Not long after I met Mark, his Dad left his Mum for a woman who went by the name of Mary. Trouble she was. Trouble in a feisty five foot small little Irish package.
Soon after, cushions from the family sofa and a whole collection of teaspoons started disappearing. Now far be it from me to start pointing the finger at he who was setting up home with someone else’s wife, but my point is this: it wasn’t me. I wasn’t stealing the pillows or the aluminium spoons even though in his Mum’s eyes, although she liked me awfully, regardless, I was the only possible suspect and would have to hauled in front of a cup of
I mention this rather scandalous state of affairs because it has become apparent that while the spoon thief clearly doesn’t find my floral cushions attractive he can’t keep his grubby little hands out of my cutlery drawer. The full extent of this particular crisis became apparent on Saturday night when in a fit of the hostess with the mostess I found myself laying the table for oodles of people when clearly dinner a deux would have been more fitting considering I couldn’t rustle up more than two matching places at the table from two, once huge, canteens (I love that word!) of cutlery. So I concentrated on lighting too many candles and making the rest of the room look twinkly and relied on plying my good friends with wine and hoping they wouldn’t notice that their knives were weightless while their forks required a forklift truck to get the chilli into their mouths…
Things disappear don’t they? While it clearly won’t do to point the finger at Mark and his erstwhile lady friend, or indeed his father, it is becoming clear to me that there exists, somewhere on our rose-sprinkled planet, a black hole filled with bone handled forks and pink paisley socks. Remember my darlings, the terrible case of the washing machine filter? You don’t? Perhaps I never told you… I do seem to be suffering from a rather spectacular case of blog induced Alzheimers lately…
While I would like to pretend to be the kind of Mummy that monitors socks with the kind of vengeance I only reserve for my stash of rose creams, most of the time socks come and go and sometimes they go away in pairs and often they find themselves living in a rather fetching little apricot and cornflower blue net
What I did notice was that whole vials of lavender oil weren’t making a jot of difference to the stench that was my laundry. In it went, smelly. And out it came. Smellier. I was mystified so I donned my Sherlock Holmes pinny (a rather snazzy tweed affair) and got down on my hands and knees to investigate. I opened the filter and watched grey water splash my toes.
Hmmm, I said, stroking my whiskers and fiddling with my bushy sideburns.
Hmmmmmm, I thought as I stooped to stare into the bowels of the machine and saw what looked, for all the world, like a tangled mouse. I froze. And screamed. And called my little mate Finley.
“Sweetheart, what’s that in Mummy’s washing machine?” I screeched.
“Its a dead mouse” he said and went back to inflicting severe punishment on his pink power ranger.
Oh dear Lord. A dead mouse in my washing machine. Who do you call? Mouse busters?
I was freaking. And a Mummy. And Mummy’s aren’t allowed to be scared of dead anything just in case it scars their children for life, so I pulled on some leopard print rubber gloves and dragged the filter and the mouse it contained, out, and stood in the foot deep bath of dirty water that followed it, staring at the mouse, baulking past myself and wanting my Mum. Then I got a fork and poked the mouse. Yep. That seemed like the slimy furry skin of a drowned rodent. So I poked it again to make sure, called Finley to have the matter witnessed by someone less round the bend than I, and sighed in sick relief, when my four year old looked at me like I had finally lost my marbles, and said “That’s the sock that goes with my grey pants silly, can I have a biscuit now Mum?”
A sock, a lovely little sock. I pulled it out with my teeth (only joking), practiced my breast stroke up and down the river that was my kitchen and chucked the mouse stained fork into the bin. Which probably explains why one of my darling guests found herself nibbling a really rather sublime slither of raspberry chocolate tart off the end of a pint-sized Noddy fork on Saturday night.
If I ever invite you to dinner, do us all a favour and invent a prior engagement won’t you?
…sweet funny friend across the sea…you already have your book…and it is this…and all the other too funny and wonderful tales you keep us looking for daily…now go put it together …and get the thing published! laney
Yes, I agree with Laney. If I were to tell the stories of smelly things my children must be witness to, there'd be a closed book in no time. However, when you tell it… giggles and lovliness! Blessings… polly (p.s. my son's are the silverware culprits here too – they use the spoons to pop their heelie wheels in and out!)
lol that's funny…sounds just like what goes on in our house!
YES YES YES!!!! This IS the book, simply glean off choice posts, this one included. I can see it on our library shelves now, it would have a beautiful vintage image on the cover, enticing us to take it home. In the meantime, I feel a party theme coming on, “mis-matched” cutlery night anyone?? Rejoice in your Bobthomasspongepuss tack!!! x
OMG!!! a version of that happend to me a while back just my sock mouse was under my bed :p
you crack me up no end, Miss Ali!
oh my. I think I probably would have gotten sick, lol. I do not handle slimy things very well. *eeeew*
Ok…….so was it really a mouse, or really a sock then??!! Cos if it was only a sock, why did you throw the fork away????!!
Anyhoo – I love that cutlery doesn’t match – in fact my favourite restaurant in St Ives, Cornwall, prides itself on it’s shabby chic oddness. And I love it. As I’m sure your dinner guests love spending the evening at yours. Can I come next time?!
PS: I had to contend with a real LIVE frog in my dining room the other day, courtesy of my pesky cat……
Very good. Did the sock have whiskers? I have many odds socks in my airing cupboard. Who knows, maybe their partners are gambolling behind the skirting board.
You are too funny. You really do need to write a book 🙂
Things always seem to disappear
at our house too..who knows what happens to it all.
No, I'd accept without a hesitation, and bring my own fork.
I often wonder where socks go to hide!!
oh and I’d love mismatched old cutlery…our set is new and shiny and modern…and is somehow lacking for that!
It is always so fun to stop by here. Hope all is well with you!
So delighted to find your blog.
Your post has had me in stitches.
I have added a link to this site to my blog. I hope you don’t mind?
A prior engagement?? And miss all the fun that is Alison!? Not a chance! 🙂
We moved into a lovely old house in the country once, that had a rather unfortunate mouse problem. My husband set a mouse trap ON the kitchen counter, and the next day there was a mouse, alive, caught by the tail… said hubby went to pick up the trap, the mouse got loose, and hubby promptly stabbed it with a fork that matched the set my Grandmother had given us for our wedding!!!!
Needless to say, that set is missing a fork… 🙂
LOL what a fun blog I am glad to have dropped in today!
Do you remember a US tv series called Eerie Indiana? They had an episode called Bureau of the Lost. It was fantastic. That's where all your stuff is…