Hang on a minute – Wispa eating

photo of woman running on field
Photo by Wendy Wei on Pexels.com

Feeling a little bit along the lines of needing to run around the park, hands flying, mouth wide, guttural sounds frightening the neighbourhood – cabin fever hit big – I managed to compose myself for a very short while before the call of the Wispa chocolate bar hit me.

Wispa, my new favourite. This past Easter the Hubster and I had a DE-LI-CIOUS Wispa Easter Egg. Man, did we enjoy it. The egg itself was neither here nor there, the bars themselves were the winners.

Back to last night then. There was a brief face-off while contemplating the sensible option of eating only half the bar.  The internal argument being by eating half tonight, then the calories will be half the bar, and tomorrow evening the rest could be consumed, therefore keeping my calorie controlled daily intake in check – yeah right on that thought, what’s a calorie-controlled daily intake?

Or

I could eat the entire bar last night and not have any chocolate today. Perfect. 2 days of chocolate in one go. Surely that works?

What did I do?

Gif courtesy of here: SMILE

Easy, shoved the whole darn bar down my gullet.

What happens tonight when the Hubster hovers more chocolate within my reach?

I’m pretty sure that question is easily answered. After some well thought out logic that confirms, tonight, I will be eating next Thursday’s chocolate, the Wispa wrapper will be off.

Happy Saturday

 

 

 

 

 

15 minutes without my Valentine

stone artwork

Flipping heck, in the 25 years of being together, the hubster and I have never, and I mean never missed spending Valentines together. Not that we go all out mushy or anything, we just share a nice meal and enjoy being together. This bloody year though, I will be working on Valentines night. The graveyard shift 2.30pm – 10.30pm. WHAT! And I mean WHAT! the flaming heck am I going to do, eating my leftovers from a plastic container in the company dining room, amongst many, and I mean many other folk who are no doubt lovely, but not who I want to be with.

I look at the hubster now, snoozing at my side, in front of the TV and feel positive the same will occur tomorrow, with or without me here. But you know what, I don’t give a flying hoot, because I’d rather be next to my man, snoozing and snoring his way through Valentines, than sitting in front of a computer screen and eating leftover risotto any day.

Groaning and moaning and feeling sorry for myself over.

Happy Valentines good people

#Valentine #Valentines #Hubster

 

If you have come across my blog, welcome. It’s here for me to type for 15 minutes and then post. No great theme to the blog, other than keeping me writing

 

 

 

 

 

 

15 minutes with a cheeky piece of cod

Once a decade or so the hubster shares a joke that has me a-chucklin’. This week it arrived.

Photo by Matt Hardy on Pexels.com

A lady walks to her local fish shop, approaches the counter and says, “I would like a piece of cod.”

The fishmonger smiles and says, “Sorry, madam, but we have no cod.”

The lady wastes no time in reply, “But I want a piece of cod.”

“Madam,” the fishmonger says, “We have no cod.”

This goes back and forth for quite some time until the fishmonger says, “Madam, let me spell cod for you. C O F.”

The lady is quick to reply, “there is no F in cod.”

The fishmonger smiles, “Exactly, Madam. That’s what I’ve been telling you for the last half an hour we have no F-in-Cod.”

Should you have fallen on this blog, it is purely there for me to write for 15 minutes without giving the content too much thought

15 minutes with alpha, charlie and an aubergine

brinjal

Photo credit: Mine

Unlike a lot of my graveyard shifts when I’ve been working alone, last night we were three. And my goodness what a massive difference it made, on so many levels. Laughter was surely heard from Buckinghamshire to Glasgow me thinks.

After my mispronouncing the Headcount Report which left the three of us roaring, one of my colleagues relayed the story of how her husband called his insurance company to report a chip in his windscreen. Wanting to lighten the moment he proceeded to tell his number plate using a more humourous version of the alpha, charlie phonetic alphabet.

K – for Kit-kat he said. By this time my colleague was almost controlling her laughter, and then she hit us with the classic – O for Aubergine. Well, we almost collapsed. OK, you probably had to be there to appreciate it, but say it out loud a few times and you’ll have a giggle at least. Especially when you consider he really didn’t get it that it wasn’t O for Obergine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

 

 

 

 

15 minutes and the need to rewind time

Eternal_clock

Image from HERE

Licking breakfast marmalade from my fingers, hubster is considering his next move to wash-up or head out to run.

“What’s the time?” I said.

“Huh,” he says, a sense of glee in his voice alerting me this is not going to be as easy as it should be. “The clock says 7.58, the radio says 8.01, so it must be 9am.”

“You what?”

“I’m running at 9am, you asked me.”

“No, I asked you what the time is.”

“No, you asked me what time I’m running.”

Giving up licking marmalade, I reply. “I didn’t. I asked you what the time is and you said, The clock says 7.58, the radio says 8.01, so it must be 9am.”

Hubster sits down. “No, you asked me what time I’m running.”

“Well if I did, then why did you tell me it was sometime between 7.58 and 8.01?”

Hubster looks at me, that way he does when he really wants to end the conversation and pretend it hasn’t happened, as in, little smile, almost a flutter of his eyelids.

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” I said, trying hard not to stop licking fingers and start chewing them. “If we could have a rewind button and remove the last 90 seconds of our life?”

Hardly surprising to learn we both agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

Did you say pubic wig?

Now I’ve heard and seen everything. An ex-stripper in the UK has super-glued her bottom to a shop window as a form of protest.

Fair enough, protest as you will. But a pubic wig? Really, they have these? Do you buy them at your chemist or supermarket?

Personally I’m a-wonder-ing if she headed to her local hair salon, swept up the trimmed hair and made her own with Velcro and a piece of felt. OUCH

Read more if you will at TheDailyMail

FERRARI PRESS AGENCY - 24/09/15 - Image of nearly naked Kay Bishop, 56, glued her bum to Debenhams in Croydon to protest about migrants and the police. Photo by @busrxoz - SEE FERRARI COPY
FERRARI PRESS AGENCY – 24/09/15 – Image of nearly naked Kay Bishop, 56, glued her bum to Debenhams in Croydon to protest about migrants and the police. Photo by @busrxoz 

Hubby’s Tools and plenty of dust!

Well there be lots going on in the Ruth2Day household at the moment. We’ve had the damp fixed, we’ve almost completely painted the interior, we’ve even had some cooking done in the kitchen – have I told you how apt I am with a packet of mince and a wooden spoon? I tell you life is looking good!

Admittedly it’s not been all happiness and goodwill. Nope, not at all. In fact I’d go as far as to say we’ve come mighty close to some serious blood-letting. Hubby’s that is, not mine, the perfectly delightful woman that I am 🙂

It’s the dust that goads me people. The grey particles. The bane of my life. The stuff that gets in between your toes, that reaches your knickers leaving you to itch, the sort of itch that would have you screw your nose and bop on the spot.

It’s everywhere. And I mean everywhere. And does hubby think to cover things when he reaches for his sander? His gunfight at the OK Carroll pose taken, hammer and screwdriver in opposite pockets, revving his tool, his brow beading as sander touches wall, spitting particles of dust into yonder? No. No. Simply put, no. Nope, nooooo he doesn’t. Instead he grins like a three year old as my glare takes on monumental passion, my finger tips having left paths in acres of dust as far afield as rooms he hadn’t even been near.

“What?” he says, fluttering his eyes, dust rolling down his cheeks.  Yes, you boys do that to! “I can’t see anything.”

“No, darling,” I say, my right hand hovering around his screwdriver. “How about putting on your specs then?”

Of course maintenance isn’t just about dust, it’s about tools too.  And many men, I would suspect, will consider themselves incomplete without a man-sized toolbox at their side, chunky and slightly battered from holding up the beer fridge on Rugby days. Not to mention the umpteen shelves of half-filled jars of screws, bolts and dust, and in hubby’s case his personal favourite of mangled paint brushes submerged for decades in turps. I’ve not tried this myself, but I’m suspecting that once lit and burning, these little gems will ignite the braai . . . for the next month . . . for the whole street.

Around about maintenance time we seem to suffer the lose of kitchen utensils too, mostly knives that is. Take this past weekend for example. I purchased a nifty knife sharpener. It’s great, got a suction pad and very portable. I’m thinking about those days when sharpening is needed but you’d much prefer to be in the pool. No problem with this little gadget lovely ladies. Picture it. There you are, floating on the lilo,  sharpener suctioned to the chopping board you’ve balanced on your chest. Feeling rather parched you have a Martini in one hand, blunt knife in the other. I mean how clever is that? Talk about multi-task!

Sorry the lilo and the Martini overtook my track of thought there. Yes, missing knives. Despite hubby’s very full toolbox and gadget full shed, he seems to find much joy in smuggling out my knives to cut tape, saw through plastic tubing, and if he’s lucky enough to get away with it, do some pruning as he makes his way towards the waiting tube. And isn’t that exactly what he did this weekend. Yes, he did. There I found him, on his hands and knees, picking flecks of paint from the skirting with my very nicely, newly sharpened knife.

“What are you doing,” I roared, feet apart, hands in the air.

He shrugs, continuing to scrape. “I thought your nice sharp knife would do the trick.”

Trick! I’ll give him a trick. Head in Hoover bag here we come!

Rocky Horror, Prime Circle and the UFO

Did you have a good New Year? Lots of festivities and happiness, or early to bed and slept through?

Hubby and I were hoping to see The Rocky Horror Picture Show, but sadly it was fully booked. Such a shame as I was so looking forward to welcoming in the New Year with Dr. Frank N. Furter.

Oh well, maybe next year. Um, correction, this coming New Years eve – nothing like looking ahead is there – I’ll do all my bookings early i.e. not three days before.  Although I must say I was quite taken aback that Capetonians actually pre-booked well in advance for something, because let’s be fair here, ye old mountain goats do lean towards last minute decisions.

Well we headed to the Waterfront, which was pumping – wind and people that is. Prime Circle were billed, and even well before they were due on stage other bands were blasting out a noise, entertaining many and no doubt startling just as many in the process. Hubby was in the startled brigade and wasn’t keen on eating his fish ‘n chips wearing earmuffs, which seemed pretty ridiculous to me as his hands wouldn’t have been compromised. But anyway, he got his way, and with that in mind we ate at Willoughby’s and headed home shortly after.

Back home we went wild and watched the TV. Honestly the excitement of the night was so much I was poised to scream. Anyway, just prior to midnight I was out in the garden when I swear I saw a UFO. And before you say anything, it was well before we popped the champers!!!! So where was I, oh yes here. Looking skyward, I spotted a fast moving, bright light, that was certainly not a plane; the light was single and the speed was way too fast, as well as it seemed quite low. Hubby said he was sure it was a satellite, but I’m not so sure about this. If anything I would put money on it being a UFO whose occupants after scanning my retina and internal organs, decided I wasn’t quite up to scratch and left me standing. While I’m pretty chuffed about remaining on earth, I can’t help thinking how rude they were, I am after all quite delightful.