There has been a manner of drama at the Chez over the past 24 or so.
Last night Miss9 tried to beat her personal best, almost succeeding with a reading of 39.3. The personal best from memory is a whopping 39.9 if I remember correctly. If you’re worried, it was all relatively calm today – a day on the couch with Panadol every 4 hours will ensure that. And I bow at the temple of Panadol – every, single, day.
The weirdo neighbour might have copped it a little this morning. Reversing at the ungodly hour of 7.30am (it is 30 December after all) to go to the gym, Tim (to my left) had left his bin in my driveway. And I say Tim and not the Garbo’s because Tim’s car was gone and I KNOW he couldn’t be bothered to move it on his way out. So, because I am mature like that, I got out of my vehicle and positioned his bin in the middle of HIS driveway. Try parking your fucking Kluger now Sunshine.
So the coast was clear, and I swing happily into the street. Only problem is that my parking sensors start screaming blue murder and I see movement at the side of my car. I have an a-grade heart attack. And then I see the weirdo neighbour from across the road at the car window, coffee cup in hand, flapping (as you do). Still having a coronary I get the window down and yell “What???? What???”. Turns out, and I quote, he is making an unpaid public service announcement on behalf of the police to tell me his garage was broken into and I should lock up my house, even if am watering the garden or hanging the washing. Because there are robbers in stealth mode in my neighbourhood. I thanked him kindly, and reminded him that I am South African. We lock up our houses. With deadbolts on the inside and out. That’s how we roll. We teethe on deadbolts and keys.
There was nothing worth reporting in the way of drama for the rest of the day aside from the ongoing battle between the Big O and I on Words with Friends. We are not so friendly about it however. There is talk of cheating.
I neglected to mention that Miss 12 in sympathy with Miss9 awoke this morning with a massive temperature and general malaise. Sweet.
As the sun started it’s descent I thought perhaps to create a cross breeze in the upstairs I should open the balcony up that faces seaside. You know that myth about the sea air healing and all. I was greeted with this shock and horror.
Disgusting. Vile. No words.
So like a tool, I yell for the Big O who promptly jumps on the roof like it’s Everest with a broom in hand and heads for the nest. Only problem is its full of baby pigeons who start crying in their own special way. Which causes me to screech in my own special way for the Big O to back off and leave them be. The result has not been good for me because apparently it’s now my responsibility to clean up the above mess. Because I am allowing them to live rent free on my balcony. And crap their hearts out.
Unfortunately I have done this before.
For some previous occupants on my bedroom balcony. I am a softy for animal rights. So I glove up – like the photo above,
According to the Big O and Miss12, pigeons don’t qualify for animal rights. Miss12 will agree with anything the Big O says at the moment because she is batting for a Facebook account. Best of luck with that Sweetheart bearing in mind your father likens FB to the devil.
The pigeons stay. In a week’s time, I glove up (refer to above again) and put on some wellies, to clean up. And I do it with pleasure. Because pigeons do count. Even if they make a frigging mess that smells like death.
And that Facebook account. Not happening anytime soon Miss 12. Sorry. Maybe if you help me clean up. Maybe.
And after all that I think I am deserving of this. Happy New Year Peeps. Love and Light xxx