Mundane Moments

A couple of days ago was the 20th anniversary of my brother’s death. Some on here may remember me banging on about it. Mark was 46, a massive Forest fan and my best mate. He was a member here for a while, posting as Yorkshire Red, until he realised what cunts you all are. His wife is batshit crazy but the new bloke she married has done a great job bringing up Mark’s two kids, both season ticket holders these days.

Anyway, I had planned to do something to mark the occasion. For whatever reason, I wanted to feel a bit of pain so I decided to walk 20 miles to the City Ground, later reduced to 20km on appeal. It’s odd but now the day has come and gone I’m much more at peace with it all so am now intending to drink 20 pints over a few days instead.

Packing up my home ahead of moving next Friday. Can't decide whether a glass of wine will make it more fun, or just make me less motivated.

I guess it depends on the size of the glass and whether one glass becomes more than one glass.
You might need a Guru formula here, but perhaps not want one.

I decided that the only way to stop wondering whether I should have a glass of wine was to have a glass of wine.

Unfortunately the bottle is open now, so I may be forced to finish it.

I'm alternating between "build and fill a box" and "sit on my arse for 10 minutes watching football". It's working ok so far.

Once the Germany / Ivory Coast game is done I'll probably walk over to my friend's place and sit on her rooftop patio drinking wine and enjoying the sunset, so I have around two hours of packing left to go.

I am several glasses of wine deep. Not that surprising of course, but tonight was inspired by some new dishwasher plumbing cuntery.
No floods, but quite a lot of swearing. Partly because it didn't come with the Jubilee clip needed to secure the drain pipe to the outflow pipe under the sink. That resulted in a quick trip to Chezza B+Q. But mainly because the new dishwasher quickly recorded an error. Mrs Rave misread it as a drain / blockage error. Resulting in me taking apart the under the sink pipework hunting blockages - and taking several attempts to reconnect the ageing pipework without drips.
Turns out our new dishwasher has arrived with a faulty pump. Mrs Rave will be unleashing hell on the suppliers tomorrow.

The old man was helping me to put up some floating shelves the other day in order to declutter the area around the drawers in the bedroom. He commented that "he never thought one of his sons would need so many beauty products", by which he means simple moisturisers and after shave lotion. I told him that I have to keep myself looking beautiful obviously; I don't want to end up with a face like his. He replied by stating he looked wonderful for his age (85). I asked him if he'd been looking in his magic mirror again. We have a lot of respect for our elders in Irish families.

He does look very good for 85; he never uses suncream, never moisturises. He once commented in shock when I put sunglasses on to drive. He used to use old fashioned razors and would emerge from the bathroom with endless spots of tissue on his face. He should have skin like sandpaper; I can only hope I've inherited those particular genes.

Plural, plus a lotion. Madness.

O'Keefe's Working Hands Hand Cream is all a man needs. And that's only if you're a poof.

I don't have any lotions or creams. Sometimes I put some aftershave on for special occasions.

I don't think I have ever used after shave.

I do use hand lotion though, if my hands are really rough, either O'keefes or something Mrs Les has written "mens" on in Sharpie

Mrs Charlie does similar. She means “cheap”.

In a similar vein shampoo is shampoo is shampoo.

Shampoo isn't something I have to worry unduly about.

Got to go to London tomorrow. Expecting absolute carnage with this heat and the knock-on from the crash.