Boys/toys

Last Saturday, Abu Dhabi hosted a Formula 1 Festival and Andrew and Danny decided to attend. I was allowed to tag along as honorary totty, despite flatly refusing to wash Andrew’s car in lip-gloss and a bikini while pressing my soapy body up against the windscreen.

 

The festival was scheduled to kick off at 9am, which meant we had to leave Dubai two hours earlier. Normally it requires a defibrillator to get Andrew awake before 8am, but Danny turned up on the cusp of dawn and we were on the road a quarter hour later.

 

We arrived in Abu Dhabi shortly before 9am and Andrew and Dan spent an hour wandering the route scoping the best site and checking out the girls dispensing complimentary ear plugs.

 

We finally positioned ourselves in front of a giant screen. There was a spectacular aerial display – yay! The UAE football team drove by in an open top lorry – double yay! The Sheikh arrived in the VIP stand – yaaaay! The drivers waved to the crowd from the recently vacated open top lorry – well you know, I wouldn’t be able to pick Fernando Alonso out of a pink McLaren. Bernie Ecclestone demonstrated his mastery of the English language – it wasn’t very good. The Sheikh shook hands with the UAE football team – yawn.

 

Three hours later I had fully exhausted the entertainment potential of sticking my earplugs up Andrew’s nose. Thus far, there had not been even a whiff of engine oil, apart from the golf buggies patrolling the route. So I excused myself and repaired to The Hilton for a late breakfast washed down by Irish coffee.

 

Three coffees later the guys reappeared looking sweaty and morosely dishevelled. They had missed the stunts (apparently some of the drivers performed doughnuts outside the VIP stand). I didn’t feel like I missed out on anything since Andrew routinely pops a doughnut every time he backs out of our garage.

 

The lads pronounced the event a bit of a wipe out, which was a shame. I had a great time and pronounced the day a ‘roaring shuccesh’

A watery wave

For a while I stopped going to the beach in the mornings: the memory of Raff in a pair of speedos lingered. It was too fresh (the memory as opposed to Raff, who is distinctly more fruity).

 

Just before Christmas, Viv contacted me and asked if I still swam. At the time I had a lot on my mind and, although my gills had closed up from disuse, I thought consorting with sharks and stingrays might provide welcome distraction. Also, although the gym offers much in the way of Melody TV and a Spandex Spectacular, I have recently found the whole experience a little bit lamé.

 

I totally underestimated quite how cold The Gulf gets this time of year. Obviously the effects of plunging into The Gulf in winter are not as extreme as a paddle in The Atlantic at any time at all, but 20 minutes/1000 metres into the swim and my skull was numb (not that I noticed much difference, apart from a headache). I am ashamed to admit that, after being washed up on the beach by a large wave, I took a more solid route back to the car.

 

The following week I came fully equipped with thermal vest, sweatshirt, fleecy jacket, beanie, scarf, mittens, and a flask of hot tea. Have I forgotten anything? Oh yes, woolly socks and a car heater. I got some funny looks driving home. (The rigid purple lips probably don’t help.)

 

The other day Helen told me I’d have to ‘bulk up’ for The Palm swim. She’s done some long-distance swimming and reckons I’ll have to adopt some flobber to cope with the water temperature over a 20 kilometre route.

 

“There’s no way,” growled Husband when I told him about ‘Operation Flobber On’.

 

At the start of January Danny, still flush with New Year resolve, joined The Girls for the bi-weekly morning swim. Over the years Danny has been known to sport a wide range of alternative fabrics, yet I felt it was a particularly audacious move when he turned up to meet The Girls in a rubber suit.

 

“I’m going to tell everyone about your rubber suit,” I thought it only fair to warn him.

 

“It’s not rubber,” protested Danny. “It’s neoprene. People might get the wrong impression if you call it a rubber suit.”

 

“How do you spell neoprene?”

 

“Er- ok, go with rubber. Hang on - why not just: sleeveless wetsuit?”

 

“Sleeveless rubber wetsuit.”

 

“Just WETSUIT! What’s WRONG with you? Do you have some kinky fixation with rubber?”

 

Danny has since ditched the suit, but still swims with The Girls. Brave lad; the oestrogen can reach toxic levels. I’m so proud of Dan – to date, he has partaken in discussions ranging from how alcohol encourages Viv to air her mammaries; how many would volunteer their wombs to carry Wentworth Miller’s baby (all present excepting Dan but only because he is not thus equipped); the correct way to don a brassiere (Helen, demonstrating leaning forward and placing ones bosoms in the cups); and Helen’s colleague who accidentally – not to mention forcibly - sat on a stick necessitating 56 stitches up the hoohoo

 

Ginger snaps

I have weaned myself off chocolate with the aid of ginger snaps. Nowadays, if you offered me a bag full of dairy milk chocolate or one single lonely ginger snap . . . ok, I’d still choose the chocolate, but I’d try and persuade you to give me the ginger snap AS WELL. Along with the rest of the packet. And if you refused, I’d steal around to your house later that evening and smash a pane of glass in the back door with my elbow and rob the packet of ginger snaps. Or I might go to the supermarket and buy myself a pack, whichever was easiest.

 

I’m not usually given to poetry, but the only way I can express what ginger snaps mean to me is with verse. I’ve composed a little poem and I hope you like it. Ahem.

 

Ode to ginger snaps

 

Oh small round disc

Of gingery goodness,

I am humbled by

Your wild, majestic, unfettered beauty.

Ravish me in your sugary embrace.

You invade my soul.

I want to snort you whole.

Why do you not?

Why?

Why do you not

Come in handy powdered format

For that very purpose?

Idle McVities Marketing Department

You all deserve to be fired

You worthless bunch of slackers.

(Although admittedly I do like

The easy open packaging.

Well done with that.)

 

Raunchy biscuity lover,

I will crush you into

Fine particles

And inhale.

My flaming nostrils

Hurt.

Ow.

 

What do you think? Am I better at the poetry than the prose?

Mad hole drilling man

Our mad nesting frenzy abated about four months into our new home. Before we moved in, we had many plans for the house: parquet floors, wooden bar, Jacuzzi in the garden, slide from the master bedroom into the Jacuzzi. However, we always intended to sell within two-three years and the market has not matured to the extent that modifications will significantly differentiate our property. Nowadays, the only reason Husband airs his builders bum for the neighbours is pure exhibitionism, nothing more.

 

However, we still keep a lookout for quality furniture that we really like; family heirlooms that our children will fall out over after we’re gone. The reason we have procured little outside of our sofa set and dining table has more to do with the fact that there is not much choice around here. At least, not if you’re looking for furniture that does not feature (a) gilt (b) marble (c) mythological creatures in aggressive bas relief (d) lions snacking delicately on fruit (e) all of the above.

 

But we continue to look.

 

Three weeks ago, we bought a plain wooden stereo cabinet to replace the metal and glass table that had previously served duty whilst clashing violently with the rest of the living room.

 

We were very excited when it was delivered. The cabinet consists of two large drawers flanking an open front slot. We had done minimal measurement (ie none) and were pleasantly surprised to find that it was a perfect fit for the available space. In unnatural light the wood perfectly matches the dining room table. There was only one problem.

 

Our ‘entertainment system’ features a DVD player, stereo/surround sound amplifier, media disk drive, PSII station and about ten speakers. Andrew has also connected one of his computers to the centre†. Together, all this equipment results in a tangle of power cables, leads and wires and our new cabinet did not feature any outlet holes for cables.

 

“Not a problem,” said my husband, rummaging around in the cupboard under the stairs and emerging with his Black & Decker. “I’ll just drill a few holes.”

 

“It’s pretty thick wood.”

 

“No worries,” said Andrew, giving his power drill a few experimental blasts. “How many holes d’you think?”

 

“Two,” I said firmly.

 

“You think maybe I should bore a few holes in the drawers as well?”

 

“HEY! Mad Hole Drilling Man! I don’t think so.”

 

“Just in case we need them in the future?”

 

“For WHAT? NO!!”

 

“All right then,” says Me Bucko and, flexing his muscles, starts into the upended cabinet.

 

I usually keep an eye on Andrew when he cracks out the Black & Decker, since he can get a bit carried away by the artistic licence apparently afforded by a power drill. However, in this instance we had discussed and agreed a straightforward plan with a clear final objective, so I settled back into my computer.

 

Fifteen minutes of frenzied grinding/whirring later:

 

“I think the drill is melting,” said Andrew.

 

Sure enough, there was smoke coming out of the back of it.

 

“Bloody hell,” I said, “that’s a bit extreme for a couple of holes.”

 

But then I looked at the cabinet, and the underside was like Swiss cheese. Put it this way: the bottom of our new stereo cabinet is now more air than wood.

 

“What the hell’s THIS?!?”

 

“Ventilation,” muttered Andrew guiltily.

 

I’ve hidden the deeds for the house in case he sells it from under my feet. I can just imagine our grieving children sorting through our effects, and coming across the cabinet:

 

“Nice cabinet,” one of them might say.

 

“Yeah, but look: infested with mice. Tell you what, why don’t you take that?”

 

† You know the scene in ‘A Beautiful Mind’ where the wife goes to the garden shed and finds a demented spider’s web of string chronicling her husband’s descent into madness? Well, a couple of weeks ago I clambered over Andrew’s toolbox to access the cupboard under the stairs. Hidden behind the door was a whole wall stacked with computers and modems malevolently blinking and beeping. I was chased away by Andrew’s army of trained bats, ‘mwa ha ha’ laughter echoing in my ears