Oh dear. This morning, a Saturday, which is Mark’s turn for a sleep-in, I noticed the light on in our room. The door was closed, and usually as Sleep-Ins are fairly well respected here, I would not have gone in until 9am, when I think it is more than fair to let the children in, regardless of how deep a sleep Mark may be in. But this morning was different. I heard a strumming sound. So I pushed opened the door, to see my husband sitting on the floor, in unfortunate shiny boxers, hitched only halfway up revealing his nicely cultivated Builder’s Crack, strumming his Totally Ignored And Never Ever Played guitar, plugged into a new, mysterious orange amp! There was such earnestness to the exercise that it was almost sweet. But really. An AMP. That means some evenings this week (not many, mind, as Mark cannot keep up hobbies more than about 3 days) I will have to witness some googling of terrible songs, then swearing and general blustering as the printer won’t work/his fingers will be too fat to play/the amp will not work properly/the guitar will not tune up well enough, etc. Then I will have the mac wretched from me as he trawls ebay looking for a better guitar and/or a better amp. And then all will be forgotten when he starts looking at 4-wheel drives again.
But we will be left with this:
Just as we have been left with
– the Outback Professional Range Pro BBQ – a behemoth that has never been used;
– the Swiss ball and blue 5kg handweights that have followed us from flat to flat over the last seven years and have never been used;
– the bits of MDF that he will make a ‘table’ from – these have never been used;
– the film reel rescued from a demolished house that may be ‘worth some money’. These lie dusty under his side of the bed, never been valued or in fact looked at;
– the skateboard rescued from a skip – never been used;
and the damning list goes on, and on, and on.
Alas. I am just bitter because the infernal rugby is on, and somewhere in deepest, darkest Shepherd’s Bush, Mark and Noah are in some antipodean’s living room at 9am, munching crisps and drinking toxic fizzy drinks, while cheering on the All Blacks. I would rather kill myself than join in, which makes me a bit of a Defective New Zealander. I do not care for the sports (must whisper that). I also do not care for boats and have a bit of a fish and seafood phobia. I am, in essence, made for a different place. Probably New York, except for the fact that am not groomed enough, a little bit frightened of high heels and not very thin. London, then.
Anyway, I have only two children to drag around with me today owing to the infernal rugby, so really should go mad and Do Something. Portobello? Or a sink into the Vogue issue with Julianne Moore. Tough choice.