(no subject)
Sometimes, I think, our family may be cursed.
This morning, between alarms, I had a semi-inappropriate dream about the man who presents DIY SOS. My dreams, curiously, are always rather straightforward affairs, being generally literal, occasionally predicting the future (yes, really) and never being of the kind of symbolic airy-fairy acid-trip things that many have come to think of to typify night time thoughts. Instead of, obviously, a sign of some kind of action it would, of course, be a prediction of the further DIY nightmares to befall Chez Nightingale this afternoon.
After another failed attempt at fixing the leak in our bathroom that has forced the removal of our bathroom flooring and has, also, removed part of the kitchen ceiling beneath it we thought we'd try our hand at something altogether easier. "Oh it won't be hard to replace some light switches and fixings now will it!?" we laughed jovially. Until we realised the wall was made of what, at best, you could describe as crumbled plaster and string and the light box behind was, well, broken, By the time we had removed said box we had, unfortunately, removed part of the wall also, and now there appears to be no hope of light returning to my bedroom with anything resembling immediacy,
Balls.
However, Dad is insistant we needn't call DIY SOS afterall as, looking on the bright side of things (yes he sang the song as well), we didn't manage to blow all the fuses in the house or anything so that can only be a good thing. Anyway, Dad now seems to be suggesting the motion that this is all, of course, My Fault. "You've gotta laugh" he says merrily, drink in hand, as I feel rather instead like crying. *
I'll soon be putting all this DIY bollocks behind me anyway, as I appear to be starting back at work on Monday. Never did I think I would actually be looking forward to such an occasion. I'll be opening envelopes, spreadsheeting my days away and shocking the IT department with the length of my skirts in no
time. Anyway, who couldn't have predicted that the woman who has chosen to deal with me at the agency tomorrow is busy all day and thus I have to be at the office by 9:15am? Cursed, cursed I tell you.
*please note: on recital of this livejournal entry to afore-mentioned Father, he'd like it to be known that this is the first time he has cried with laughter in approximately five years. I don't believe him, but there you go.
This morning, between alarms, I had a semi-inappropriate dream about the man who presents DIY SOS. My dreams, curiously, are always rather straightforward affairs, being generally literal, occasionally predicting the future (yes, really) and never being of the kind of symbolic airy-fairy acid-trip things that many have come to think of to typify night time thoughts. Instead of, obviously, a sign of some kind of action it would, of course, be a prediction of the further DIY nightmares to befall Chez Nightingale this afternoon.
After another failed attempt at fixing the leak in our bathroom that has forced the removal of our bathroom flooring and has, also, removed part of the kitchen ceiling beneath it we thought we'd try our hand at something altogether easier. "Oh it won't be hard to replace some light switches and fixings now will it!?" we laughed jovially. Until we realised the wall was made of what, at best, you could describe as crumbled plaster and string and the light box behind was, well, broken, By the time we had removed said box we had, unfortunately, removed part of the wall also, and now there appears to be no hope of light returning to my bedroom with anything resembling immediacy,
Balls.
However, Dad is insistant we needn't call DIY SOS afterall as, looking on the bright side of things (yes he sang the song as well), we didn't manage to blow all the fuses in the house or anything so that can only be a good thing. Anyway, Dad now seems to be suggesting the motion that this is all, of course, My Fault. "You've gotta laugh" he says merrily, drink in hand, as I feel rather instead like crying. *
I'll soon be putting all this DIY bollocks behind me anyway, as I appear to be starting back at work on Monday. Never did I think I would actually be looking forward to such an occasion. I'll be opening envelopes, spreadsheeting my days away and shocking the IT department with the length of my skirts in no
time. Anyway, who couldn't have predicted that the woman who has chosen to deal with me at the agency tomorrow is busy all day and thus I have to be at the office by 9:15am? Cursed, cursed I tell you.
*please note: on recital of this livejournal entry to afore-mentioned Father, he'd like it to be known that this is the first time he has cried with laughter in approximately five years. I don't believe him, but there you go.