Here follows a vehemently Anti-Football Post. Those of a nervous disposition should look away now.
Our last night in the flat hasn't been what you'd call a roaring success. We're mostly all packed, but Fiance and I are not speaking, I've sustained a nasty looking and quite painful scratch from my cat Coco, and I ate my dinner off a tray in front of the PC.
Fiance is a staunch Hearts supporter, and I may have mentioned thatI'm not the world's biggest football fan. This naturally causes the occasional bit of friction. He actually broached the subject of going to the game tonight, THE NIGHT BEFORE WE MOVE OUT. Needless to say, he was laughed at. And then bitch-slapped. He abandoned that idea, in favour of watching it on the TV (because 90 minutes on the telly is actually LESS TIME than in the real world - didn't you know?)
Anyway, we went over to the new place about 7pm with more boxes, and he started watching the game while I unpacked the kitchen stuff. I then discovered that the pilot light in the boiler had gone out, so there was no hot water (and the landlord's now on holiday for 3 weeks so we'll have to sort it ourselves - grr!).
We left the new flat at half time, to come back to our current flat via the chippy. Fiance was of course in a major hurry to get back in time for the second half, so was a complete twonk during the drive back (most of which was spent enduring the dulcet tones of some dimwitted ex-player who's too lardy to actually PLAY football anymore, so settles for talking about it instead). We got back to our street, and due to the proximity of our house to the stadium where the game was taking place, the closest parking space we could get was 4 streets away (prompting much huffing from Fiance and caustic remarks from me that it was his stupid team's fault we couldn't get parked in the first place). Within 30 seconds of opening the door, the boy had the TV on and was happily tucking into his pizza. Having had enough of the Stupid Fucking Football (as it is known in my house), and in the absence of anywhere else to go, I came and sat here, in front of the PC with my dinner.
Coco followed me and tried to jump into my lap but because she's just a bit too wee she couldn't quite make it and had to use her claws to hoik herself up. Unfortunately for me, I was wearing shorts. I now have a large, deep, scratch on my thigh that has swelled up and feels like it's burning. I lost my temper with Coco, grabbed her and marched through to the living room, deposited her there, none too gently, and slammed the door behind me. I then came back through here, sat down and burst into tears.
I can't decide if this awful, depressing last night here is a sign that we've done the right thing by selling the place, or a warning that we're making a mistake by moving.
Or just that my fiance is a twonk and football should be banned in the interests of harmonious relationships everywhere.
**In other news, we've not been able to get a phoneline for the new flat (BT want £130 to set up a phone line! Ha!), so posts may be few and far between for the next wee while**
Fiance is a staunch Hearts supporter, and I may have mentioned that
Anyway, we went over to the new place about 7pm with more boxes, and he started watching the game while I unpacked the kitchen stuff. I then discovered that the pilot light in the boiler had gone out, so there was no hot water (and the landlord's now on holiday for 3 weeks so we'll have to sort it ourselves - grr!).
We left the new flat at half time, to come back to our current flat via the chippy. Fiance was of course in a major hurry to get back in time for the second half, so was a complete twonk during the drive back (most of which was spent enduring the dulcet tones of some dimwitted ex-player who's too lardy to actually PLAY football anymore, so settles for talking about it instead). We got back to our street, and due to the proximity of our house to the stadium where the game was taking place, the closest parking space we could get was 4 streets away (prompting much huffing from Fiance and caustic remarks from me that it was his stupid team's fault we couldn't get parked in the first place). Within 30 seconds of opening the door, the boy had the TV on and was happily tucking into his pizza. Having had enough of the Stupid Fucking Football (as it is known in my house), and in the absence of anywhere else to go, I came and sat here, in front of the PC with my dinner.
Coco followed me and tried to jump into my lap but because she's just a bit too wee she couldn't quite make it and had to use her claws to hoik herself up. Unfortunately for me, I was wearing shorts. I now have a large, deep, scratch on my thigh that has swelled up and feels like it's burning. I lost my temper with Coco, grabbed her and marched through to the living room, deposited her there, none too gently, and slammed the door behind me. I then came back through here, sat down and burst into tears.
I can't decide if this awful, depressing last night here is a sign that we've done the right thing by selling the place, or a warning that we're making a mistake by moving.
Or just that my fiance is a twonk and football should be banned in the interests of harmonious relationships everywhere.
**In other news, we've not been able to get a phoneline for the new flat (BT want £130 to set up a phone line! Ha!), so posts may be few and far between for the next wee while**
This entry was posted
on Wednesday, July 26, 2006 at 9:57 pm.
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