The Frumplingtons

For the second time this year, we have had to call upon the services of Superman Rent-a-Gent, our friendly neighbourhood odd job men.

The problem? Well, the garden was a bit overgrown.

Erm, when I say ‘overgrown’, what I actually mean is READ MORE >>

It’s official: there is no escape from Christmas.

Ever.

For most of this year, we have been documenting the ways Christmas tends to appear at the most unexpected and unseasonal times, making us feel more than a little uncomfortable. You know how, on Bank Holiday Mondays, sometimes you catch yourself thinking it’s still Sunday and READ MORE >>

Help, I’m turning into a Scrabble stats anorak!

After a longish break, we revived our regular bouts of Scrabble around the end of July and the beginning of August. To date, we’ve played 34 games and I spent most of breakfast time this morning totting up the scores to see how we’re doing. It can be a bit of a revelation, especially if one of us thinks the other is doing far better than they actually are. Here’s the current league table: READ MORE >>

Major home improvements this week — and not before time, I might add.

Yesterday morning — yes, folks, that’s ‘Captain’s log: Star date Tuesday 21st Aug’ (I’d've written about it sooner but I’ve only just gotten over the excitement) — I, ably assisted by Shana, finally fixed the little top window in the bedroom. It hasn’t shut properly since we moved in, back in March. But since the weekend it’s been quite windy, and I do hate sleeping in a draught. So off we went to see what we could do about it. READ MORE >>

Over the past couple of days we have been lunching on haslet* sandwiches. And not just any haslet, I should point out, but haslet from Curtis’s butchers on Sincil Street. Only the best, naturellement.

As ever, however, all good things must come to an end. And that end came with the last of the haslet sarnies yesterday afternoon.

A little later, and just before starting our afternoon game of Scrabble™, I was making a couple of cups of tea, when Shana came into the kitchen and interrupted me mid-brew. Being the slovenly cow that I occasionally am, I still hadn’t cleared up after lunch, so I decided to try to make a virtue out of my failings and turn what was quite clearly a horrendous tip of a kitchen into an opportunity to show my generous and caring nature:

“Would you like one last lick of the haslet wrapper before I chuck it in the bin?” I asked.

As you can probably guess, Shana declined my offer. But it just goes to show: romance and the art of chivalry ain’t dead yet.

* The Great Haslet Debate continues:

• Is it pronounced ‘hay-slet’,
• ‘Hazz-let’ or
• ‘Arse-let’? And,
• Is it best cold or fried?

We need answers and we need them now.

Today, amongst other things, was Tidy Up day. The ‘floordrobe’ in our bedroom is now a thing of the past. Everything (and, as it happens, there were far fewer clothes lying around than we had thought there were) is now hanging on a double garment rail, thanks to Shana’s finely honed bargain hunting skills and good old Tesco Direct.

There was one downside to the clothes rail: we had to put it together ourselves. It was easy enough though. A simple tubular steel construction that even the old Bauhaus mob would have been proud of.

It’s just that we’ve had our fair share of flatpack nightmares in the past.

As you’ll know if you’ve ever tackled any flatpack furniture, if it doesn’t go right then it will go one of two ways:

1. It will just go horribly wrong, due to some intrinsic fault in the item itself. Or,
2. It will still go horribly wrong, but this time it will be you who is at fault, most likely because either you have the diagrams (’diregrams’?) upsidey-downy, or because you were too much of a lazy so-and-so to sign up for that six months’ course in technical Japanese at your local college.

In a nutshell, flatpacking can furnish You, the Unwary, with hundreds of ways in which you can make an ass of yourself.

Not for nothing is it also known as self-assembly.

Take it from those who have been there and have lived to tell the tale.

Last week we bought a xylophone. Nothing too elaborate: just fifteen wooden bars and a couple of dinky round-headed mallets.

Tonight, however, we found that the humble xylophone can be the ideal instrument for nervous headbangers; people like me, who like to play along to their favourite heavy metal choons, but who don’t want to bug the neighbours too much. READ MORE >>

Spotted a window cleaner this morning. The plucky fellow was up his ladder, bravely brandishing his squeegee in the pouring rain at a second floor window at some houses not too far from us.

“I do hope he isn’t a struggling artist who’s just cleaning windows to make ends meet,” I said.

“Why’s that?” Shana asked. READ MORE >>

Picked up a couple of Battenberg slices from Cooplands bakery (just past Lincoln’s High Street railway crossing) on the way home earlier today. Just in time for elevenses.

And we both agreed it was the best Battenberg we’d ever had. Much tastier than some of those bland prepackaged Battenbergs we’ve had in the past.

Cooplands also do a rather moreish Angel cake too. Same with that: it’s loads better than the anaemic excuse of an angel cake that I used to have on Sunday teatimes years ago; I’ll be having words with Mother Frumplington next time I see her.

Reading the paper bag after we’d finished our cakes (seeing if there were any crumbs left, more like), I noticed that Cooplands have been going since 1932. And by my reckoning, that makes this year their 75th anniversary. So, seeing as they already sell a range of celebration cakes for all occasions, perhaps they should bake a really big one and have themselves a party. If anyone at Cooplands HQ is reading this, don’t forget to send us a slice of that anniversary cake. Just leave it in the ‘Comments’ section: we’ll come and get it later.

Here’s another two to add to the Hi-Q Euclid puzzle collection, I’m giving up counting how many more to go! I just hope there’s a prize at the end