Last night, when the kids were sleeping, Mr. Fox and I were sitting at our computers. I got mail from British Sitcom Guide. That was very nice, because I think I'm banned everywhere else. I tried to read Not 4'33'' all day, but all I got was this lousy message: You are not authorized to view this page. Damn nurses. Damn Chernobyl. I realized it is the reason why I am like this.
Me: Oh, look at this photo. Mr. Fox: Jesus. Me: Not quite. Mr. Fox: He looks like a doorstop. I don't want to publish my toughts. Mr. Fox: Do you want some popcorn? Me: That'd be nice.
I'm staring at the photo, Mr.Fox comes back. Mr. Fox: Remind me to go back to the kitchen. Me: Okay. ( What did he say? ) Mr. Fox wanders around and sits back at the computer. Mr: Fox: Remember when we were listening this in some party in -95 or was it -96? I didn't remember it was that good. Me: Erm, no. What's the name of the band? Mr. Fox: Jesus! Me: No, sorry, I don't remember. Mr. Fox: The oil! Me: Jesus the oil?
He was already in the kitchen. The kettle was on fire. Smoke everywhere. I tried to open the windows. He found the blanket. (Thanks mom for the Christmas present. It was hot. Could we have a popcorn machine next year?) Me: Where's the window opener? Mr.Fox: Somewhere there. *pointing towards the cupboard* Me: Okay. ( We had new windows a while ago and never opened them before) I tried to find the missing thing, but I could find a long lost Duran badge (!), once very needed birthday candles and a mysterious wooden stick.
Mr. Fox: Open the balcony glazing! Me: How? (We got new glazing, what was it, two years ago) I manage to open it somehow. Mr. Fox carries the kettle, which is on fire again. Mr. Fox: The window opener must be under the sink. He finds it, I drop the iron on my toe. He opens the windows. I bang my head on the hanging flower pot. Smoke's finally gone. No popcorn. Boys are awake. I feel cold. Damn Chernobyl. I picture a nice book title in my mind: How to flambee your house in three easy steps.
Kids fall asleep. There's no smoke in the air, but my clothes stink very smoky indeed. Mr. Fox: Do you still want popcorn? Me: Yes please. Mr. Fox goes into the kitchen and comes back. Mr. Fox: Well, if I forget them again, bugger, we don't have to do any wallpapering. Didn't you want something darker?
We ate the bloody popcorn. We watched the bloody Emmerdale while eating. He bloody fell asleep on the sofa. We have been together far too long.
Woke up early. Received mail from some bloke(?) called Pito announcing: You 2 small. Tried to read some blogs, with no luck so far: HTTP Error 403 - Forbidden . What the heck, I tought, I could go and relax tonight. Early in the Friday morning I was standing half an hour in -15° C and finally got two tickets for tonights Danko Jones gig.
Am I there just now? No, Mr. Fox took his friend with him. (A friend who's born in Berlin and loves Gewurtztraminer, by the way.)
No, no and no. I am at home learning embroidery. And quess what,