“I don’t suppose you have a spare USB stick in your bag do you?” husband, Scotto asked me when we were sitting in the downstairs lounge room watching the news.
“Have you been looking through my bag?” I gestured to the bag on the floor beside me.
“No,” he replied defensively. “I just thought you might have a USB stick in there.”
“As a matter of fact I do have a brand new USB stick in my bag but I need it,” I sniped. “How did you know it was there?”
“I didn’t! I just thought you might have one.”
Yeah right! I knew what he was up to. He just didn’t want to climb the stairs to the bedroom to get his own stupid USB. He’d seen the brand new, unused one in my bag when he was snooping around pretending to look for lozenges.
Lazy, bloody bugger.
“You can use mine if you want,” I begrudgingly agreed. “But it’s still in the packet so you’ll have to buy me a brand new one if you do.”
He sighed theatrically.
“It’s okay,” he relented. “I’ll go upstairs and get one of mine.”
Scotto was half way up the stairs when I shouted, “Can you bring down my reading glasses while you’re up there please?”
It’s a constant source of competitiveness in our house as to who has to go up and down the stairs to retrieve urgent items.
But there are worse things about living in a two storey house than the constant effort of heaving ourselves up and down eighteen steps every day to retrieve a fudging tissue.
There’s the secrecy, the murky unknown of what’s actually going on in the house on the next level.
There we were sitting on the couch; Scotto back from his epic USB pilgrimage, thinking we were alone in the house when who should walk downstairs but nineteen year old son, Padraic. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jocks and as pale as a White Walker.
“Have you been here all day?” I spluttered, spilling my Chardonnay all over the fox terrier who at the time was fixated on my face, begging for her daily exercise.
Apparently Padraic had been here all day; ensconced in his day time coffin, sleeping off his horrific hangover, his car abandoned at the scene of the crime.
Meanwhile Scotto and I had thought we’d had the house to ourselves all day.
“You can use mine if you want,” I begrudgingly agreed. “But it’s still in the packet so you’ll have to buy me a brand new one if you do.”
He sighed theatrically.
“It’s okay,” he relented. “I’ll go upstairs and get one of mine.”
Scotto was half way up the stairs when I shouted, “Can you bring down my reading glasses while you’re up there please?”
It’s a constant source of competitiveness in our house as to who has to go up and down the stairs to retrieve urgent items.
But there are worse things about living in a two storey house than the constant effort of heaving ourselves up and down eighteen steps every day to retrieve a fudging tissue.
There’s the secrecy, the murky unknown of what’s actually going on in the house on the next level.
There we were sitting on the couch; Scotto back from his epic USB pilgrimage, thinking we were alone in the house when who should walk downstairs but nineteen year old son, Padraic. He was dressed in a t-shirt and jocks and as pale as a White Walker.
“Have you been here all day?” I spluttered, spilling my Chardonnay all over the fox terrier who at the time was fixated on my face, begging for her daily exercise.
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| Please... throw it Mum? |
Apparently Padraic had been here all day; ensconced in his day time coffin, sleeping off his horrific hangover, his car abandoned at the scene of the crime.
Meanwhile Scotto and I had thought we’d had the house to ourselves all day.
What short cuts do you take if you live in a two storey house?
