In which Scotland is suddenly all sunshine and rainbows

This weekend, I had the Bossman over for the weekend. The original plan was for us to stay at his, and go out clubbing and, you know, do things that people With Lives do, so I can attempt to be a Decent Girlfriend and all, and he doesn’t regret the last Nearly A Year, but he suggested that since he’s chronically exhausted and I’m mental with stress, maybe we should hang out at mine and he can sleep while I do the things that people Who Are Mental With Stress do. Yay! It will be Cheaper! And also, What A Kind, Considerate Sweetheart! ❤

…Then he told me his internet is borked. Hmm.

(Also, after buying in the Good rum, several sorts of breakfast and so forth, it was not very cheap, but ho hum, I feel like the world’s worst cretin for gurning all over the place, all the time, and here’s me not even living in a tin shack in a third-world slum with TB or anything).

So we had many drinks before heading to bed on Friday night and yet stayed awake all night long, because we are a total pair of sick bastards. Yea verily, if one of us wasn’t sleeplessly waiting till they could neck more painkillers, the other one was. Boom boom. (God, and half a life from being a pensioner, still, and at this rate getting there is going to be one hell of a crawl). The Bossman later complained that every time he woke up due to pain, I was lying there sleeping like a baby, which I really doubt because a) every time I woke up due to pain, ditto. and b) every time he so much as moved, and no matter what side of my face was to the pillow, the bed moved too and the shockwave went right through to my tooth. Erm tooth-space.

Which is not because him per se – when I was a kid, me and me wee bro often had to share an only semi-inflated lilo in the back of the car when our parents went socialising (babysitters? pshaw!) and believe me, if one of you so much as twitched, the other one was catapulted into the air; which often led to extremely vicious fights in the small hours when you were both wretched from exhaustion.

However, we went down the Allittlement in the blazing sunshine anyway, and this time I had someone to put suncream on all the bits I couldn’t reach, yay! I also, for completeness sake, wore leggings and a T-shirt that covered everything but my arms; and yes, the leggings may have been bright purple, and the T-shirt may have been bright red and advertising cheap forrin booze, but who was going to see me? – as I said to the Bossman. (Apart from the Bossman himself, who should know by now what he’s gotten into). Anyway, it was gonna be hot and sweaty and dirty (and not in a sexy way) and with this unseasonably Clement weather, I am quite running out of dresses.

Almost immediately upon arrival, therefore, I was set upon by a Photographer, who explained that because of the recent election, we have a new round of councilors, and he had come up with a brainwave of compiling photos of Allotment-holders, so the councilors can see us and realise that we are not all stereotypical pensioner blokes in flat caps with rollies in our mouths; but real, rounded, diverse People. No offense, he added, But you’re PERFECT. Which is very flattering, (and very rarely said), and woulda been great, except it is not remotely true, as I look (and feel) like I’ve been punched in the face* and I’m dressed like a lunatic. Well, unless we’re really gunning hard for ‘diverse’ here. (Also, I was in the middle of smoking a rollie).

I swear before god, there seems to be nothing I can say which I will not instantly be forced to retract. Except, for some reason, my hatred of BMW drivers. Admittedly, this is rather half-hearted, but dammit, if everything I denounce, I immediately embody, where is my BMW?

Life: it is a step ahead of me, always.

*Not-so-fun fact: on more than one occasion, I have been punched in the face very hard, and repeatedly (I did not hit back because it was by someone I cared about – well okay, also, my arms were pinned); and I have never looked this bad. I do not bruise easy. And since I badly need something to wear with pride at the moment, and am coming up with fuck-all, I am gonna wear that.

God, I really suspect I need some time off or something.

Anyway, a potential ray of light: the photographer said afterwards, was I still doing the engineering course, and while the correct answer is, Well, somewhat, what with everything and I truly fear that it will time out on me before I finish and All Be For Naught, he said, Because there is a solar power thing that needs set up, and would you be interested?

Later, his partner arrived and mentioned it also and I was all HELL YES but I do not know what I do, so please forgive me in advance, and she gave me a big hug and said, My enthusiasm alone is an asset to any team.

(God, it’s like someone told them I’m verging on suicidally depressed or something, and if they don’t take every single opportunity to bolster my ego, I’ll MELT. How mortifying).

I said to the Bossman, It’s like she’s talking about someone who totally isn’t me! but the bait was not taken. Hmm. The allotment leader is singing my praises, and yet my boss and consultants think very little of me, my team are silent, I am swithering, and I can’t get a straight answer out of anyone. Jesus, why is it so hard to get an objective summary of my personal worth here, so I can Make Plans based on it? Maybe this is something you have to figure out for yourself, but I am a hardcore agnostic on the subject. And it is that time of year when I feel I should try to take stock, and I have no perspective right now!

So um. The Bossman very kindly and awesomely took me to B&Q and the post office for a parcel that, alas, turned out not to be my fake Greco-Roman wig (although to be fair, I still have to dye and sew a bale of plain wool also, argh), helped me lay a floor in the greenhouse despite the heat and his pain, and barrowed loads of Pod*. Superhero! And he let slip we are going to a four-star hotel for the weekend after my birthday weekend (I cannot get a long weekend on my actual birthday weekend, as my colleagues have that). To my shame I said, Why!? cos I woulda been happy with cheaper; but its cos he likes four star hotels. Who wouldn’t, I guess? I am just overjoyed to have a room I am not sharing with a dozen clannish peeps half my age – or worse, ones who Try To Include Me – with horrible results – and a bathroom Of My Very Own. Lack of cockroaches is worth a star of it’s own, right?

*the first rule of Pod is, you do not ask what the hell Pod is. It just is, and it’s good for the soil, so HUSH.

No, I don’t know either.

I took the Bossman out and bought him lunch, oh woe my aching wallet, but it was Necessary since he thoroughly deserved it for being awesome, and then he bought loads of mad beers; and he was fine (or said he was) with playing the internet while I worked on this dragon commission and then made dinner and we watched Dog Soldiers and I resolved never to complain about playing housewife when he’s over, ever again. Which I found a little difficult to stick to when he demanded lunch the next morning while I was still eating breakfast, but there you go.

And we went back to the Allittlement, where he harvested the nettles while I broke fresh ground and planted heathers in the baking sun, and then (alas) he went home and I put on historical documentaries while working on the dragons. Perhaps, I am going to get this commission in On Time After All! Either way, after a weekend of having him being around and being supportive above and beyond the call of duty, I am feeling substantially better about everything.

Now, all I need to do is blitz the sums, and his expenses, and The Work At Work, and get the CV tarted up and sort out the herb bed and gut the flat and do some sundry re-potting, all before Thursday, and this week will go Swimmingly up to when I turn thirty-gargle.



About beshemoth

Mainly making art, making wine, writing and gardening. Having a life only as the above allows.
This entry was posted in all the small things, allotmenting, doodling, weather-dependent lifestyle. Bookmark the permalink.

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