Happy Days

This morning was the start of a day off. The sun was streaming through the window and the dogs had given us a lie in. If I hadn’t have been desperate for a piss, I could have described the scene as perfect. Partner sits up in bed: I reckon we’ll need to start saving for a new car, is his first utterance of the morning. Oh happy days. I mean, I know that both wing mirrors are smashed, that the power steering is fucked, that one of the sliding doors doesn’t open and if it is accidentally opened by an unknowing passenger, it requires a screwdriver to shut it again. I am also aware that the other door lacks lubrication and it requires more than Elton John has in his bedside table to make any difference. However, really? Do we need to be thinking about this on our day off?

We go downstairs for breakfast and pop a couple of croissants into the oven – bought specially as a treat for our day off. That oven stinks, partner commented. I think we should give that a clean today. Oh my god, you are having a giraffe, I think to myself. This day off just gets better and better. Oh, and we need to make holes in the membrane under the stones where the dogs piss, so that it doesn’t smell, he goes on. Well, I reply. Why don’t you stay at home and try to mend the car door that sort of works, prick holes in the garden and clean the oven, while I take myself off for a lovely walk in the sunshine and treat myself to a pub lunch. We can do the walk, partner answers, but I spent our spare cash on a tub of grease, some Mr Muscle and a garden fork, so we’ll have to take sandwiches.

Yes, happy days…

Partner, wielding a pitchfork on our day off, in Crocs