And so Friday night passed in a haze of alcohol and Saturday passed in a blur of Doing Nothing Productive. So Sunday seemed the perfect time to do something more useful, mainly because it will be my Last Chance For A While. Namely: the perimeter fence at the Allittlement needs to be built, which needs the help of the Bossman, and time is running out for this because he is due in Korea*, the height of Weed Season is approaching, the rusty corrugated iron I blagged to make the perimeter is currently resting on me chives, etc. God, when did I get this old. However, after that I have prepaid sushi and prosecco and the wrastlin’ all booked, so I can still cut it. Slightly. And raw fish and wrastlin’ is a good reward for hauling heavy things about, right?
(*Some people have the Good ‘oh woe is my job’ trials and tribulations. I suspect they are, Whoever Has Job Problems Unlike Yours, but there you go).
So I got up at a civilised hour, and while the rest of the house slumbered away, I did twice my own bodyweight in dishes and cleaned everything that could be cleaned quietly. By midday, I was done, nobody else was up, and I was starting to look askance at the clock. However! It seems rude to kick someone who’s about to travel halfway round the world out of bed with a cry of, Get up and haul rusty iron, you scurvy dog!
(I should probably take my facebook off pirate-speak; with my utter lack of Real social activity, it’s getting harder to communicate in standard English.)
On the bright side, with the domestic drudgery out of the way, I have lots of things I want to do, and some peace to do them in!
Which is right when the Bossman began to make waking-up noises. Curses, foiled again! He will now need cups of tea and creaking bedsprings and a shower and a full fry-up and then I will have to abandon the dishes and run, sod my lodger’s reaction, for we will be lucky indeed to start on the perimeter before three in the afternoon! (Estimated time we have to leave the Allittlement so I can get changed before we go out? Three p.m. Woe.)
Of course I could throw a strop and/or deny him all or some of the above, but it seems a bit harsh, and will not encourage any further aid. And I will soon need gravel and sand and someone with a car to drive it all about.
Le sigh. Angry creaking bedsprings it is.
But it still might have all been okay, if he had not asked what time it was, afterwards, and told me I had ‘better get frying then’.
I did consider very carefully whether it would not be quicker to commit homicide with the frying pan and go and haul the damn rusty iron by myself, in the hope that my rage gave me the strength of ten. I know, I know, he was making a joke (but why, why, is it right when I am quietly fuming about how I now might not have time to do a thing that is important to me, on account of how I tried to put the other person’s needs first, and trying not to let it boil over into a proper strop at them, because that would be unfair, as I made that decision myself… why is it that said person decides this is the perfect moment to mock me? One day, there will be blood. And afterwards I will feel like a right arsehole, but it will be too late.)
I should probably point out round about here that my wailings about my tribulations are mainly supposed to showcase my failings. After all, if I was a rocket scientist and a superhero on the side I would fill this corner of the interdoodle with tales of my amazing prowess (at least in the field of rocket science, since going on about being a superhero would be somewhat of a giveaway). Since I have yet to come up with any prowess, however, wailings about tribulation it is. And about the people in my life who give me these tribulations, and who I love deeply both despite and because of it. (With the exception of everyone in the chain above me at work, who I will love deeply just as soon as I have become a superhero rocket scientist and they can bite me.) So I moan and wail about everyone for comedic purposes, much in the same way that, say, Rigsby, the disastrously unprofessional landlord out of Rising Damp moaned and wailed about being ‘oppressed’ by his tenants; Miss Jones, who he adored in a horribly embarrassing fashion, and Philip, who Rigsby looked down on, despite being African nobility and worth about ten of him. Rigby was by design a terrible person, but one with delusions of grandeur despite the universe consistently trying to hint otherwise. A bit like me, I have the horrible suspicion.
Also, Rising Damp was considered hilarious around about the time I was five.
However, in the same vein, there is surely a level of comedy somewhere in the gritting-your-teeth impotent rage regarding the need to fulfill a busy schedule with the help of one’s hungry beau, versus the needs of said beau? [Only if one is doing it right – Ed].
I fear I am not doing this right, hence the ruining of any mood with a disclaimer. It’s so meta! Heh.
Also, several of my previous beaus have used the Bossman’s in perfect seriousness, which is why we are not still together. (They are not dead, I am proud to report. Yes, ‘proud’, my personal standards of morality are failing badly).
[And that there was where it really stopped being funny – Ed].
Anyway. I finally got the show on the road (the Bossman was persuaded that perhaps he could do the frying, rather than standing watching me do it, while I cleared all the soil off the dining table. Yes, soil. Look it’s the height of Seed Season, okay?) And we got down the Allittlement at around two. Woo!
Bigger than me, he may be, but I did not expect the Bossman to be able to lift a big iron object, one which I could barely move, up over his head and just wander around with it. Which did not improve my mood. And he appears to be nettle-proof. Since I still look like I just had a run-in with the pox, this did not improve my mood either.
And thus, despite my best efforts to be fair and giving and wonderful, and having smacked nobody today, either physically or verbally, I am still a horrible person. Bah. Rigsby rides again.
Still, it took about ten minutes to make the perimeter, and then it started to rain, so we toddled off home and I did nothing whatsoever productive with the next hour and a half. Go me; I have learned to piss around and ignore my houseguests, but not yet to draw or do sums with someone (who I am ignoring) breathing down my neck.
I have, however, decided that whatever I go to see (bands, comedians, sodding Impressionist exhibitions, whatever), I must go home afterwards and see if there is fanfiction concerning it.
The sushi was good, but sadly there was not enough of it, so the Bossman sprang for us to have some proper food – in my case, a bowl of spicy Thai soup that I could have fitted my head in. Whoops. And then we were hours and hours too early for the wrastlin’, so we went round the block and had strange and expensive forrin beers in a pen in the weak sunshine. Because dammit, there is sunshine, and it will be enjoyed!
Bloody freezing it was, despite the fleece-and-two-hoodies combo (no, I did not spend any time getting dolled up in the end. Sod it, bank holiday tomorrow, and am I going clubbing? Am I hell.)
The wrastlin’ area in the Classic Grand is far, far smaller than the venue in the Garage. I began to become alarmed.
However, it was all good. Not too many folks and I managed to mosey up to the balcony edge. Completely got muscled back out again over the next hour, but I went to the bar and the Bossman muscled back in, so it was all good. Highlights:
– the crowd going nuts for Mikey Whiplash and Lolita, (clearly a different crowd from the Garage crowd; they hate the ‘freaks’); Sideshow Bob the Ref doing the best face-heel turn ever in response to Mikey’s ‘sexual magic’ – stripping down to fishnet stockings and a camisole halfway through the match and gyrating around playing with his hair, rather than announcing the ‘good guys’ as the winners. It ended badly for him – the other ref came flying in and beat the crap out of him with what I felt was more than adequate enthusiasm (mind you, the boy does ham it up something chronic at all times).
– Jester pitching someone into the crowd for a protracted fight and turning aside from my pint at the last minute.
However, it proved to be some sort of showcase for Jimmy to join ICW on a more regular basis (oh please, oh please) because it consisted of him in no uncertain terms getting the crap kicked out of him, then demanding his opponent get back in the ring because he was still conscious, dammit.
– And White Lightning made an appearance. This confused me somewhat as I thought he was introduced as Red Lightning – who I thought had retired, and who also seemed to have lost a lot of weight in the last two months. And not a small amount of height. And some years. And in fact looked the absolute spit of Draco Malfoy, except with added backflips. (Seriously, halfway through the match, he suddenly backflipped right out of the ring into the crowd and drank off someone’s cider.)
My new One true Pairing: Jimmy Havoc versus White Lightning. And the latter to kick the shit out of the former.
(It’s okay, he’d enjoy it. It says so on his bio).
To my shock and horror, there is no ICW fanfiction. Really, I would plug this gap myself (fnar) but I simply don’t have the talent time.