Big storm last night. Still got a soggy wall.
Sigh.
The cynic in me says 'so there you have it - no such thing as a free lunch'.
The realist in me says 'you don't get nothing for nothing'.
The pragmatist says 'nice try now cough up for a proper repair'.
But the introvert says 'oh, a water feature - how nice!'.
Our wall is leaking. First spotted it last year - a damp patch spreading underneath the bedroom window. So I fixed it. Or so I thought.
Friends staying over this weekend raised the alarm and 'eeked' at the water pouring in from under the window during a particularly heavy downpour. They were good enough to diagnose the problem. "Some eejit's tried to fix it but they've done a shite job." Ahem. "You wanna get that fixed properly" they helpfully added, bringing the number of DIY-deficient dykes available in the house to four (the 'handyness' capability of all lesbians is an urban myth right?!)
Sowennyway, I scoured the usual suspects to find a handyperson, rang a few only to be told "prrrfph, can fit you in after Christmas - maybe" and "I'd love to help but I don't want to" (a loose translation). Grr.
Wondering back from the shop, I marvelled at how fortunate builders were not to need extra cash jobs. Wish I could say the same. And then inspiration struck. Looming up ahead was a fluorescent jacket smoking a rollup. Here was my chance of picking one up on the street.
As I drew closer said lumo-jack grinned at me. I grabbed the opportunity. "Erm, any chance you can help me out?" said I. Expecting a lot of prrrfphing, I prepared myself for builder rejection. "If I can" he said. Wow! What a lovely young boy! (Please-tell-me-I'm-not-the-only-35yr-old-who-finds-themselves-going-"aww-bless"-to-any-polite-person-who-looks-less-than-25?) I explained my predicament and he said, "Hold on and I'll come and have a look for you right now."
Long story short = I whipped him round to my house, up to the bedroom and showed him my crack(s). It's true. And while the double entendre sounds lame, I fess I found myself admiring his youthful, taut, tanned body not to mention huge smile. Perv. I quickly reminded myself the real attraction had been his willingness to help what (in his eyes) amounted to an old lady with a leak. Sob.
Said lad explained what I needed and promised to pop back tomorrow to fix it. And off he went. That'll be that then. He was probably just humouring me. I even 'fessed the whole episode (inc lurid thoughts) to Lah that evening and she just laughed before calling me a perv.
Sigh.
8.30am this morning and 'my man' was back. Chirpy as you like, came in, took his shoes off, popped upstairs, filled my crack(s), chatting all the time, while I looked on, admiringly. All the while thinking "what a tight butt!". I think I need counselling. I can't work out what's worse - letching after a boy after all these years or the fact he might not have even been born when I was dancing to I'm so excited by the Pointer Sisters. Do you think it's my hormones?
All this desperate housewife-like confessing is most cathartic but the point of my diatribe is that when he was all finished, I thanked him profusely and offered him £20 for his trouble. "No way" he said, "I don't want it". I tried another four or five more times to convince him he DID want it, but he point blank refused. Amazing. I could feel myself falling in love all the more.
He left his number and told me that if it didn't do the trick, I had to call and he'd try something else. I even read an innuendo into that. Sick woman. All I could do was watch him leave, closing my gate neatly as he flashed me one last winsome smile before jogging off down the road.
Swoon.
I'm going to take it as a Pay it Forward moment. I'm off to accost some (really) old lady and make her let me carry her bags home. Meantime, I'll work on my Hysteria Lane attitude.
G&T anyone?
It's been a while. I'm not sure I'm a blogger. More of a lurker.
A blurker?
I enjoy reading others posts - identify with so many of their highs, lows, worries, irritations, that my posts seem superfluous somehow. Maybe I'll warm in to it.
Work has been all absorbing of late. I've inherited the most strangest of projects - through the oddest of routes (a long time email - yet never met - pal). I'm now helping them sell a household product that is all too available on every corner - but we're looking to sell a lot better version for a lot more money. The product is class. Really. And ethical. And small business. And protects an ancient tradition. The reason it's expensive is that we're paying the originators a fair price. Our competitors buy cheap versions from abroad and exploit people left, right and centre.
Can we shift the tide and get people to pay for quality? Can we attempt to halt the Tesco's stranglehold on the GBP? Can most of us really afford to be discerning? Champagne tastes, lemonade pockets most of us. And the rest - the rich - they're just as keen to save their pennies for more important items - like Prada handbags and Krystal. Sigh.
It is going to be an interesting exercise. Already we've got support from the idealists and those termed 'greenies' by the cynical masses. I love these people. So concerned with the big picture. So disinterested with the materialistic excesses. Non conformist. One label we do share. A label to be proud of, I always think.
On another subject, I've been reading 30 some'aats post about 'first times' and am tempted to submit my entry ... just thinking about capturing it in 10 pt font makes me feel all unnecessary. Maybe I'll just lurk some more and see what others do first.
Coward.
