Category Archives: Humour

Call Me Martian, Call Me Venusian, Just Don’t Call Me Shedless

In 1992 relationship counsellor, John Gray PhD, released his bestseller – Men Are from Mars, Women Are From Venus. According to its publisher, Harper Collins, the book is the all time bestseller in the hardcover non fiction category. Apparently it has sold more than 7 million copies.

I am guessing that most female humans of my vintage have read the book. For those of you who are smart younger things or who have been living under a rock, the book attempts to explain the differences in psyche between males and females and how each gender understands the behaviours and mores of its own species, but not that of the other. When the book was released it made quite a splash and his since spawned many sequels, a board game and even nutritional products under the name of Venus Calm and Mars Revive. The choice of these names is interesting… it seems that women are really stressed and men just comatose. That probably works for most households.

But back to the book! I will admit to buying and reading a copy and that my motive for doing was slightly less than pure. My thinking was that the book would surly confirm the superiority and correctness of the Venusian way of thinking whilst providing a humorously entertaining rationale for the inferiority of the Martian thought patterns.  Namely, a snickerworthy book.

Within these pages I fully expected to identify the Italian Stallion’s traits as well as my own and see us emerge. I was not disappointed, emerge we did. By chapter four, I was convinced I was clearly Martian!  By chapter five, I concluded that the Italian Stallion had done a tour of duty on Venus, although I will never publicly admit to thinking he was part Venusian for emasculation is never pretty.  With each turn of the page, my smug Venusian superiority began to ebb. The truth is that of course each individual possess both Martian and Venusian traits.

Chapter three of the book is particularly enlightening. It deals with the concept of the “man cave”, that safe place where Martians retreat to deal with stress. Martians tend to turn inwards to deal and need space and analysis to work through problems. Even if they can’t solve their big problem, they will start by solving any problem. When they are in their cave, men tend to become preoccupied and less responsive. Venusians on the other hand want to talk about and share their problems. They are not necessarily looking for solutions, but the act of sharing itself lightens the burden.

Initially I’m Martian when it comes to problems and then I briefly turn Venusian. I need my cave or what I have now termed my “she shed” as a safe harbour to work stuff out and THEN and only THEN will I bounce my proposed solution or thinking off others. The other is usually a Venusian, but it depends on the nature of the issue. The ultimate solution is usually a meld of the “she shed” product and the post shed Venusian discussion.

The Italian Stallion’s man cave is his workshop. A truly male place where tools snuggle comfortably against each other reveling in the smell of paint and solvent. I have no similar space. I am shedless.

No matter where I lay my hat, some or other of my male folk follow. They are Martians, they are supposed to understand this! It reminds me of when the boys were toddlers, that wonderful stage when they follow you everywhere and I mean EVERYWHERE. There is no space where I can just do my own thing and leave clutter, open books, highlighters, sticky notes or whatever and no-one touches them or passes comment. I like my clutter and mess, it’s very comforting and yes folks, there is a system… one only I and perhaps a few like-minded  Venusians understand, but a system nevertheless.

So, I am now searching for my she shed. Some of you no doubt will think that it won’t be long before the kids move out and I will then have too much space and quiet. Well yes… but that doesn’t negate my immediate need. Besides it’s now winter and it’s too cold to ruminate outside for long and who wants to ruminate outdoors at night anyway?

Every good modern search starts on the Internet. How about these sheds for starters?

Fear not dear readers, I will keep you updated on my search for the perfect she shed, a place to inspire my proposed series of blog posts entitled “Tales From the She Shed”. That series where I haven’t yet thought about content. In the meantime, let me reassure you with each contraction and labour pain that I’m really not a hairy dude biker with a big Adam’s apple, but rather I embrace my Martian side.

And I have the stretch marks to prove it!

Do you have a space that is all your own? If so let us know how it feels and what it looks like.

DIY And The Art of Fire Protection – Part 2

I’m loving all of your alarm mishap/relationship comments on Part 1 of this story. Makes me feel less alone in my alarm angst. And I’m definitely going to have to try the tea towel waving technique, something about that appeals to my inner playful child. Towel flinging brings back so many happy memories.

The star of today’s post is not a fire alarm, but a fire extinguisher. The fire extinguisher appearing below to be precise.

Weekends are always DIY dangerous in this neck of the woods. They represent 48 hours in which to carry out amazing feats of DIY daring, innumerable trips to the hardware store and little DIY surprises. Good weekends end without trips to the hospital. All kidding aside, I truly admire the Italian Stallion’s DIY skill and stamina, not to mention his hardware collection. Remember when hardware meant tools, nails and fixy bits rather than computer parts? I googled hardware the other day to try to find some images of hammers, saws and fixy bits but was inundated with pictures of hard drives, chips and wires. I wonder what hardware will mean to my children.

My recent gift to the Italian Stallion

Last weekend was a DIY weekend for the Stallion. There were at least two trips to the hardware store that I know about. I suspect there were more stealthy ones. But who can blame the Italian Stallion? Who wouldn’t want a trip to nirvana where a standing ovation awaits for being the most frequent buyer? I have no doubt that employees seek out the Italian Stallion to ask him where the 2 inch singing Phillips head screw drivers and matching colour coordinated socket head screws are located. Whilst this is a rather feminine take on the world of hardware – colour and song choice would never enter into the male equation – I’m sure you get the gist. Which brings me to the following Curtain Raising thought:

How many different hammers does one guy need?

Answer: More than girls have types of sandals.

Have we the women, finally stumbled on the male equivalent of “I don’t have a thing to wear”? “Honey, I don’t have a thing with which to repair?

I could go on like this for hours, but there’s the small matter of the fire extinguisher.

So the weekend is drawing to a close, Sunday evening and dinner is cooking and I’m at the sink, washing up. Thankfully, the smoke alarm is silent and the Italian Stallion still has all his fingers. It’s been a good couple of days. Arms elbow deep in suds, the Italian Stallion rocks up and the following conversation ensues:

IS: “I’ve been to the hardware store today.”

CR: “Yeah? Wesfarmers share price will surly spike tomorrow.”

IS: “I bought a fire extinguisher for the workshop.”

CR: “Great”

IS: “I bought two, actually. One for the kitchen as well.”

CR: “One for the kitchen?”

IS: “Sure, where would you like me to install it?”

CR: [This is totally left field and I fumble the ball] “I dunno.”

IS: “How about here?” – IS takes the fire extinguisher and holds it next to the most prominent position in the kitchen.

CR: [Now totally drop the ball] “Really? It’s so industrial looking.”

The sound of a burst bubble fills the air. In my defence though, I felt totally ambushed. I like surprises as much as the next person, but this was totally unexpected and besides I had my hands in the sink! Further, the vision for my normal residential kitchen does not include industrial fittings.  This is only the first step and I fear one that could set a dangerous precedent. What happens if the Stallion suddenly rocks up with 100 metres of industrial grey carpet or industrial shelving? I feel I am at the flood gates of hardware hell, it is starting to invade my living space.

No doubt, the extinguisher will go up…somewhere … eventually. And now I’m on guard for anything resembling industrial/office wear. A Blackberry is one thing. A fire extinguisher is quite another. Even with my lack of interior decorating talent I know that “Office – circa early 90’s” is not the way to go.

In the meantime, the only real mode of fire protection I want to embrace is this:

Has any person you live with ever brought home anything that was totally unexpected?

DIY And The Art Of Fire Protection – Part 1

I have had a week filled with fire protection devices. Before anyone panics, there’s been no smoke and certainly no fire. No flames, no ashes, no cinders. I am happy to report that the house and all its inhabitants are still intact.

These encounters are largely due to the Italian Stallion and his passion for DIY. Actually, having a hubby who not only has the passion, but the skills to match is extremely beneficial, although the downside is the potential to be woken up at 7am on a weekend morning to the sound of a working drill emanating from the garage below the bedroom. Passion like this cannot be confined to normal waking hours.

Photo: freedigitalphotos.net

I really only came into the benefit of a DIY household in my marriage. My late father’s DIY skills extended to dialling the phone number of the nearest handyman and to negotiating payment and price. Dad did a fair job although he was the consummate delegator to my mother who then had to deal with the handyman to get the job done. My working mother was wise, she always knew that when Dad said “we need to get the pipe fixed” that translated to “you, my darling wife, need to be here to oversee the fixing of the pipe, wait around in the hope that the handy man shows up and inspect and approve the work with the skill of a seasoned building inspector and arrange payment”.

Anyway, back to the present…

Some years ago, my State introduced the requirement for every residence to install smoke alarms within a certain distance of each bedroom.  This meant we had to install a smoke alarm somewhere near the upstairs bedrooms. The base of the stairwell to our second story is near the kitchen and the Italian Stallion used his wonderful DIY skills to promptly install the alarm in the ceiling above the said stairwell base on the ground floor.  However, this smoke alarm is a bit of a SNAD – sensitive new age device and starts shreeking with monotonous regularity. The fact that it does this at the times I am preparing dinner is purely coincidental.

For whatever reason, the SNAD has decided it cannot cohabit with the oven. The oven has been cleaned to within an inch of its element, but still the SNAD has issues. Manually turning off the SNAD would be an easy task – a push of the button – if only I was an Amazonian. I am not short, in fact I can push five foot, nine/ten inches in heels. However, the ceiling is about six and a half feet off the ground above the stairwell. Even balancing on the third step, I am an inch or two short and I can’t even use a chair to stand on given the stairs. I have therefore resorted to using implements to silence the SNAD. This week it was the feather duster jab… it worked, but I came away with an extra plastic bit in my hand. I have also used a shoe, a rolling-pin, a broom and a loaf of bread. I’m quite partial to the shoe technique although this tends to leave unwanted scuff marks in the absence of Lionel Richie having danced on my ceiling.

Things are only marginally better when either my eldest or the Italian Stallion is at home. They of the required footage and inchage also suffer from selective deafness. When the SNAD finally penetrates either brain because it has reached some arbitrary unbearable level, out storms one or the other and silences the SNAD usually with a fist and a grunt for good measure. The result is silence and a rather sad smoke detector with cover, battery and wires left hanging.

We live in a world where we have armed ourselves with protection and reminders – fire alarms, car alarms, house alarms, merchandise theft protection devices, alarm clocks and phones  – and spend our life ignoring them. Most shop assistants don’t even pause when they hear the noise, they have experienced so many false alarms. Office workers spend their lives dodging fire drills and nobody tends to move when a fire alarm activates. Car alarms are more often used to find lost vehicles after a happy night out.

The next step for us is to send the oven and SNAD off to couples therapy. Either that or it’s take away every night. Now, there’s an idea…

Are there any noises that really annoy you? Do you have your alarms well trained? 

Good Oral Hygene And The Art of Salemanship

Confession: I have always had an uneasy relationship with dentists and the dental profession. There’s just something about someone poking in your mouth and causing you pain whilst trying hard not to look up your nose that just doesn’t have me wringing my hands in delight at upcoming dental appointments. Apologies to any dentists or dental hygienists. As the Donald would say, it’s not personal it’s my oral pain threshold.

This week was one of those biannual dental check up weeks.  I’ve concluded that dentists are great sales people. How clever is it that they convince you to make the next appointment just moments after you have escaped from THAT chair and are basking in post dental after-glow?  Seriously, if I smoked, I would reach for a cigarette then and there! And having made the appointment for six months time (because the dental gods have been known to shine on occasion), you insert it in your diary and happily forget until about two weeks beforehand when your stomach reminds you that your trip to the torture chamber looms.

I have had the same dental hygienist for more than a decade. She’s great despite my forgivings about a trip to her torture chamber.  Leaving aside her plaque removal techniques (which of course are second to none), we have some great conversations. No, really..we do, despite the immobilization of my implement filled mouth and the taste of fluoride. You can say a lot with a simple, well-timed “ahamurf”.

My dental reluctance/phobia.. whatever you want to call it… had its genesis in my formative years when I became VERY well acquainted with my first dentist at the age of six. We had to drive over three bridges and an hour and half each way for each apointment and I had to take a friend. This was so because it was the only way my mother knew how to deal with my catatonic fear. My poor wit-ended mother had found the only dentist within cooee who was a child specialist.  I suppose I would have felt really special had I not always had the feeling like I was about to toss my lunch every time. This dentist was a rather formidable, orange haired lady who countered her sternness by wearing a dental coat covered in cartoon characters and the promise of a balloon after treatment. How’s that for high tech distraction? This relationship lasted until I was 13 when I was told that I had to move on.  As a graduation gift I got the opportunity to become acquainted with the BIG adult dentist.

Visions of Ms Sterntist and BIG adult dentist have stayed with me all of these years. They are not fond memories and I am happy to say I am replacing them with memories of Good Conversationalist Hygienist.  GCH always does an initial thorough exam… there’s some poking, then some prodding…the mirror swish and that blast of cold water. Treatment then ensues culminating in the absolutely AWFUL taste of fluoride. How is it that we live in the twenty-first century and have not come up with better tasting fluoride that one can rinse?

But just before the fluoride hit, GCH always delivers her pronouncement on my quality of oral care over the last six months. This always makes me nervous… yes, ma’am I really do floss every day, really. How ridiculous is it that a simple “you’ve been doing well lately, your mouth looks really good” makes me feel ten feet tall? But it does and I pass with honours. Let the angels sing, I have impressed my hygienist!

So contemplating my new found oral care goddess status, I arise from the chair and happily make my next appointment. Walking on air and notionally smoking my cigarette, I even pay for the privilege to be tortured. I have made my dental hygienist happy!

Photo from hotfunnyclub.com

Seriously, how good ARE these people?

Do you ever worry about impressing a health care professional?

Let’s Phlog Monday: When Winter Weeps

Wet, wet and more wet that’s what the long weekend has brought us here in the land of beaches and cream. It has been raining hard for the last two and a half days with no let up until at least Thursday. Today is a no work day, thanks to Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth II and her not so real birthday.

To begin with a winter quote from Edith Sitwell:

Winter is the time for comfort, for good food and warmth,  for the touch of a friendly hand and for a talk beside the fire:  it is the time  for home.

This is a warm up photo and not one of mine.
Photo from flikr – song under the sugar sugar.

It certainly is a time for home … or a time for canoes, ducks, rubber boots and jumping and wading through puddles. It’s also a time for stews, dumplings, apple strudel and hot chocolate.

But first, a small winter joke and a nice topical segue…

Q: What do you get from sitting on the ice too long?

A: Polaroids

Please grab a mug of something and enjoy this week’s photos.

Driving Rain

Dark Descends

Winter Weeps

These were taken last week, just after a southerly decended on my town. A southerly refers to a cold change from the South usually bringing with it chilly Antarctic winds. In this case, the change decsended rapidly causing the light to dim and tempratures to plummet. It also brought with it heavy rain.

The pictures were taken from a skybridge in which I sought shelter. Minutes before the change, the outdoors were filled with people. Despite the weather, life pushes on.

What do you love about Winter?

Take a NY Times Bestseller And Twist: Cracked Book Titles

Every good woman deserves a fabulous hair treatment once in a while. This good woman had exactly that earlier this week after a prolonged dry spell. For there comes a point in time when an ever expanding regrowth just needs to be dealt with and the good woman needs to catch up on her magazine reading. For some unknown reason this good woman only ever reads print magazines at the hairdressers or in doctor’s offices.

The trip to the hairdressers prompted me to think about books because of course any trip by a normal person to the hairdressers would. Books made me think about Fifty Shades of Grey because the Fifty Shades trilogy seems to have taken over the universe. It is everywhere, at least in these parts, and I see also on the NY Times bestseller list. In my mind and on that day, hairdressers and Fifty Shades Of Grey were braided together because it is a book title that begs to be word-played with.

For your entertainment pleasure, I present to you my list of recently created cracked book titles. All of these are based on books that are currently on the NY Times best seller lists and inspired by my hairdressing trip.

Perspectives on Hairdressing: Fifty Shades of Grey and Fifty Yards of Foil  – ammonia free and gets to the very roots of the industry. Offers a rare top of the head perspective on all things hairdressing, free scalp massage included.

Perspectives on Blind Installation: Fifty Shades Darker with Wooden Slats – a story full off hangups. Pull up a chair and drape yourself in the inside story on shutters versus blinds, wooden versus aluminium. Come, darken your world.

From The Magic of the Electric Eel to Fifty Shades Freed: Highlights of a Plumbing Career  – Marvel at the electric eel and its flexibility to fit around your S bend. Admire the men and women who plumb your depths and never leave home without a plunger. Free can of room freshener provided with every copy.

A Game of Thrones: The Diamond Jubilee and Beyond. Based on the book,  A Game of Thrones by George R. R. Martin. Self explanatory and I thank Her Majesty in advance for the long weekend we are about to receive in honour of her not-real birthday.

Memoirs of a Teacher in the New Millenium: A Dance with Parental Dragons and Wizards. Based on the book, A Dance With Dragons by George R.R. Martins and the sequel, In the Garden With Beasts And Sporting Parents, based on In the Garden with Beasts by Eric Larson. We have all seen this sort of unruly behaviour at schools and school sporting fixtures. Get the inside scoop on how to deal with parents behaving badly.

Vision in White: Memoirs of Waiting Patients Who Made An Appointment. Based on the book Vision in White by Nora Roberts. 1,000 pages of easily digestible memoirs that can be devoured in one sitting whilst you wait to see your doctor for that scheduled appointment.

Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet: Tales From a Teenage Crash Pad,  Fondly Known as The Parental’s Home. Based on the book, Hotel on the Corner of Bitter and Sweet by Jamie Ford. Both perspectives are covered in this one authoritative volume. The author gains real insight into the teenage mind…. prepare to be dazzled and waited on and get your laundry done. On the other hand, be prepared to be bemused as you see only the back of your teenage child as he races out the door. Learn to recognise the signs that your teenage child actually spent some time at home… the empty fridge, the laundry over the floor and crumbs on the kitchen bench… bitter and sweet in one entertaining package.

This is what happens when I go to the hairdresser…. you have now been warned. Any writers out there who are struggling to come up with book titles, I’m free most weeknights…

Do you have any other cracked book titles you wish to add to the list? What do you look forward to about a trip to the hairdresser? Do you have hair or do you miss it?

Facebook Spam Party

A couple of days ago ahead of the Facebook IPO I uploaded a post on my Facebook wall about how much my Facebook data was worth in light of Facebook having been valued at US$104billion. It was worth about US$356 according to a website, FBME and I jokingly posted that I wanted the value in cash and not Facebook share options.

Ever since then, my blog SPAM folder has been playing host to a multitude of comments from various, mostly foreign, Facebook profiles. The comments seem intelligent and pointed, but directed at something other than my blog posts and comments to which they are targeted. I appear to be throwing a Facebook SPAM party and didn’t even know it.

Ever the gracious host I must have served up $356 in SPAM refreshments by now. I’d be grateful if you guys could find somewhere else to party. There have been about 30 of you in the last 24 hours alone and not a flatterer amongst the bunch! And not one request for my bank account number or news that a long lost wealthy relative has died and left me millions. Please move on and let the garden variety SPAM sleep in peace – they need their energy for their Viagra. Alternatively, I am sure there are a few Facebook shareholders with share options they wish to unload.

The good news is that WordPress spamware has caught about 98% of the comments, so whilst it’s my party, I don’t feel the need to cry.

I moderated the rest into the trash bin.

Are you having the same issue or am I the only one with the party balloons tied to the gateposts?

Random Acts of Kindness for the Domestically Challenged

I dig Nigella Lawson. I really do. She’s my kind of domestic goddess.

From flikr.com
Saima’s photostream

Firstly, Nigella has a Master’s degree and secondly, she has had a succesful career as a journo, freelance writer and now cookbook author and television star. Most importantly, she seems real. If you ever watch her cooking shows, there’s something about them that makes you think you can do what Nigella does – you can raise children, have a meaningful career, cook interesting and nutritious food, be a real woman with body flaws and still laugh at life. I’m not sure whether it’s the real close, fast moving camera angles or the way Nigella throws in the ingredients with such aplomb and generally without measurement or much genteel preparation, but I think I could do a Nigella… but only just.

You may remember that about a month ago I wrote of my reluctance inability to co-ordinate colour, furniture and furnishings in my home. I’m afraid that nothing has changed in my abilities since.

What has changed though is that in the last couple of weeks I have become the proud owner of a new planter and new bathroom storage accessories in the form of a glass liquid soap dispenser and matching toothbrush holder. The planter appeared whilst I was on my recent road trip and now proudly holds a plant that has since produced two flowers. The bathroom accessories were given to me by an acquaintance who has been in my home many times to replace my plastic objects d’bath.

Two random acts of kindness to help me overcome my domestic challenges. Even the flowering plant seems happy!

I am now wondering whether my domestic happlessnes is so evident for all to see. Seriously, do these wonderful and kind people who gave me these gifts see a need that I haven’t fulfilled? Do they know what my house requires before even I have anticipated its needs? Am I that domestically inadequate that I need people to buy me practical gifts? What’s the message here?

The plastic thingies in the bathroom have worked perfectly fine until now. OK, the container that held the toothbrushes was a little cracked from the time when one son or other used the vessel for soccer practice and the plastic soap dispenser was off the shelf supermarket, circa 2009, but really…what was wrong with them? As for the planter, it has elevated the poor plant off the floor and I am told it catches the water from watering. It does look good and suited to the room it is in.

To these wonderful people who bought me these gifts I thank you. However, I never know how to take practical gifts. Also, it wasn’t my birthday or any special occasion. I don’t mean to be ungrateful but is it just my paranoia and domestic goddess insecurity that thinks there’s a double meaning here?

Whilst I ponder this question, I think I’ll whip up a quick batch of Nigella’s Instant Chocolate Mouse and go contemplate my antidomestic goddess afterlife.

I have to ask …. how do you feel about practical gifts?

Saturday Soapbox: Taking Responsibility And Owning It

Here I am feeling all mellow and inspired from my road trip only to read about this piece of litigation lunacy.

Briefly, a Victorian student (let’s call her R) is suing her former high school in Geelong for failing to provide adequate academic support to enable her to gain entry into a prestigious law school in Sydney. In addition, R’s mother is suing the school for compensation for rent and loss of income from her fortune cookie business as a result of relocating to Sydney. R claims that she never felt adequately supported academically whilst at the school to enable her to REALLY excel. R was allegedly criticised for using words that were too long in her essays which lead to R losing confidence in her essay writing abilities. This loss reportedly caused R to become “quite distressed” when her English marks began to fall.

Created by Theodore Eadman
Law School Memes

Entry into this particular law school requires a student to effectively rank in the top 0.3% of all students in the State. Places are highly sought after and the university has produced some of Australia’s greatest jurists. However, it is by no means the only law school in Sydney and certainly not the only law school in the State.

With the greatest of respect to R, she is in denial, and no… it is not that river in Egypt.  I know what R must be thinking, this must be someone’s fault, right? There has to be someone to blame, someone has to pay because R’s life plan didn’t work out to the letter?

Somehow, somewhere along the way, we as individuals seem to have lost the art of owning the consequences of our actions. The notion that we are the masters of our own destiny seems to have been usurped by a notion that our destiny is controlled by those persons and institutions with whom we have had contact, particularly those with potentially deep pockets. These persons and institutions have somehow adopted a greater responsibility to us than we have for ourselves.

I have long been concerned about the current trend to constantly reward our children for just being. When my sons were in primary school they received merit awards for “being entertaining members of the class” and “for faultless class attendance”. Whilst they also received merit awards for good behaviour and academic achievement, I found these aforementioned “token” merits disturbing. To me there was nothing meritorious about them – they served no real purpose other than to enforce a sense of entitlement. Positive enforcement is one thing, but rewards should be reserved for achievement over and above the norm (including a person’s individual norm).

There are no guarantees in life and no guarantees to entry into law school or indeed, university. Entry is handed out on academic merit and students should not feel entitled to a place. It takes hard work, persistence and sometimes a detour or two before you get to where you want to go.  And sometimes, there is just no logical reason why a person makes it or doesn’t make it. Call it bad luck, bad timing or whatever….sometimes crap happens. Crap does not necessarily justify a legal remedy.

The case continues in August.

In the meantime, I leave you with these relevant fortune cookie sayings:

The world may be your oyster but it doesn’t mean you’ll get its pearl

Skill comes from diligence

Do not mistake temptation for opportunity

None of the secrets of success will work unless you do

And remember, dear readers ….this blog has a protective coating.

Have there been any court cases that have left you scratching your head?

Sockcam: Calling All Venture Capitalists

Living in a house full of males makes laundry days very dull affairs. A serious yawnfest and study in homogeneity.

On laundry days, I peer into my laundry basket and all I see is a sea of black and gray. Mind you, I am eternally grateful for that sea because it actually means that by some extraordinary miracle, the laundry of my children has made its way into the room where laundering takes place. I am assuming for the minute that the laundry didn’t crawl there by itself, although anyone who has teenagers would know that is a real possibility, especially when the laundry has aged waiting for the bus to arrive.

Back to the sea. For some unknown mystery male reason, the males in my house only ever wear black or grey underclothes. Colourless socks and undies, all uniform, all designed to drive the laundry lady, aka me, spare. Washing I can cope with, but when it comes folding and matching those little suckers, I’m definitely thinking life is too short. If some person of the male species reading this could enlighten me as to why colours and gasp…a pattern or two are a no-go zone in the male underworld, then I would be forever grateful.

 

Guys, you need to have pity on those of us who do your laundry!

As if the lack of colour does not increase the degree of laundering difficulty enough, when it comes to matching and folding clean socks I always have less than I started off with. It’s almost as if these individual socks have had enough of toeing (get it?…toeing) the shoe line and wait for the minute they can escape to I know not where. Presumably, there is a single sock bar somewhere just waiting for escaped socks or they go and sign up for e-sock harmony or go out to fight at sock club waiting to heel (get it?… heel) or something.

This mystery requires in-depth research and hence my proposed invention…..

SOCKCAM!!

That’s right, a mini waterproof camera that could be fitted on top of the toe of a sock to track its every adventure sending images back to basecamp. We could witness the spying of the escape route, the brush with natural predators up the pipe and the foraging for a mate and finally acceptance in the sock’s natural habitat so that it can ditch its footloose (surly you knew that was coming) status. The footage so exciting that  it would be turned into a three episode mini series with David Attenborough commentating.

This has got real legs, a sure winner.

All I need is come capital. Any takers? Any suckers sockers out there? Be a part of this ground-breaking research, amaze your friends at parties and help revolutionise laundry day around the globe.

In the meantime whilst I wait for my venture capitalists to appear, I’ll continue running my co-op for disenfranchised socks and hope that I can integrate these single socks back into their drawer societies in the not too distant future.