Do You Have A Chicken In Your Laundry Basket?

Or - is it just me?

Morning!

It's Thursday. I’m going to try and write this blog post quickly. There’s nothing wrong with quickly, in fact, writing that arrives quickly is very satisfactory. But today I have a long list of things to do. So it’s more about necessity than choice.

And I’ve already been busy.

I’ve done that wonderful wash which leaves the laundry basket completely empty – no whites or delicates waiting for enough comrades to make a washing machine cycle worth the spin.

Except, the laundry basket isn’t really empty. This chicken is in it.

The chicken in the laundry basket

If in fact it is a chicken. Could it be a cockerel, perhaps? Or, considering the red protuberance at its throat, a turkey? A turkey with a hernia? Whatever it is, it's been in the laundry basket for several years. At least three.

I met it when I first met Sarah. It was holding open the door to her room. Because back then it was filled with rice. At least I think it was rice. It was definitely rice-like. Anyway, one day it decided its rice-containment time was over. Day by day it shed these little torpedo shaped white things, that looked like horrid insect maggots or pupae.

It was triangular in its rice-filled days. Now it’s flat. Sarah decided we were only one water glass spill away from a decidedly unpleasant carpet risotto. And so it was that the door-holding chicken became a flat, useless chicken, and for reasons no one remembers, was consigned to sit at the bottom of the laundry basket for the rest of eternity.

So, anyway - laundry: tick.

Then I cleaned the kitchen. Not one of those ‘wipe-around’ cleans, but a proper deep clean of every surface, and beneath every small appliance, collecting crumbs the way a farm dog rounds up errant sheep - but stopping short of rinsing the woolly wanderers into a sink or bin. That's beyond the scope and job description of a sheep dog.

I even cleaned the windows, inside and out. Yes I did. Inside, obviously, with a ‘smearless’ spray, and outside with a double-sided window cleaning ‘thing’ with a spongy wety bit and a rubber, wipey bit. (If I’m getting too technical, do raise a hand and I’ll try to explain it in layman's terms.) I was also thrilled to be able to use my new kitchen tap attachment doodah that allows me to connect the garden hose and finish my cleaning with a hosey rinse. Only outside, obviously, I’m not an idiot.

That hose was so marvellous that many spiders were, sadly, evicted from their webs and from nooks and crannies, because I tell you what, with cleanliness being next to godliness, I was on a roll, and the pearly gates were in my sights. That’s not to say I almost died while washing the windows, but you get what I mean, right?

Once done, I removed the hose from inside, and was pondering where in the shed… at which point I discovered I was a idiot. A water cannon of water sprayed me with enough force to make my adrenaline spike and think I was under attack. By, what, I’m not quite sure. An elephant? A hose monster? No idea.

I pointed the hose into the sink until I was no longer in mortal danger and my assailant was under control.

Then I felt the water dripping from my face. And my chest. And my jeans. I also realised I had indeed rinsed the inside of the windows too. And the fridge. And the floor and the wall and the bloody Wi-Fi router, six feet away, too! I'd also managed to soak the huge wall map of Tameside - but the North of England being under heavy showers was nothing new, so I didn't notice that till later.

I confess there was colourful language in the air for a little while. Some of it sounded like ‘LOOKING WELL!’ I was not proud of myself. There are kids in the houses either side. At that time, I was no one’s idea of a role model.

So I lost a lot of time, and three tea towels, returning the kitchen to the state it was in before I forgot that the hose remains full of water, and under high pressure, until you’ve emptied it, from either end. Sigh.

I don’t have a photo of me washing the windows today, Sarah is away. And at the time, this writing wasn’t even a twinkle in my creative eye, so a selfie never crossed my mind. But for those of you wondering what me washing windows might look like - here's one I did earlier. You’re welcome.

A man of many talents

Sarah often takes a photo of me working around the house. Not writing, I’m a bit like the Hulk when I’m writing: ‘Don’t interrupt me. You wouldn’t like me when I’m interrupted.’

I mean, Sarah's used to it, people take a lot of photos of her when she’s working...

Sarah working (photo by Clive Holland)

Sadly, it’s not quite as exciting when it’s me.

Me working (photo by Sarah, camera in one hand, Merlot in the other)

Sarah tends to have her feet up and a large glass of red wine in her hand when she takes these pics.

Any-hoo, the kitchen is now so clean you could cook and eat your dinner in it! I know.

Kitchen: tick.

My back was muttering a little to me after those kitchen hours. I decided a walk to Asda was a good way to cross another job off my list and stretch out my lower back at the same time. Who says men can’t multi-task, eh?

(Er, actually, I do. I mean, I can just about manage walking and talking at the same time – so long as it’s not on a steep incline, in which case I have to return to single-tasking. That task, being: ‘having late-onset asthma’.)

The trip didn’t require anything other than the most ordinary of shopping basket purchases: milk, broccoli, carrots, wine. Oh, and, according to my receipt: a ‘salad kit’. I had to think what that was. It’s a bag of lettuce, croutons, cheese and dressing that makes it a Caesar salad. It’s about half the quantity for the same price if I’d bought these things individually, but, like I said at the top of this writing (and I’m literally typing faster because I’ve reminded myself of it…) I have a lot to do today!

Shops. Tick. Home. Tick. Back feeling better. Tick. Excellent. Now on to the lounge. Oh.

The lounge has turned into a post office.

How am I going to watch Billions tonight!

It’s nice to get parcels, isn’t it? I mean, I imagine it is. Almost all of these are Sarah’s. What they are, I know not. But her name is on them, so my spidey sense says they’re for her. And those that aren’t for her, are for her, if you see what I mean. I spoil her, I really do.

And it’s at this precise point, as I contemplate boxes, it occurs to me – I need to write!

So here I am, keyboard in hand, sharing the desperately exciting and thrilling experience of my domestic chores. Again, you’re welcome. I hope I don't regret it.

Why, I hear you clamour in your hundreds, might I live to regret this post? Well, as I said, I have a lot to do today and this post is taking up valuable time. And my time is limited. I can't put off till tomorrow what I need to get done today - because tomorrow we have a guest...

Paulus - The Cabaret Geek

This guest. The Cabaret Geek himself, Paulus. He may not look exactly like this when he arrives tomorrow, because he's not coming to perform, he's coming to wear an altogether different hat.

More importantly, he will be sleeping in the spare room. The spare room, which most of the time is called ‘my office’. I have no intention of subjecting him to the tippy tap of my laptop while he’s trying to get some shut eye, so I have to get this done right now. Kind, I know.

But in performing this kindness I am also running the risk that his bedroom will be as unsleepable in as a cheese and onion crisp is unsailable in.

So stop distracting me, I have to get on.

But why bother writing at all if time is so short? I hear you wonder. Well, because the reason Paulus is arriving tomorrow, and the ‘hat’ he will be wearing, is that of Sarah’s Best Man. (My Best Man, Miles, doesn’t look so good in hats. Or make-up. Or heels. And he’s not arriving until Saturday, so is less of a concern today.)

And, you may have guessed it already – they’re arriving because Sarah and I ARE GETTING MARRIED ON SATURDAY!!!! At least, we’re doing the legal bit at the Town Hall on Saturday, the wedding party bit is a week and a half away, with llamas and donkeys, so again, less of a concern.

So what on earth am I doing it for? Well, my friends, the answer is clear – I want to be able to say that this is my final post as a single man! My final creative endeavour. Apart from my vows. And my speech. And another little story about the Spanish liqueur 43. And the card I’ll give Sarah on our wedding morning – so long as I remember to write it. Apart from all that, this will be the very last thing! Hurrah!

I mean I’ve already washed the kitchen windows, inside and out, for the last time as a single man and bought broccoli for the last time too. These are not exciting occasions, I grant you, but I am SO EXCITED, I simply wanted to share.

So, thank you, thank you, thank you for reading these last 'single-man' words. I look forward to addressing you very soon as the married man I am supremely happy to be metamorphosising into, emerging from single-hood like a wrongly identified chrysalis spilling out of a triangular chicken doorstop.

I’ll see you on the other side.

As a married man.

Best. Day. Ever.