After re-reading my first post ‘Living with the Enemy’ it has occurred to me that Pedro might have some cause to worry about living with me.
‘Surely not!’ I hear you exclaim
no, I didn’t hear anything.
To pre-warn Pedro of the perils of living with me I am going to be completely honest and reveal my very worst traits as a potential housemate:
- I am a duvet hog. I like to get so wrapped up in the duvet, with some underneath me and the rest around me, that I wake up hot and confused and have to kick it off me in a frantic attempt to become more temperate. Pedro has already noticed this, and has threatened to buy one of those duvets that wrap round the entire bed so I can’t steal it all in the night. I find this idea logically sound but I still cannot agree to it – perhaps, like leaving the toilet seat up, this is again a subconscious revolt against female oppression? (clearly just a very conscious desire to get my own way)
- I like to have the windows open. Even in the depths of winter I crave fresh air, and feel stuffy and shut-in if a window isn’t open somewhere, even just a crack. Perhaps this is why I need to be a duvet hog?
- I fall asleep during films. There are very few films I have seen all the way through. Recently, Pedro and I went to the cinema to watch a film. It was far too warm in the cinema (no windows open you see), and the film was one Pedro chose (I won’t name names cough*Thor2*cough) which I perhaps didn’t find as stimulating as I could have done. After the first twenty minutes I became bored of Thor’s biceps and nodded off. I woke for the last twenty minutes. This is a common feature of many films I watch. What gives it away is when Pedro (now wise to this failing) quizzes me on the plot of the film. The first hour or so of most films I can describe in fairly accurate detail (particularly if they feature biceps) – the last hour becomes vague mumbling under Pedro’s incredulous stare.
- I ask annoying questions (see previous post ‘Once Upon a Time’). These clearly frustrate Pedro, who cannot use his logical brain to decide what animal he would be. I cannot stop asking these questions (part of my inane desire to fill any silence with mindless chatter.)
- I round up prices to the nearest million. I did maths A-Level (yes really!) and as a musician regularly count to 4 mostly correctly. I can calculate sale prices (60% off etc – not that sales EVER seem to have this much off!) in my head. I am what I would consider basically good with numbers. However despite knowing that I am mathematically wrong I cannot stop myself from stating of every high price – ‘a million pounds – to the nearest million’. For example – £2 for a piece of fruit in a shop – a million pounds (to the nearest million). £250,000 to buy a house – a million pounds (to the nearest million). A beautiful BEAUTIFUL Mulberry handbag – definitely a million pounds (to the nearest million.) You get the idea.
- I cannot iron. I dread getting the ironing board out of the cupboard. I can’t seem to put it up without messing it up somehow – who on earth finds it easy to find the correct height adjustment on the ironing board without trying to do it without looking, failing miserably, trying to get underneath the board, then toppling over so the ironing board is on its side, then wrestling it back upright again?! Then when I iron the clothes, they end up with more creases in than they started with, or end up with weird wet patches all over them which don’t come off. I am a huge fan of the take straight out the washing machine and pop on a drying rack fan club. Minimal effort, minimal creases.
- I get terrifyingly grumpy when I’m hungry. You know the Snickers advert at the moment? With the catchphrase ‘you become a right diva when you’re hungry’? That is basically me. I snap at people, I kick off about minor issues (eg ‘Why won’t people walk faster?!’) and generally cause grief.
- I molt my long, thick frizzy hair EVERYWHERE – on the floor, in the plughole, in Pedro’s face…It is a full time job just keeping it out of the way. I wish it was long, thick and wavy. Or long, thick and curly. But I really can’t lie – it is pure frizz. I spend a FORTUNE (a million pounds – to the nearest million) on anti-frizz products. It takes my lovely hairdresser Jordan a million hours (to the nearest million) to cut it, and he always exclaims in dismay ‘Oh – it’s thicker than last time isn’t it?’ I should buy shares in Mr Muscle sink and drain unblocker.
- I watch ‘rubbish’ TV. I adore programmes like ‘Made in Chelsea’. I rarely miss an episode of ‘Eastenders’. I know they are deemed ‘rubbish’. But they are harmless escapism. They remind me how mercifully and comparatively drama-free my own life is. And they give me something extra to chat about with my very good friends, all intelligent, funny women, who happen to also have a penchant for ‘trash’ TV.
So there you have it Pedro et al. I am a duvet hogging, frizzy haired, trash TV-watching, sleepy, question asking, window-opening grump with an inability to iron or complete basic maths.
And yet I must be doing something right – as I still get to move in with the marvelous Pedro.
Just one last thing – if you were a meal, what meal would you be?!