You know that moment that we all inevitably enjoy, the one where despite ones advanced years , one looks around for a grown up to manage something, then with a sickening thump of realisation have to admit to yourself that you are now 52 and can be assumed to be an actual grown up? Well, I need an adultier adult to help me through the minefield that is life..
It has been said to me recently (and to be honest in the past, frequently) that I'm not safe to be let out on my own.....which I do think is a bit unfair as I don't think I'm a danger to others only myself!
The jury is out on this one Pip.
Earlier this week a lovely friend of mine arrived for dinner and a chat clutching two bottles of wine. This is becoming a weekly habit for me and Lovely Friend (hereafter referred to as LF)
LF is trying to woo back his previous partner, via decorating her house and cooking her yummy food - I can’t help but feel he is on a hiding to nothing but I'm maintaining a hopeful attitude about it as I do so want him to be happy!
My part in all this - outside of the standard shoulder to cry on and arbiter of good advice is that I cook something delicious and LF takes notes, thereafter stunning the recipient of his heart with his culinary skills.
It takes care in the community to a whole new level.
After one such evening, LF mentioned to me in tones of immense surprise.
' Gosh! I thought Risotto was a dark art....but its really easy! Who knew!'
'Well I did actually.' I laughed - feeling smug (the risotto was good!)
It is a dark art, as anyone who has ever tried to replicate this most elusive of rice dishes: creamy Italian, full of flavour and yet delicately balanced. A wistful glance into the distance, takes me back to Rome 2005.......
Invariably these evenings involve food and copious amounts of wine before collapsing into our respective beds (he stays in the spare room - just making that clear Mother) - and then in the morning off LF goes to woo his slightly recalcitrant ex lover back into his arms and I get on with my hangover.
Now the scene is set;
I grunt goodbye to LF as he tootles off and wander outside - looking adorable in my dressing gown - to get the bin in, when coming back down the drive, for no reason whatsoever, my body flings caution to the wind and chucks me on the ground.
The wheelie bin lands on top of me.
There I am, flat on my face on my drive at 7am. Being crushed by a bin. There is bin juice all over me and my dignity is somewhere at the top of my driveway. How delightful.
'OH, FOR FUCK SAKE!' I internally shout as I heave myself out from underneath the wheelie bin, now mournfully prone and dribbling bin juice in front of the garage.
Where on earth does bin juice come from? Does everyone's bin form this repellent liquid, should I employ the services of one of those little men with a van and a hose and a whirlie scrubby thing to wash the inside of my bin? Should I be covering my bin with those stick on floral patterns in an attempt to disguise it as a woodland? Should I even care?
With these thoughts running through my mind I limp painfully to the front door behind which the dog is whimpering, and enter the safety of my house - the dog who is so unutterably pleased to see me after my prolonged (5 minute) absence that he is overcome with glee and jumps up yipping like a puppy and knocks a huge vase in my hallway over.
The huge (old) vase immediately shatters into 11nty billion pieces. It’s a good job I’m fond of him.
I look up hopefully, scan the corners of my hall, nothing, nope, no adultier adult in sight. I'm going to have to stick the bastard thing back together myself.
I decide a cuppa has to be the next step, and bleed my way to the kitchen.
I have skinned my knee and it is dripping blood everywhere - this feels like a very immature thing to have done.
I fear Pip’s melodrama has taken a turn for the worse here. There was probably a minor graze at worst. A mere nick on her knee.
In an attempt to garner some sympathy and console myself I FaceTime Beautiful Daughter and SPB, they are gratifyingly concerned about their geriatric Mother.
It’s a good job she didn’t FaceTime me as I would have laughed and told her to stop being a fanny. Hence I didnt faceTime you Bec - oh most unfeeling of my friends
In the words of SPB when I zoomed in on my grazed knee.
'Oooh mind that looks ouchy.'
My question is Dear Reader - at what age does it move from - bloody hell my klutz of a Mother has fallen over again 'sighs in despair' to
Everyone in the car - Mothers had a fall .......and more to the point how far away from this am I? - I may need to prepare......
And where is the Adultier Adult to sort my knee out?
I live in Edinburgh and its a bit far to pop down to dab a grazed knee with wet tissue and find a plaster.
SPB and Lady W came down last week - they were their normal wonderful insouciant selves. We ended up in IKEA, where I purchased 3 huge bookshelves with doors, a pastry brush, two candles, a set of three cacti and one of those glass dome things that Victorian Gentlemen used to put stuffed hummingbirds into randomly.
What house would be complete without a glass dome in which to place stuffed humming birds.
An eclectic horde which pleased me greatly. It was a touch challenging to stuff into Gertie - even with her huge arse end!
We have, over the last few weeks, investigated both my and Bec's foibles - a word chosen both for the wonderful noise it makes when you say it - one of those words that becomes meaningless when you repeat it a lot: like table - go on try it! If you say table loads of times one after the other it stops meaning anything and just becomes a collection of vowels and consonants.
And because its not as rude as 'weird little things we do.'
It amounts to the same thing though Pip. They're all still weird and little.
This week‘s foible to discuss is my strange love of skulls, skeletons and all things Edgar Allen Poe -ish as well as a ridiculous addiction to ghost programmes and horror films - even though they terrify the life out of me! I do own a horror film cushion....and a large blankie that I can hide behind when needed....
And a large, looming picture of a black raven on the wall going up the stairs. It’s really creepy.
My house is scattered with Skulls, not real ones - that would be weird and smelly. Possibly a touch ghoulish...ceramic ones, paintings of skulls etc etc which is absolutely not ghoulish at all.
So struck with inspiration one evening whilst bored. I decide to purchase a pair of wine glasses held up by skeleton hands as advertised on Facebook.- ooooh lovely - what class - Don’t deny it I can hear you saying it!
A prime example of how Pip should not be left alone.
And my next decision is to insert them in the IKEA purchased glass dome thingy.
I'm rather pleased - see classy!
This is more hideous than she described to me on the phone. WTF?
Bec when introduced to my new ornament via video call, rudely hooted with laughter and gasped out.
'You have to put that in the blog.'
So I have.
Where is that dratted adultier adult?
Still in Edinburgh...sighing in despair.