Where is my minion?

I am lying on the sofa, wrapped in a blanket, feeling pitiful.

I was feeling so pitiful I wasn’t going to blog, but then, you know it’s an addiction, and the more I thought I wouldn’t, the more I needed to, and now, here I am, peering woefully over the top of the blanket as I type.

I do not know if I am just tired (almost certainly), or whether I am coming down with something (very possibly), or both (entirely feasible).  My throat is beginning to ache, I feel slightly sick and my head is rather pounding and tight feeling around the gills.


I will probably be fine by tomorrow.

I expect it is a reaction to too much driving.  I drove to Oxford today to visit with the ever lovely Hairy Farmer Family, the delightful Bumbling Along and her absolutely edible daughter, Moo, and a new (to me) and lovely blogger, Nuts in May and her equally lovely husband, ‘H’.  Not H from Steps.  That would have been extremely surreal, although hugely entertaining.

You know we would have had to get him to teach us all the moves for Tragedy.


Despite ‘H’ not being H from Steps, which was genuinely not a disappointment, we did see  Jimmy Carr eating his tea in Jamie Oliver’s Italian bistro on George Street, where we were having a long, long, leisurely lunch.  He looked tired and pissed off.  I did not go up to him and ask him to crack a joke.  He probably would have punched me in the eye.  I was just impressed that I recognised him.  I am not good with people from the telly unless they’re Sarah Beeny, Kevin McCloud or Kirstie Allsop.  How middle aged am I?  I’m surprised I managed to take my tartan slippers off long enough to leave the house and meet people with a pulse and hair of their own, I’m getting to be so bloody old.

I took Andrea with me as my wingwoman, and as I didn’t want her to think I had invited her along just so that she could do the driving, I drove.  It is not a bad journey from where we live, and I know the road reasonably well, having lived in Oxford for five years way back in the olden days, but you know I hate driving no matter how familiar it is.  It shrinks my head and makes me grind my teeth.  I also get sore hands where I grip the steering wheel too tightly, just in case.  I do not know why I grip it so hard.  I have never known a firm grip on a steering wheel avert imminent vehicular disaster, but my hands are definitely convinced they are helping things, even if my brain is not.

I got home, after a splendid day of sitting around filling our faces, talking nineteen to the dozen, and in my case, a short detour to Waterstones to buy books that I don’t need, don’t have time to read but cannot resist anyway, and have crashed and burned spectacularly.

Actually before the crashing and burning I did pick up the kids from granny’s on the way home, not forgetting to pick up some jars for Matilda’s latest culinary project, which I can’t really talk about here, as she is making Christmas presents, and some of the people the presents are intended for read this blog.  I got the kids home, did the bedtime routine, sorted laundry, put the washing machine on, put the dishwasher on, hoovered the floor where unspeakable things were lying about waiting to be trodden around the house, wiped down the kitchen which still had breakfast festooned all over it, sorted out everything the girls need for school tomorrow, built up the fire, helped Tilly with the next phase of her culinary project, and answered several pressing e-mails, text messages and phone calls.

No wonder I am feeling rather spent.

There is no running away from domesticity.  As a child you don’t really understand this fully, but once you start on the hamster wheel of domestic life it can only really be postponed, it cannot be avoided entirely.  Well, unless you become a millionaire or go and live on a desert island maybe.

It’s probably why Richard Branson looks so relentlessly cheerful all the while. He is a millionaire and has a desert island.  I bet he doesn’t have to worry about a broken bob chopper and nasty things lurking in the carpets.  He pays minions in shiny red jackets to do that sort of thing for him.

Well, that’s solved what I am asking Santa for on my Christmas list this year.  I shall have a minion in a shiny red jacket please.

7 responses to “Where is my minion?

  1. I hope it is just a driving hangover and all is well tomorrow. And what a brilliant idea; the girls have been bugging me about what I want for Christmas and laughed scornfully at my pitiful suggestion. A minion in a shiny red coat! I shall tell them, they will be delighted. Won’t they?

  2. Poor Katyboo, you realise it’s probably incipient Consumption (the Victorian variety, not the conspicuous type) caused by freezing in the MOD. Are there any supplies of laudanum available? Lemon and honey might do at a pinch with the addition of some paracetamol or similar. By the way, did the roof get fixed or is it still leaking?

    I second your request to Santa for a minion in a shiny red jacket. I have my faithful BB who doubles as my minion – albeit in a fairly slapdash kind of fashion at times. These days I takes what I can get in the way of housewifery help and my standards have slipped somewhat 😉

  3. I want a minion toooooo!

    SUCH a lovely day. Thank you, both!

  4. Alienne
    They will probably kidnap your minion and make it their own. You must get spares.

    This house is defeating my housewifely standards on a daily basis! I fancy some laudanum. It sounds aces.

    I will lend you mine if you make me cake.

  5. Seethingly jealous – in a kind way. You have met “Nuts in May” and H! and they have met you! You see, M of N in M and yourself are my two favourite blog writers from the UK. If only I could drag NZ (while retaining its weather and seasons) so much closer to England -I’m sure Dr Who or Captain Jack could work it somehow!

    Sending care and many huggles, Michelle and my darling, daft Zebby Cat in Wellington, NZ

  6. Michelle
    I did, they are lovely people. You would entirely approve in the flesh I am sure. x

  7. It was ever so wonderfully fun to meet you and Andrea the Wing-Woman. Golly, how I love people who can Go On about Shakespeare. I have found my Tribe!

    I completely missed Jimmy Carr having his tea. I am about as observant as a chair-leg.

    I will now teach my own H the Steps dance. Just for you. In a shiny red jacket, so he can double as a minion in his spare time. He makes an excellent minion, you know.

    And now I must go and be utterly verklempt by all this praise.

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