I Sound Like Who?

Preface

I was in two minds about posting this blog because it could be considered disloyal: however in bed last night, doing the Guardian Quiz, we had this:-

"What links:  Staircase, Milan; Phoenix, Venice; St Charles, Naples?”

They’re the names of their opera houses in the local language.

“Yes, simple, well it must be simple if you got it …”

Which put the tin hat on it (as my parents used to say) – so lay on McDuff …

Both my husbands were divorcees; I used to jest that this meant they were at least housetrained. 

The first was, the current is still fairly feral.

To be fair he is both intelligent and very well educated, reads a quality daily and Sunday newspaper, listens to Radio 3, used to go to the opera and bathes every evening.

But he seems to have an anathema to using a dining table much preferring to “Have it in a bowl on our knees watching Pointless.” 

As he does virtually all the cooking I’ve given in to this.

I frequently respond with “As long as it’s something that doesn’t need cutting,

I’m not using a knife and fork on my knees.” 

It’s amazing how many meals you can eat with just a fork or spoon.

One of Fester’s less attractive habits (and there’s a few to choose from) is wiping his mucky fingers on the nearest bit of cloth, especially when he’s eating.

Usually the nearest fabric to hand is his shirt, or trousers, even if there is a serviette available.  However he has developed the habit of sneakily wiping juicy or greasy fingers on the soft furniture.

I am not the most scrupulous of housewives, some would even call me slatternly.  But I am the sort of person that puts covers and throws on easy chairs because it helps keep them clean.  Covers can be taken off and washed.  I like to change them in Spring and Autumn.

I do have standards, low though they may be, and using the soft furnishings as a napkin is taking a lend.  The other evening he completed his tea with a couple of oranges and there he was, again, surreptitiously wiping his finger on the crochet blanket (which his late mother made, to add insult to injury) covering the chase longue.

I went light.

"Look!  Look!  You’re at it again!  Wiping your fingers on the upholstery ...  And look! Look! The serviette is right there in front of you!  It’s not six inches away from your mug …”

I noticed Thunderthighs smiling.

“What are you laughing at?”

“You sound just like Edie out of Last of The Summer Wine.”

Post Script

The last time I was compared to a TV character it was Hyacinth Bucket, I’m not sure whether this is an improvement. 

I suppose I should be glad it wasn’t Nora Batty.  Although, back in the late 1980s, when I suggested one of my bosses that a cardigan wasn’t really suitable wear for a professional advertising director such as him, his response included “you come in here in your Nora Batty tights”.