I’m typing this out in my flannelette, sparrow-inspired pjs, snuggled under the downy quilt with the Chihuahua nestled at my feet because it’s 15 degrees on the mountain and I’m a tad chilly.
I’m very annoyed actually, because I just washed my hair and I used the shampoo twice instead of using the conditioner because I can’t read small print without my glasses. I wish they’d make ‘conditioner’ a much longer word like ‘conditionifieriser’ so I could discern the difference in my myopic state.
There you go, that’s a bloody brilliant marketing tactic for you Pantene! Someone should do it. Or maybe the shampoo companies could just use a larger fudging font. Now my hair will be even more witch-like than usual tomorrow.
It’s a bit like in the morning when I take my iron tablet. Is this my iron tablet or the dog worming tablet? I wonder as I squint at the packet, too lazy to walk three steps into the bedroom to retrieve my glasses.
I know I shouldn’t wash my hair at 9 o’clock in the evening and go to bed with wet hair anyway, because;
1. It can cause one to catch the Bubonic plague.
2. It makes your hair stand up on its roots like a cocky’s comb the next day.
3. A wet lock of hair flicked in Scotto’s eye/face in the middle of the night usually inspires the wrath of Khan.
It does cut down time in the morning though. There’s no blow drying rubbish, no combing out vicious knots created from the menopausal tossing and turning of the sweaty, discouraged head and no panicked situations with my long hair inescapably tangled in a blow drying brush and me hysterically screaming out to Scotto to come into the bathroom with a sharp pair of scissors at 6:30 in the morning.
No, instead it’s just me staring into the mirror thinking, “Oh well. I look like Donald Trump. It’s not that bad. I’ll just put a bit more eyeliner on.”
I have other time-saving, morning short cut routines which allow me a bit more shut eye.
I neatly lay out the Glad Wrap for my sandwich the night before which saves at least 3 seconds, I gargle my mouthwash at the same time I perform my morning ablutions, plus I have a list of things I need to remember to take to work on a piece of bright, orange paper which I check before I walk out the door so I’m not flustered and swearing, running back inside the front door fifty thousand times after I’ve already locked it and kissed the dogs goodbye.
The list says: Nicorettes, phone, lunch, keys, laptop, reading glasses, sunglasses, snack, extra snack, water bottle, diary, blue thing.
Scotto noticed it one day in his bleary eyed state and asked, “What’s the blue thing on your list, Pinky?”
I didn’t tell him because I like to keep our marriage in a romantic state of ‘mysterious adventure’. You know, keeping it alive and sexy after ten years of imprisonment.
Go on. What do you reckon the blue thing is?
Now that I've milked this silly riddle for as long as I can I will tell you it's one of those frozen bricks you use to keep your lunch from giving you food poisoning. I don't even know if they have names.
