Yesterday, The Singing Swede and I had a traumatic wedding dress shopping experience. I had taken her to the shop that shall remain nameless, to show her dresses cheaper than the one she had fallen in love with, to see if she was in love with wedding dresses on the whole, or just that particular dress.
We were there half an hour and ran screaming from the building. Such was the grubbiness of the samples that we immediately got out the antibacterial gel to sanitise ourselves on leaving. It was awful. As was the moment the Singing Swede got the spray nozzle around the wrong way and I got a mouthful of Carex waterless soap.
This saw me stumbling up the road, blowing soapy bubbles everywhere.
So refined, aren’t I?
We then met GBman for a nice dinner and drink to recover and it was lovely. Until GBman said to me, ‘You’re such a prick!’
I sat there shocked, struggling to fit this sentence into the context of my impending visit to Penthouse Flatmate and her family that I had been telling him about.
‘I’m sorry?’ I stuttered.
‘You’re such a prick,’ he said again.
Except he didn’t. He said brick, which is Enid Blyton speak for reliable mate.
Phew! With that confusion cleared up, we got back to watching the Arsenal/Barcelona game, until I asked GBman if anyone famous played for Barcelona and then he really did feel like saying something rude to me.
I’m not a football fan, I must confess. I can easily think of a million things I’d rather do with 90 minutes of my time than watch a bunch of overpaid men kick a ball about, kick each other and roll around the floor writhing in agony for five minutes before getting up and continuing as normal.
I don’t understand the appeal. I never have, and I never will. But I have promised GBman I won’t ask stupid questions again when he’s trying to enjoy the match…
In other news, there was a fire alarm at work today and no one told me about it! I was working away and looked up and everyone was putting their coats on…
Time to put some new batteries in my vibrating pager I think!