Recently a BBC researcher contacted me and asked if the family would be willing to be filmed for a series on vicarage life. Obviously, narcissism urged me to say yes. I could be the next Amy Childs, only in an M&S cardie. The church teas on Fridays would be seething with fans wanting to bond with the Vicar over a Jammy Dodger. And watching the episodes would keep me going through the suspenseful wait for the next series of Rev . Indeed, said the researcher, a real-life Rev is what they are after. A heart-warming, fun-filled glimpse into family life in a vicarage to follow Songs of Praise . It was at that point I knew we had to say no. Any fly-on-the-wall portrait of our vicarage life would have to be shown after the 9pm watershed to protect the nation's children. I myself would find it hard to stomach: Graphic footage of me wrestling my chin bristles with deadly steel weaponry in the bathroom and, sheathed in rubber, delving for the plastic Smurf someone's dropped down
I have ordered a new pair of wellies from Amazon for the daily walk to school. My current hardly-at-all-old pair has developed a fissure along one toe. I only noticed this when I was wading along the stream that flows brownly past bobbing Argos bags en route to the afternoon pick up, and I was not pleased. They are a glamorous pair with pink spots and white swirls, bought to ease my daughter's pain in ackowledging a wellie-wearing, stream-paddling mother in public. I now distrust wellies with spots and swirls, so order a safe-looking green pair. Better to be waterproof than glamorous. Royal Mail gets them as far as my door, thrusts through a 'Sorry you were out' card, and promptly loses them. Amazon is sympathetic and dispatches a replacement pair. This also makes it to my door and again a card is left. This time I decide to pick them up in person from the Royal Mail depot. The man behind the glass screen makes off with my delivery card and probably has a cup of tea and
I have always done my own cleaning. Not very often, mind. Once every month or so keeps the funghi at bay. But, each time I've worked out where I keep the dusters, boy do I let rip! Skirting boards. Pelmets. U bends. With my portable radio in one armpit and a sheaf of Miele nozzles in the other, I stalk the vicarage assaulting cobwebs and secretly binning any infant possessions that can't be kicked to oblivion under the beds. But uncooperative lungs have prevented me terrorising the family filth since mid December and even the Vicar is noticing the dustballs that skim in his wake. Sensibly, he seeks out a cleaner for a day to tide us over. I am excited because someone else can fidget the grime out of my daughter's shell collection. And I am nervous because I'm not sure I can cope with someone toiling over my bacteria while I lie on my day bed. What if she forgets to tame the muesli-like stuff under the sofa cushions? (We don't buy muesli. How does it get there?) Wh
This will get us through the vicar's sermons.
ReplyDeleteNow I know why Spanish beer tastes of cats' pee...
ReplyDeleteI'm guarding the good stuff....hic
ReplyDeleteMy eyes are too beautiful to be seen in public all the time! bye
ReplyDeleteI found the EMPTY box... someone else drank the beer ... honest! hic
ReplyDeleteIf I hide in here I might some beer
ReplyDeleteDon't forget your pets this Christmas
ReplyDeleteSan Miguel's advertising idea of getting a free cat with each cartoon was a roaring success!
ReplyDeleteIs it a coincidence my eyes are the same colour as lager?....hic!
ReplyDeleteTa da! What? Oh, right, you said Puss in BOOTS. Sorry.
ReplyDeleteWho's the designated driver?
ReplyDeleteA cat is for life not just for boozing . . . ;)
ReplyDeleteWhat beer? *hic* *meow*
ReplyDeleteMiaow who drunk all the cats piss?
ReplyDeleteI'll be hibernatingin here for the next few weeks, come and get me when all that darn christmas fuss is over
ReplyDeleteIs it safe to come out? Has xfactor finished yet?
ReplyDeleteAnother reason to drink San Miguel - it comes with free cat carrier! (pet not included)
ReplyDelete