Pinky's Book Link

Sunday, September 6, 2015

Do you have enough Gumption?

I nearly used Gumption on my face tonight instead of my usual cheap face cream. I wonder what would have happened if I had? Would I have erased my deeply etched wrinkles like I’ve been erasing the deeply ingrained dirt from each of the thirty thousand wooden textured doors I’ve been scrubbing this weekend?

Or would I have discovered a brand new home-style chemical face peel?

I had to wear a wrist guard to bed last night my right hand was so tender and sore from all the circular motion of scrubbing I’ve been doing.

I could never have survived life as a chamber maid.

I don’t like it.

Cleaning sucks… just like my vacuum cleaner does when I'm knelt over the skirting boards like Saint Bernadette with her knees full of tuberculosis or whatever.

The dust should theoretically be retreating now the lawn is finally laid.

 For some obscure reason, known only to itself, our idiot flame tree decided to drop a semitrailer worth of leaves the day the grass was put in place. With a carpet of leaves smothering the not quite rooted lawn it was mandatory to somehow remove them so that the highly expensive grass could drink in its quota of water from the heinously expensive irrigation system. The problem was, we couldn’t walk on the grass to collect the dumb ass leaves.

Scotto is far too thunder footed (being in possession of feet like a basketball playing Hobbit) so it was up to the fleet-footed Pinky to scarper across the lawn like a dew fairy with a plethora of garbage bags.

You cannot imagine the pain involved; hunched over like a bell-ringer from a certain French cathedral, trying not to weigh very much, my lower back seizing, my face red as a beetroot/spinach smoothie and exploding in filthy expletives every time the wind blew the leaves from my desperate clutches.

I thought I was having an aneurism after I’d finished. All the veins above my neck were sticking out and throbbing like a tangle of snakes dancing to a house music remix.

I had to have a bit of a lie down.

Naturally, a sweating and panting Scotto chose that moment to wander down from his arduous painting of the upper level to find me supine on the couch with a cold tea towel on my forehead.

I’m just not cut out for this moving business.
You know the stress of moving is supposed to be equal to the death of a spouse? Just sayin...