You still haven’t fixed the bathroom door.
OK so I’d been meaning to do it. Alright alright, maybe it’s been on my list of things to do for 10 years, and deep down I knew I’d never get around to it. But then again it’s easy to know if there’s someone in the bathroom when there’s only two of you in the house.
But now there were three of us. Suddenly those carefree contemplative moments, alone, relaxed and undisturbed, were punctuated by fear every time you thought you heard footsteps drawing near. Panic induced lunges to brace the bathroom door are not conducive to relaxation, if you know what I mean? Please don’t make me spell it out.
We fixed the door!
You swear far too much.
I know I’m a bit of a potty mouth in the right company. I completely hold my hands up and admit it. It’s not like I make sailors blush or anything like that, and I rarely swear in front of women.
But when a fair maiden enters your domain, a sanctuary in which you’re accustomed to unfettered expression, then you can only be on your best behaviour for so long before the cracks begin to show. Throw in alcohol and trashy TV to yell at, and it’s carnage.
Oh my relief when we were having some banter one night, and she told me to ‘P*** Off’. Welcome to the family honey!
You now have a chocolate drawer?
I confess I’ve always been a bit of a comfort eater, and develop something of a sweet tooth when the late night post glass of wine ‘munchies’ kick in. I’m aware of my weakness, and intentionally keep the house clear of any such temptation as I know my resolve is weakened by the holy grape.
But dammit if we don’t now have our very own chocolate drawer in the house. A not so secret stash that calls out to me usually around the second glass of vino….”Phil, come visit me, see what delights I hold”.
On the plus side it forced me to kill my sweet tooth dead. It was either that or I’d be a slave to that damned drawer forever.
You know the lyrics to Disney songs.
When she has the voice of an angel, and she genuinely does, it’s lovely to hear singing resonate around the house. But why oh why does the repertoire have to include a sizeable selection of Disney tunes?
I try to block out the lyrics, I honestly do. Yet they soak into my unconscious via osmosis, and despite every ounce of my remaining masculinity putting up the most valiant resistance, those flaming ‘brainworms’ leave me defenceless.
In the end all I can do is lament the fact that I now know an unreasonable number of Disney song lyrics. Certainly more that any man of my age has a right to.
Maybe being follicly challenged has caused me to become less aware of how much a more hirsute individual moults on a daily basis. But I don’t remember ever losing as many as I now find around the house. Then again I had short brown hair, and Ryan’s is lighter but nonetheless similar in length.
Our wonderful female contingent has waste length blonde hair. It’s a glorious sight to behold, when it’s on her head. Less so when it takes up residence with many of it’s sisters in every plughole in the house. These stray hairs insidiously invade every garment during a wash cycle, and wrap themselves around so tightly that it takes some unravelling I can tell you.
Every surface she’s been in contact with, and just about every other bloody surface too, is now subject to infestation. That’s not even the weirdest part. It’s when I’ve been out and about half the day and I suddenly become aware of something itching my face, which turns out to be an errant hair completely woven into my stubble.
How is this woman not bald? Maybe this is normal and I’m out of practice being around the opposite sex for any length of time. My favourite theory is that it has mysterious hydra like qualities and no sooner does one hair fall, than two others burst forth to replace it.
Would I go back to it being an all male household, no way! We’re richer for the addition. Am I ready to add another? Let’s leave it a while, and only if she has short brunette hair.