Pottering, Sundays and Flying Knickers
I used to think that Sundays were the worst for single people.
I remember a particular conversation with one of my best friends 'Drinks Prosecco from a Bucket Mate' (I'm not going to initialise that as it would be silly, so I'm going to entitle him - Prosecco Mate).
Prosecco Mate was in the very early stages of a divorce having been married for over 20 years, understandably, he found this situation quite a challenge, as not only was his marriage over but also he had never lived alone and however unhappy one is in a relationship, one does get used to having company.
That‘s why I got a dog during my single slash slut years.
Anyway, we were chatting about living alone and he said across the top of the bucket of prosecco I had just handed him,
'I fucking hate Sundays - Why is everyone so fucking family-ish, what's the point in cooking a Sunday lunch for one? Its all bollocks.’
'Why are you going out or cooking a roast dinner if it pisses you off so much?' I enquired with a devastating lack of sensitivity.
'.........................' was his response.
As our regular readers (Hi Mum ) know I have been randomly single across much of my adult life, interspersed here and there with stunningly unsuccessful relationships, and I have to say I also used to hate Sundays.
I only went to one of your weddings and I have to say it was an excellent bash. Perhaps you could stick to the party bit and not do the signing on the dotted line bit? Bec - That is the plan.
Everyone out in their perfect little family groups, doing perfect family things, a universally recognised day for 'doing things as a family.'
Perfect family cunts
For a good while I took to skulking at home listening to music - but so often there would be some evocative track played on the radio (this is before the times of playlists or Siri, or Edna or whatever the others are called?)
And a la what's his name in Fear and Loathing (Duke?) I would think 'What kind of rat bastard psychotic would play that song right now, at this moment'
No idea what any of this means Pip. Is there a massive typo or cultural reference I’ve missed?
Bec its a massive cultural reference that has clearly passed you by... - Hunter S Thompson, Journalist and Novelist wrote stuff like 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas' 'Rum Diaries' and a rather interesting thing about Hells Angels the name of which I cant remember. He died early in 2000's I think.
And put the telly on in a fugue of slightly wallowy singleness....
The last 4 years of living on my own (including a short space of time when SPB moved in which was a joy and appalling at the same time) haven't been an unalloyed skip through the daisies, but on the whole I‘m much happier than during any of the marriages I've had.
The one hubby of yours I did have the misfortune to meet was utterly narcissistic and a bit psychotic. Other than that he was a really nice bloke.
I now welcome the whole Sunday trope thing - when off I toodle somewhere on a Sunday on my tod, I no longer see perfect families, doing perfect family shit. I now see exhausted people who are bored stiff with each other, with grumpy kids that are spoilt and demanding, all feeling forced to observe the Sunday outing ritual, and I thank whatever random deity that may exist and is possibly paying any attention, that my life isn't like that.
I listen to my 'in relationship' friends.
I am one of those.
It struck me as I typed that to wonder why everyone separates their group of friends into 'single' or 'in relationship' in their minds? As usual answers on a postcard please...
Pretty much unilaterally people in a relationship, moan (sometimes quite viciously) about their partners. They don't pull their weight, they don't listen, share, compliment the list of gripes is endless.
It’s necessary to keep those fires burning to have a jolly good whinge and then you’re able to deal with their many foibles without stabbing them. I love EPH really.
One of my friends recently mentioned to me that their partner whilst standing in the sitting room staring in confusion at the vacuum cleaner shouted
'How do I turn this damn hoover on?'
Despair and irritation were in equal measure quite apparent in the pithy retort of
'Oh For Fuck Sake! Have you plugged it in?‘
’Then press the frigging 'on' button!'
EPH can switch the hoover on. He does have trouble with the tumble dryer though as he hasn’t got a fucking clue what it’s for.
I laughed for slightly too long at this and suggested that they could have suggested that the partner tried communicating with the hoover via the medium of modern dance, something we would both happily have paid money to watch.
A new Glasto act perhaps?
By way of comparison; My single friends universally talk about stuff that they do, or are interested in, American Politics (you know who you are) decorating, gardening, work, books, the unremitting disappointment of dating sites, and the weird desire to have someone to do nothing with.
Doing nothing happily alone is a little like meditation - the first time you manage it properly you get a deep sense of peace and tranquillity, possibly even if I dare say it happiness.
Of course one doesn't have to be completely physically inactive, in order to potter, which one does to meditate.
I like a nice potter. Bec Meditates, I potter - I happily half start jobs, and plan meals and wander in the garden dead heading stuff, and all the while my mind is silent - Just like when you successfully meditate.
My head is full of bunny rabbits like Father Dougal from Father Ted. I also get confused with the difference between distant and close objects. Oh, and wind direction.
Everyone should have a nice potter - especially on a Sunday I think!
One of my favourite pottering pass times is hanging the washing out.
That's just weird.
My garden is the one of the smallest gardens in living history. Hence I have one of those slightly annoying 'whirligig' washing lines rather than one of those long pleasing lines that you get to prop up with a clothes prop.
I can while away ages happily not thinking about anything as I peg stuff on the line. Unfortunately for me, although I'm an accomplished 'pegger outerer' I‘m really pants at bringing it in - washing machine to line 5 minutes. Line to inside - could be days especially if it rains. I often just forget it‘a there.
I like it when it gets frozen and goes all stiff.
The other day we had every sort of weather in existence in one day, starting with beautiful blue skies and culminating in a storm of epic proportions. Half an hour into this thrashing windy blasting sideways rain storm I remembered with that the washing was still on the line.
'Bollocks' I said to the Dog, who looked at me pityingly.
As I dashed downstairs accompanied by said hound, I opened the back door to let the rain in and realised that my washing was strewn around the garden.
More swearing ensued as I slid my feet into former Boyfriend Thing’s wellies (I’m a size three, he has size 12 feet) and clomped out into the garden to collect my t-shirts and underwear which was by now festooning the pea netting, bay tree and interestingly the top of the greenhouse.
Why haven’t you thrown out ex-BT‘s wellies yet? FFS! He’s never coming back. Burn the bastard wellies. It will give you closure.
Because SPB wears them to walk the Dog.
Then we shall refer to them as SPB’s wellies from now on.
The Dog wisely stayed in the house, warm, dry and out of the way
I collected everything up, grumbling about my own washing based inadequacies, and beat a hasty retreat to join Dude in the house.
About an hour or so later when the howling gale had passed there was a knock at the door, off I went to the door, excitedly wondering what I had purchased after the 5th JD this time, Only to discover the chap from two doors up.
He is a nice guy, single, dresses up as StarTrek characters in his spare time. Just setting the scene.
Thankfully not wearing his Mr Spock ears. He was however clutching what looked worryingly like a collection of my underwear.
'Umm,' He started apparently labouring under the strain of complete embarrassment,
'I think these are yours?' The blush rose from his neck to the tips of his ears.
What a poppet. I’m now warming to him.
I decided that the only way to deal with this was not to admit to the toe curling humiliation that was rolling around inside me. He after all was embarrassed enough for both of us.
'Oh how kind of you' I trilled chirpily as I accepted the small sodden collection of three pairs of knickers and a vest.
I hope they were your good ones.
'They were on my Daliahs.' he told me helpfully.
'Oh. I‘m so sorry, I do hope your Daliahs have survived their brush with my underwear?' I said misguidedly trying to inject some humour into the conversation.
'Oh yes' he assured me seriously 'I mean they aren't very big pants are they?'
They were your good ones. Phew.
I decided any further comment would be gratuitous so I thanked neighbour again then shut the door and laughed until I cried, whilst my rained upon knickers dripped all over the floor and all I could think was....
'Thank Fuck they were new.’
Pip’s finest knickers
Random Star Trek dog