The immortal words from Shakespeare’s Macbeth have been running around my head for some weeks now. As Pip sits in full blown lockdown in Englandshire and I bask in the sunshine of Tier 184.108.40.206 Level 15 in Edinburgh, we remain steadfast in our determination to trek.
Does anyone, anywhere understand anything Covid related these days?
Nobody anywhere knows what the hell is going on - Are we allowed out? I know we definitely have to wear masks everywhere.....Is Christmas cancelled?.....Am I grumpy because I am marooned in my house with only a dog for company? Or is it (in the words of the awesome Caitlin Moran) that I am currently in the 'Sunday Morning' of my life and no longer high on Oestrogen?
Quite where we will be trekking come the second weekend in December is anyone’s guess. Even if we have to trek remotely, we are determined to continue our progress towards Nepal and the adventure of a lifetime.
Perhaps we can video call whilst hiking?
Whilst we await the misguided words of our not so great leaders, I have turned my attention to all things domestic.
On a walk with our badly behaved dog, Ever Patient Husband and I engaged in our usual banter. I take the piss out of him for his golf activities and he takes the piss out of me for my walking escapades. It’s a lovely way to spend an hour and any couple who has been together for longer than three years, will understand the need for such piss taking. It keeps it fresh.
Part of my piss taking was about his insistence on ‘ironing’ his golf jumpers and trousers in the shower. This is a weird predilection which began a number of years ago when we were staying in a hotel somewhere. There was no iron in the room and instead of asking reception for one, EPH chose to hang his shirt up on the shower rail, run the shower on full heat, shut the bathroom door and wait twenty minutes.
When he returned to the shirt and the equatorial rain forest that was now the bathroom, his shirt was still just as creased, but in his head it looked ‘ironed’. FFS!
This is a perfect example of foible blindness......Where you are so entranced with and ensconced in foiblish behaviour that you distort reality in order to continue with the foible...I refer you, Dear Reader, to my spice cupboard.....
For reasons, best known to himself, EPH has continued with this tradition at home. He dutifully hangs his golf clothing up in the shower and switches the shower on full blast, then wanders off to do whatever preparation is required for a game of golf.
This would not be so irritating, if a) it actually worked and b) he wasn’t the same man who constantly moaned about how the house was too warm and how many lights were left on which in turn kills a zillion polar bears and means our bills are really high (this is a family joke left over from when Eldest Daughter was in high school and told the entire household off for leaving lights on, stating very clearly that it was our fault polar bears were dying - we did laugh.)
Does leaving lights on kill polar bears?
I had gone into the bathroom, switched the shower off and very loudly told him to go and get the effing iron out and iron his things properly. He ignored me, picked up his crease ridden clothing, put them on and went to play golf.
Back to our dog walking conversation....
I may have accidentally dropped into the conversation that I wrote a blog about his stock making, or lack thereof, endeavors at the start of lockdown 220.127.116.11.6 version 16, tier 2. His ears pricked up as the conversation related to him. Up until that point, I’d been experiencing that very husband like listening which consists of ‘hmmms’ and grunts which means he’s absolutely not listening at all, but trying to appear to be listening as he knows he’d be in serious trouble if he didn’t at least pretend to listen.
Again, anyone who has been with the same partner for more than three years will understand exactly what I’m talking about.
”You wrote about my cooking?” He asked in his best surprised tone.
”Yes.” I replied as neutrally as I could.
”I hope you didn’t say anything rude about me.”
“No darling.” I lied. (If you have read the one about the stock, it’s well worth a read).
Seriously read it.....
”So people who read the blog know I made stock for broth?”
”Yes, they did and they seemed to quite like it.”
The walk continued without further incident and I felt I’d dodged quite a serious inquisition and didn’t have to lie too much.
A mere few hours later and EPH husband announced
”I’m going to make some soup.”
Coincidence? I think not. You have to understand that EPH has at various times throughout our fourteen years together promised to make ginger bread loaf, stock, broth, biscuits, soup and numerous other culinary delights. He has made none of them. Not a single dish. He has purchased soup making recipe books for me, which I have duly ignored, but he has not yet delivered on any of his promises in the kitchen.
Does this make him a bad person? No. It does not. It just makes him a bit more endearing if you like that sort of thing.
I waited to see if this rash announcement to make soup turned into reality. Reader, it did. I found him in the kitchen at the chopping board, chopping actual vegetables. I refrained from commenting, for fear it would break the spell.
About ten minutes into chopping vegetables, EPH declared that he was ‘bored’ and it was ‘boring’ making soup.
EPH isn’t wrong here - Making soup is dull, Eating soup on the other hand is a joy. Especially after a hike.
I left the room for fear he would walk away leaving a pile of half chopped vegetables and a pot of boiling lentils for me to deal with. To his credit, he pushed on through the boredom and managed to produce what was a rather delicious soup.
He’s since repeated the exercise, this time without being bored, which I have since discovered is his way of saying ‘I don’t really know what I’m doing here, but because I’m an Alpha male and from the East Coast of Scotland, there’s absolutely no way on this earth I’m going to admit that or ask for help.’ I guess it is quicker to just say ‘I’m bored’.
Would this soup making activity have occurred if I hadn’t mentioned the public exposure his previous attempts have been given? Call me cynical, but I suspect not. I have given EPH his air time and given credit where credit is due. I now await the ginger bread loaf with baited breath.
Today, is Saturday and as has become traditional, I do yoga on a Saturday morning whilst EPH walks the dog. I now do my Transcendental Meditation after yoga (I know it should be the other way round if I’m doing it properly) and then write or edit this blog, depending on whose turn it is and EPH trots off to play golf with his mates.
This is a perfect Saturday. Youngest Daughter is usually out with her mates too and I have the day to myself. Not today readers. Not today. In the infinite wisdom of someone who hasn’t a clue what they’re doing, our not so great leader in Scotland, a certain Mrs Jimmy Cranky, has decided to put East Lothian and Edinburgh into some kind of opposing camp. Apparently if you live in Edinburgh you can’t play golf in East Lothian.
I have absolutely no idea why this might be the case, but it means that I have to cope with EPH all day today. A bit like entertaining a toddler, I’m going to have to organise some kind of activity to stop him irritating me. I have opted for Christmas shopping.
Interestingly, Youngest Daughter has already opted out, choosing to stay at home and walk across hot coals rather than going shopping with her father, who she says, and I quote ‘drives me completely mad when I go shopping with him.’
I, on the other hand, don’t mind shopping with EPH. It can be quite good fun. I’m just grateful that we have shops to visit and have money to buy presents as well as each other to wind up, take the piss out of and generally annoy until death do us part!
I on the other hand can only visit 'essential' shops ( Are garden centres essential?) and taking the piss out of the dog is dull, as he just looks at me with soulful eyes....I may be suffering from Shopping envy. But I will do with out the husband thanks.