Tag Archives: phone

Simply The Boss …

mugJust when I think my life is bad, The Boss proves me completely wrong.

Not only is he juggling three jobs at the moment, he is also without a van, his phone and his hair.

I’ll explain:

A few weeks ago he was in a crash at a notorious roundabout. Luckily no one was badly hurt and it wasn’t his fault (it was an 84-year old, on his way to his birthday party, poor thing).

Sadly, his beautifully sign-written van (designed by moi) is a write-off and was sent to the Crusher Yard last week – a day of sad reflection for us all.

So he hired an interim van after much grumbling about lack of shelf space and roof rack. Last week he had to sort out the plasterer at one of the jobs, left his phone on the dashboard for a minute (d’oh) and came back to find the van broken into, the phone gone and half his tools as well.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, after sporting a Donald Trump-esque haircut for a while, he went to a new hairdressers and came out with a razor-thin cut, looking like someone I saw recently on Crimewatch.

And finally, to top it all, he’s had to put up with me going through an MS floaty-exacerbation-of-symptoms.

I worry about him.

At work today, I tripped over countless times. I took ten minutes to doze in the corner. All the while, he was on my phone, sorting out a new van, chasing up his new phone and working out which tools have been taken. He collects them as a hobby so this in itself was a monumental task.

Anyway, as I was packing up to leave, he said he’d worked out a plan for the week and ran through it for me. I gently reminded him I was having a blood test on Wednesday and seeing my neurologist on Friday, so wouldn’t be in work those days.

I left pretty sharpish.

As I got in my car, The Teenager sent me a text, ‘Sixth form party tonight, can you iron my jeans? Can I have some money?’

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Shops ‘n’ Strops

meanwhile in HollisterEarlier this week, I spent a frustrating couple of hours in the men’s changing room at Hollister.

There were fumbles, anguished cries and yelling. Yup, I was clothes shopping with The Teenager.

I had laid careful plans and bundled him into the car straight from school, turned on the central locking and hightailed it to town before he could escape.

He’s at that fussy stage (when isn’t he?) – his clothes have to fit just so, the colour has to be just right. Although how he could see anything in Hollister is beyond me. Maybe it’s my age, but it’s pretty darned gloomy in there. And there’s far too many über-handsome staff with chiseled jaws and their underwear on show. Tsk. After rummaging round in the dark and messing up all the lovely neat displays, The Teenager pulled out a couple of shirts to try on.

An hour later (and after profuse apologies to Mr Handsome for all the noise), he emerged from his cubicle and posed before the mirror, turning this way and that, arms flapping.

‘Oh, it’s a lovely colour! Suits your eyes. Let’s buy it.’ (looks at watch)

‘Nah, it’s, like, dunno.’

‘What about the other one? Or that one? Or the one you flung across the room?’

‘S’not dench, innit?’ (Dench? Huh?)

We left empty-handed and repeated the same scenario in the next store. And the next. Normally on trips like this, we have a little family tradition of rounding off the whole drama by taking it in turns to choose a restaurant for dinner. It was my turn. More eye-rolling and dramatic sighs when I told him I wanted to try a nice, eclectic place he hadn’t been to before.

‘Wanna go to Nando’s. Wanna go to Nando’s. Wanna go…..’

‘Oi, it’s my choice. You’ll like it. ‘

‘My friend said it was a girly place. Wanna go to…’

‘How can a restaurant be girly? It’s dench!’

‘Mum, that’s just tragic. Please don’t.’

We sat ourselves down in my choice of place, The Teenager grudgingly admitting it wasn’t that bad and he admired his new rugby socks (our only purchase), before tweeting his friends a picture of them. Then he facebooked a picture of his burger.

We had a lovely meal. Me, The Teenager and his phone. Dench…

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