The Compostual Existentialist

Wordpress flavour with added crunchy bits

Bath – A wife free post

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So I’m feeling a bit poo today. My head hurts in a weird way (like round the sides in front of my ears, not like on the forehead), I’ve been weeweeing like one of them tacky little white cherub water fountains you see in garden centres and I feel run down and poo. Not very pleasant.

So I think to myself tonight, in a traditional “mum’s way” remedy for my malaise, I’d get meself two paracetamol, have a nice long soak in a hot bath before climbing into my fluffy pyjamas and going to bed early.

Soon as I step through the door I announce this as my intention. First she says, “Well you’ll have to wait to be ill for a bit longer as I need you to move the wardrobe for the decorators tomorrow”

Let me tell you about the wardrobe. The wardrobe is a heavy fucker. It’s a two man job to build and a two man job to dismantle. If you have any intention of moving it even a centimetre you have to dismantle it. You cannot lift it. Even Geoff Capes would do his back in trying to lift it.

“Have you emptied it?” I ask
“Yes” She says
“So I’ve got a big pile of my clothes on my bed then” I said guessing correctly.
“Oh and can you move my car to the front of the house too”

So I struggled sympathiless to my chores. Having moved the car (in the cold rain and sleet) I turned my attention to the wardrobe.
“It needs dismantling” I said.
“No it doesn’t” she said
“Yes it does” I said
“Just lift it” she said.

So I humoured her and let her try lifting the heavy fucker with me. Having watched the wardrobe twist and strain as much as I was prepared to before it got damaged and fruitlessly tried to move the thing it was decided (her idea) that the wardrobe be dismantled. This done in less time than it takes to make a cup of tea, with me and my clean on today clothes covered in dust and the wardrobe moved on the first attempt, I turn my attentions to the bath.

I was so looking forward to my bath. I draped my thick tartan pyjamas on the super hot radiator and climbed into the water. It was blissfully hot. Just the way I like it. Not scorching. Just hot. Like a cup of tea when it’s ready for drinking. That kind of temperature. So I’m soaking there hoping for a reprieve to my suffering and a nice long soak. About ten minutes into the soak a knock at the bathroom door.

“Are you in there?” she says.
“Yes” I says.
“Do you want some stew?” she says
“No” I says ” I am not feeling like food”
“Can I have your bath water if it’s clean when you get out”
“Yes” I says.

So I soak for a further five minutes, I think to myself if I lay here any longer the water will go cold and she won’t want the water. So I cut my bath short.

I get out of the bath. I take my warm pyjamas off the radiator. I open the door and call down the stairs “There’s your bath water”

“Thank you” comes the reply

So I sit in my room. Reading LJ, catching up with comments and that. 45 minutes have passed. She still hasn’t come upstairs. That bath water will be cold as a bowl of gazpachos soup. I cut my bloody bath short out of the kindness of my heart. For NOTHING.

I sit in my room. I am feeling tired and poo. I am going to put on my pyjamas now. I can guarantee I will have to get dressed properly again though before the night is out.

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Author: stegzy

Once, long ago, I wrote frequently on Livejournal. I then moved to Blogspot, where I discovered that blogging requires an audience. So I moved back to LJ. Then over to Dreamwidth, back to LJ, up the road of self hosting with Muckybadger before giving up entirely and moving over to Wordpress. It was at that moment I decided I would spread my compostual nonsense simultaneously across the blogosphere like some rancid margarine. And so here I am. I am a badger. But then I'm not really a badger. I am a human. With badger like tendencies. I am a writer, a film producer and a social commentator. I am available for Breakfast TV shows, documentaries and chats in the pub with journalists.

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