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 mins – had a thought

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Driving to work this morning, navigating my way around more roundabouts than should be legally built in one city, I had a thought.

My mood lifted, my grin grew.

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Photo by Emily Hopper on Pexels.com

Yes. Finally. Something to blog about. Something fun. Indeed, the kick up the backside needed to sit me at the keyboard again. Quickly the entire blog was mapped out in my mind. A little humour here, a little nonsense there, a little sharing of me. Perfect in every way. What was that? Did you mention modesty?

Several roundabouts later and quickly heading into the building, my plan was to ignore my normal daily tasks and, cheekily, whack out an email to myself, of said blog, for copy and paste and publish later on. Who would question my furious taping at the keyboard? Not a sausage.

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Photo by Mateusz Dach on Pexels.com

What could go wrong?

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Palm to forehead. I bloody well forgot it all. No hints, no a-ha moments. Nothing,

Note to self: Numpty!

 

 

Purpose of this blog. No purpose. Only a place to write for 15 minutes. Thank you so much for dopping by

15 minutes with a Pirate colleague

There’s long been a suspicion in the household of how the Hubster doesn’t really pay as much attention to me as perhaps he should do. Case in point was this past week.

“Hey, Hubster,” I said, my phone roughly three inches from his nose. “Look at this photo of where I was today.”

He’s always keen to hear about my day at work, and as that particular day had taken us to play Pirate Crazy Golf, part of a team-building/getting-to-know-you/building-relationships day with colleagues, it was sure to be a better conversation than the normal one along the lines of.

Hubster. “How was your day?”

Me. “Same old, same old. This one did this, that one did that, I got lost in the warehouse again, lunch was yet another baked potato with tuna, blah, blah, blah, I came home.”

Hubster. “Right. Coffee or tea?” – a euphemism for, well that was bloody boring, let’s move on.

So back to the phone, settled inches from his nose, displaying a superb digital image that with all likeliness will never be seen again.

“Oh,” the Hubster, says, completely genuinely, no jokes, no nothing. “He looks a bit stiff, is that one of your colleagues?”

“WHAT?” I said – phone dropped to my lap, chin on chest, eyes wider than a 10lt casserole dish. “Are you serious? How can that be a colleague?”

Take a look, let me know what you think.

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This blog has no theme other than to allow me 15 minutes to put a blog together. Thank you for visiting

15 minutes without my Valentine

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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

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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