I am Brilliant

I have achieved several notable things today. 

I wish I could say that I have brokered an accord in the Middle East, or that I have finally persuaded Simon Cowell that he is tanorexic and sent him to tanner’s anonymous.  Sadly, in terms of world shattering news, my notable things don’t even rate very highly in the free Glenfield paper, which is so interesting I have forgotten its name.

In the tiny world of the Boo’s however, they were magnificent, glowing achievements on a par with discovering the double helix or climbing Everest clad in only a fur lined bikini.

You are going to be so disappointed when I finally quit waffling and actually tell you.

Firstly, I have cleaned out the cupboard under the sink.

This might seem like an easy thing to do, to those of you who have fairly tame ‘cupboards under the sink’, but when you realise what a festival of horrors lurked under mine you may be slightly more approving. 

The cupboard under the sink is the only cupboard in the kitchen which has a safety clasp.  Therefore, all toxic and/or important things get deposited there.  I have for example, decided that it would be a perfect place to stash our frankly paltry amount of alcohol.  We hardly ever drink, so it’s not worth digging out a wine cellar, or even going to wine rack building classes.  As of today we have 1 mostly empty bottle of Tanqueray Ten. One full bottle of Tanqueray Ten. One bottle of Bombay Sapphire, some Absolut Vodka miniatures in 100 assorted flavours (bought before I realised that Absolut tastes like drain cleaner and I much prefer Stoli. The Stoli is in the freezer), a bottle of dubious cider one of the kids won at the school raffle two years ago and nobody will even take away, and a bottle of Chardonnay that someone must have given us because I only drink red wine and Jason doesn’t like wine full stop.

This mixes freely with the drain cleaner, dish washer salt, etc.  It is joined by a large Mag Lite with a broken bulb that we keep meaning to getting around to fixing, but need to keep out of the children’s clutches because it’s one that can stove a burglar’s head in at twenty paces and would be more accurately described as a weapon with a bulb in the end.

At one point I decided that we would be kind to birds.  I bought lots of bird seed.  We scattered some around. Jason went mad because we might be encouraging rats. Then he said that even if the birds did come that it would then encourage cats, and that would never do. And so we gave up feeding the birds. I deposited the three quarter gallon sack of bird food in the cupboard and promptly knocked it over.  I could not be bothered to clean it up, so up until this afternoon the whole cupboard was awash with bits of millett and sun flower seeds, some of which had adhered to the rinse aid when I forgot to put the lid on properly, and a small puddle of brackish water left over from the last time Oscar flooded the sink.

This whole delightful ensemble has then been covered with bin bags, hot water bottles, dustpan and brushes, some child’s sunglasses and an enormous stone garden light, complete with highly combustible lemon scented oil that someone gave us as a a preseent and we haven’t actually gotten round to sitting in the garden long enough to employ.

It was hell.  It was like going into the Heart of Darkness.

Now it looks lovely.  Everything is neatly ordered and tidy and all the bird seed has gone. 

I predict it will last less than a week.

The second great achievement has been cleaning the oven.  Now I don’t mean a cursory wipe round with some Jif. I mean dishwashing all the twiddly bits and rings off the top and the bits from the extractor fan, and covering everything else in Mr. Muscle until we were all wheezing like an asthmatic’s convention and the floor ran with dark brown, chemical excrement that made us all choke.  That kind of cleaning. 

Truly horrible.  It has taken the top layer off.  It has removed the horrible burned lump like a primeval mushroom, sprouting from the electric side of the oven, which I discovered a couple of days ago.  I hardly ever use this side of the oven, mainly because it is crap.  I presume it is actually charcoaled Yorkshire pudding, as this is the only thing I can remember cooking in there for the last six months.  I tried not to think about it too hard.  Mr. Muscle saw it off with nary a whimper.  Mainly because we couldn’t whimper, thanks to the toxic fumes emanating from the bowels of the oven.

I spent about an hour and a half swearing like a navvy and wondering about Sylvia Plath.  Not the most elegant way to go. Clearly she meant it.

The other achievements have been nicer.

I have finally bought myself a digital camera.  Jason has been reluctant to show me how his works.  Then, when I got my new phone the other week (Oscar spat milk down the volume control in the old one. At first I thought everyone had bad reception. Then it dawned on me.), he pointed out that it now has a 5 mega pixel camera, which is better than his digital camera anyway, therefore I don’t need to learn to use it.

I disagree. I want to have a phone that is a phone and a camera that is a camera. I know that you can get things that do all manner of other things these days, but I am very old fashioned about stuff like this.  I know I could make toast with the iron should I so desire. On the other hand, I prefer to use the toaster, because that’s what its designed to do. Certainly we could then throw the iron out, because the only ironing I ever do is those bloody Hama Beads and they’re driving me crazy.

So.  With some of the money Jason gifted me I have purchased a camera.  I sent Andrea to do the research because she is clever, and she knows what she is talking about, and she is clever enough to know how utterly retarded I am when it comes to technology.  I would have asked Jason but because he is a techno geek, he always massively over specs anything gadgety and I end up crying and throwing it at the wall, because when all I want to do is take a picture of one of the children sticking crayon pencils up their nose, it tries to get me to make an award winning short film complete with sub titles. No. No. No.

I have ordered a Canon.  This one.  It seems fairly idiot proof.  I might even be able to take the picture before the kids have buggered off to do something else.  Hoorah.

The other achievement was a stonking piece of luck.  I have been meaning to get around to reading Anthony Powell’s ‘A Dance to the Music of Time,’ for ever.  Keith recommended it to me on this very blog. I knew I had part of it (it’s in 12 volumes fans), but when I searched it out, I had Autumn. (It can be bought in four, seasonal volumes), which is typical of me, and not much use.  I put Spring on my wish list and have been failing to getting around to buying it for ages.  I nearly bought it last weekend, and then forgot that it was Autumn I had and didn’t want to duplicate.  Anyway, on Saturday, when we were a little early for our train, we wandered into a nearby second hand shop for a poke around for ten minutes, and they had Spring, for £1.  A bargain. An absolute and utter bargain.  I am delighted.  As soon as I’ve read my latest batch of must reads, I’m starting it.  It’s fate.

So. A momentous day in the Boo household. Nobody else will appreciate the magnificence, but I am covered in glory and smug self satisfaction and am convinced that when I read this back in twenty years time I will still be bloody impressed with myself.

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