakes.
Chris
A famous comedian of yore once said, when asked about his liking for alcohol:
“I never drink before the sun is over the yardarm…and that is why I always carry a yardarm with me.”
We, however, are different. We don’t need elaborate excuses to eat our favourite foods. If we want a snack we just go and get one.
Whenever possible though, we do like to stick to regular, or roughly regular, mealtimes. Unfortunately, the hunger pangs arrived a little early this morning. At five to ten, to be precise. Shana resisted though: she didn’t want to be the first to cave in:
“Do you fancy a Scotch egg?” she asked.
“Yes, I suppose I do, now you mention it,” I said.
“Well if you’re having one I’ll have one as well,” she said.
What brilliant logic. So it was me all along who was the instigator of this early morning Scotch egg party.
I knew that, deep down, Shana felt a bit guilty about having a snack so soon after breakfast. So I tried to rationalise the situation — ie, come up with a suitably grown-up reason for our eggy indulgences.
I looked at the clock.
“It’s nearly ten,” I said.
“Yes,” agreed Shana, looking intently at the respective positions of the big hand and the little hand.
“And you know what happens at 2 o’clock a.m. in the morning tomorrow, don’t you?” I said.
“Yes,” said Shana.
“The clocks go forward one hour!” we chimed.
“So it’s not five to ten really,” I said, “It’s five to eleven. Almost time for elevenses.”
And with that, there was no more to be said. I made straight for the kitchen, put the kettle on for a cuppa, and got the Scotch eggs from the fridge.
I thought it best on this occasion not to explain to Shana how Scotch eggs don’t really contain real Scotch. She’s heard that one a hundred times before.
But just in case the makers ever do start to season their eggs with real Scotch flavouring, I have a yardarm all ready in one of the cupboards. No harm in being prepared, is there?
Chris
Today’s post du jour was going to be about macramé, but I eventually abandoned the idea. Couldn’t even string a sentence together.
Chris
There is a lot to be said for primitivism…as an art form, though — not as a lifestyle choice. However, until we manage to get the main living area in our new home fully carpeted, we shall just have to put up with it being like the Great American Dustbowl.
There is an upside to our current situation though. Every day sees us making new and wonderful discoveries. Like the beautiful vintage wallpaper we found last weekend. And what Shana unearthed this afternoon while ripping the paper of some of the downstairs walls:
We were both thrilled. “It’s like living in the Caves of Altamira,” I said, marvelling at the unknown artist’s economy of line. “Maybe it’s a lost Thelwell,” I ventured. “Did he ever live here? If he did, we’ll probably get one of those blue plaques like they have in London.”
I could see all sorts of possibilities, not least of which was the potential tidy profit to be made from selling tea and scones to hordes of tourists.
Shana’s tough, no-nonsense approach soon brought me down to earth though: “There’s a scraper around here somewhere if you’d like to give me a hand.”
Right you are, Shana. Right you are.
Chris
Writing for The Frumplingtons just got better. We now have what Britain’s dockers and miners always thought they had: a job for life. Alas for them, ’twas not to be. For us, however, one house move looks set to provide blogworthy material for many aeons to come.
And then some.
This, though, has less to do with the number of our possessions than with the relatively relaxed nature of our unpacking. Frankly, I’ve seen quicker tortoises.
Today, I discovered a bag full of clothes hangers. I tore the bag open eagerly and put the hangers on the rail in our built-in wardrobe.
Then I counted them. This recent resurgence of interest in numbers is starting to develop into an unhealthy obsession. Hitherto, I had always been more interested in words than numbers; maybe I’m turning into Carol Vorderman. (Please excuse me while I scream.)
Stats junkies may like to know that the total number of hangers in our wardrobe is 77. This includes only one pink hanger. And one deep blue hanger. The rest vary between green, yellow, and light blue. A more detailed breakdown may appear at some later date, depending on public demand.
If you’re lucky.
77 hangers though. It’s quite a lot really, for someone who only owns three pairs of jeans and five t-shirts in assorted sizes and degrees of food besplatteredness. (Is that a word?)
77 hangers. Blimey, that’s gotta be nearly as many as the Beckhams!
Chris
This week I have officially joined the ranks of the world’s Sad Bustards. (’Bustards’ = word commonly used by the Frumplingtons both on and offline as a substitute for a familiar derogatory term.)
How have I done this? Easy: by completing a game of Sudoku. True, it might only have been the ‘gentle level’ game in this week’s free-ads newspaper that was shoved through our letterbox on Saturday afternoon. And yes, I did take about 45 minutes to do it. But it still counts as my first one and, I fear, the start of my very own Sudoku slippery slope.
One game may not seem significant, but for me, who has always derided Sudoku enthusiasts, it was one of those watershed moments.
I still haven’t found out what the word Sudoku actually means, mainly because I haven’t Yahoo-ed it. (Note, in that last sentence, the start of a fightback against the all-pervasive use of the G-word [G**gle] to indicate performing an online search; feel free to join us in using the Y alternative.)
As far as I’m concerned, though (and despite having now enjoyed doing one of the puzzles myself) Sudoku still means ‘boring old fart’.
Anyhow, there’s no going back now. The next logical steps must be for me to get myself an anorak and a couple of spiral-bound notebooks and head off for the railway station, sharpish. There’s a train due in any minute. Gotta get those numbers.
Chris
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