Last night, Husband tested his new car stereo at maximum volume as we drove down Henderson Valley Road. It blew off my clothes and tossed my hair around. The thrumming passenger seat whipped me into a nympohmaniacal frenzy.
I’m sure that would be entirely true if I were 10 years younger with a full supply of oestrogen. Also, had James Brown or Lenny Kravitz been playing rather than Moby.
Reality = the passenger seat chafed a bit 😦
It’s Friday afternoon and Husband is out in the garden winning friends and influencing neighbours by trying out his new circular saw. Hard to believe it’s only cutting through wood; it sounds like it’s crushing metal. I can tell we’re going to be popular around here.
As you may have guessed, Andrew has become frightfully domesticated in our new home and strides around measuring, taking cryptic notes, photographing what I would describe as blank walls, drilling, screwing, and threatening to drill and screw.
For eight years we have managed to hold middle age at bay, largely by dint of living in a city apartment barely large enough to hold a pot plant.
These days Andrew and I actually go shopping (together) and I find myself saying things like, “OOH, fabric softener – four litres for the price of three! And look Darling, it ‘conditions your laundry and gives it deep down softness with longer lasting freshness.’ How have I managed without this product for all these years?”
The other day I bought myself a pair of pruning shears with a safety catch.
I’m telling you, we’re bobsleighing down the slippery slope with no handbrake