I’ve been tagged by the lovely Jessie’s Crazy Kitchen in the new meme created by Kerry at Multiple Mummy. She came up with the idea because as a new Stay-At-Home-Mum she didn’t think she’d have much to offer by way of conversation when up against working types.
It’s a theme that strikes a chord with me. I was made redundant last June so my wife and I decided the only way we were going to make ends meet was if we swapped roles.
Since my wife started work in January, I’ve had to try to find a new purpose for myself – new passions – not least so that I can hold my own at the various academic-and-celebrity-packed dinner parties I get invited to, right here, in my own head.
So here are my new grand passions I have spent – or would spend, if anyone ever asked me – literally minutes pontificating about .
This passion starts from the moment you touch the clothes on the drier and get that frisson of pleasure that only comes with that Not-Wet-Not-Yet-Dry sensation. This is the moment to burst into action, lest the drying process continues to the point where you might as well be ironing corrugated iron. Next there’s the assembling of the ironing board. Once, this was as baffling to me as a deckchair to a one-armed man. But I’ve mastered it now – a quick flick of the foot, a swift swoop of the board, and Hey Presto, you’re good to go. Now we come to the almost orgasmic sight of the first hiss of steam emanating from the iron’s holes a few seconds after being plugged in. Tsssssssssssst! is the noise it makes. Like that first wonderful piss of the morning. And so to business: lay-out your garment, press, de-crease. Stand back, admire, shed a tear of accomplishment. Move onto the next garmet. There is nothing quite like the sharpness of a perfectly ironed crease on a shirt sleeve or a pair of your wife’s work trousers. My, I sometimes iron creases so sharp that I’ve often though I could slice through the skin and veins on mhy wrists until I reached bone!
2. OTHER PEOPLE’S CHILDREN
Oh, they’re rascals, aren’t they? Cheeky chirpy chipmunks who make any weekend visit to a pub an absolute joy. I reach near convulsion levels of amusement as I watch them run around the pub, spilling drinks, chucking crisps around, using the spaces under the tables for hide and seek, and shouting in people’s ears. It’s a pleasure that is doubled, even tripled, by the cold, dead indifference of their cheery parents – an indifference, by the way, that I greatly admire, for it means they are so secure in their parenting skills that they have given their offspring the confidence to approach complete strangers without fear of being given a Chinese burn as reward for spilling my pint.
The choice. That’s what fuels my passion for shopping. There is so much choice. If I could, I would spend my entire life just staring at the aisle of toothpaste, studying the different benefits and ingredients, analysing which does what whiter and which will give your tongue the texture of chamois leather. Sadly, I haven’t got all day to indulge such pleasures, for there are other shelves and aisles that also draw my attention like a moth to a TV screen. My most recent discovery, dint of catering for my Successful Other Half’s needs as well as my own and the kids’, is the tampons display. The choice here is thrilling, to say the least: so many types to choose from. ‘Would Sir like regular, super or super-plus? With or without applicator? A box of 18, 32 or 48? Light or heavy flow?’ Oh, it makes me long to be a woman, so that I could sift through these shelves for hours on end without assistant giving my funny looks.
Now this is where I really excel. Jean Paul Vursartchy, Christian Labootle, Stella Artwartny – eat your hearts out. I am a dedicated follower of fashion; a clothes horse, if you will. Vintage-retro is my speciality. Only the other day, I was up in Manchester and my dad remarked on my remarkable taste in clothes: ‘Why are you wearing your Mam’s fleece? Your DEAD Mam’s fleece, at that?’ he asked. ‘Because it’s warm,’ I replied. ‘But it doesn’t even fit you,’ he continued. “Which makes it even warmer.’ You see, style AND function. As any fashionista will tel you, it’s the perfect combination.
Of course, this should be number 1 passion, but I didn’t want to start off on a sleazy note. Sex is without a shadow of a doubt my Numero Uno Passionata. Or is it? Actually, erm, not sure. It’s been a while. What were we talking about? Oh yes, sex. Nope, never heard of it. If you see any, though, get me one, especially if it’s BOGOF.