Abandon Hope, All Ye Innernets Who Enter Here

Visitors to Hairy Towers generally need something of the… well, the intrepid about them.

For a start, you must travel through Beyond in order to reach the Back, and then take a further right-hander towards The Sticks – whereupon you will most likely sail straight past the tiny and virtually un-signposted gap in the hedge. Then there is the road to our house, which is steep, absurdly cambered, dotted with vaguely macabre topiary animals, and harbouring potholes that need a gear-change down in order to escape. If you value your sump (or, if you are in a hire-car, your deposit) then you make your ascent at Fiennes-up-Everest speed.

Once you arrive on the moon-surface that is our driveway, you are treated to the gaping, roaring, woofing maws of our dogs – if you are fortunate, next door’s pair come to bark at you too – whereupon our two promptly start a turf-scrap, and you can use this diversionary incident to sneak to the front door in comparative safety.

There are a number of things that you might encounter upon ringing the doorbell, most of them worrisome to timid temperaments. What May and H found yesterday, after they had successfully braved both the drive and the mutts, was a bared-to-the-waist, sweaty, busily-vacuuming Hairy Farmer. He greeted them alone, as I was dancing around the bedroom struggling to untangle my legs from my (sweaty, lime & chili-encrusted, child-hand-print adorned) trousers and insert them into a half-way presentable skirt. I had heard the woofing and correctly diagnosed Visitors, but not even my most fish-wifey and repeated shrieks down the stairs to putagoddamnbloodyshirtonferthloveoGod could be heard over the dyson.

The reason John was vacuuming at this belated point hinges mainly around his congenital tendency towards procrastination – and 3 limes. When visitors come, the deal is that I cook, clean and entertain – after a fashion – whilst he runs errands, picks up the toys and vacuums. I had made my request for limes at about 6pm the previous day. At 11.30am, having been booted hard up the metaphorical arse, he went out in search of limes, drew a blank, and was obliged to visit the next town along. Two town visits in one morning was too much for him, and he was forced to relax outside afterwards, tinkering with Harry’s bike seat. Eventually my motivating remarks shrill screams dented his consciousness, but only in time to hoover half of one room before the doorbell rang.

The need for a pioneering-type spirit among our visitors does not end with admittance into the hall. No, no, no. You must have your wits about you at all times in this house. Drinks which you are well known to be allergic to will be casually proffered; bowls of (undercooked, but I think I got away with it. You’re still alive, right? …Right?… May?…) dessert will be presented completely and utterly sans cutlery for you simply to stand there and look at; you will be taken outside to stand under a burning hot sun to hear about wearisome and rambling horticultural inanity when you are already suffering the internal incandescence that is Clomid… and so it goes on.

Poor May & H. There you both are, the nicest patch of the internet in person; you turn up, you bring luscious scented wifey-treats (I smell niiiiice), you bring delicious farmer-beer (Guzzles. Burps. Smiles. Sticks thumbs up) you bring a fabulous wooden tortoise jigsaw (Paint chipped already: demanded via best and most insistent yoda-point on several occasions today, closely and gleefully examined,

tortoise jigsaw

hurled enthusiastically to floor, lather, rinse & repeat) and what happens? You get subjected to an afternoon with in-a-flap Wifey, a half-dressed Hairy, and a grizzly-pants Harry. Sigh. We must practise more at this entertaining business, and do better in future. 

Speaking of doing better in future, thank you all for your kind and bracing comments vis a vis Muscle Mass. I must regretfully disillusion you: it is all honest bulk, and my clothes are all tighter. I am simply an incorrigible fatty. The only muscles I will concede have turned manly toned up are my calves, as I can no longer do up the zip on my boots. Ach! Still, the ‘May & H-are-visiting-(hooray!)-Mississippi-Mud-Pie-that-for-some-bizarre-reason-I-kept-calling-Banoffee-Pie’ blow-out is over, and after I had finished the bloody thing for breakfast (yeah. I know. I have issues.) this morning, I put in a sterling performance at the gym. The fact that I suffered heart palpitations after 45 minutes that obliged me to dismount… is one I shall totally chalk up to hormones and lightly brush over, as dwelling on it will worry me no end.

Harry has been very good today. How about that?! And guess, just GUESS, WHO was measured at an absolutely huge and OMG-he’s-actually-growing-after-all foot size 4.5 G this afternoon?

harry M&Ds

Yes! Our 0.4th centile-line man is getting – ever so slightly – larger. It must be all those dry bread crusts we give him to chew on.

harry munching bread

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