Not any more. No, Saturday Nights are now for slobbing out in front of the telly, eating ice cream and basking in the heat of the woodburner. They are also apparently for dying hair (not mine I hasten to add!) painting toe nails (again not mine thankfully) and deciding what sort of potatoes should be planted for the autumn. Blob wants to try pink fir apples again despite the fact they have a low yield -
"Nutty and Creamy" Blob says,
"So what!" I say, "Put some more coal on the fire if you don't mind, and stop drooling over a somewhat blond and pretty Nicholas Nickleby"
"Christopher Plummer ain't bad either" says Blob ignoring my requests for more heat. I could die of hypothermia whilst she sits there lusting over Dickens dramatisations.
She was lusting over Mr Darcy earlier today in the Pride and Prejudice adaptation with Kiera Nightdress or what ever her name is, although she is the first to admit that this Mr Darcy was nothing when compared to Colin Firth in wet jodphurs!
"And why is there no Casualty on tonight?" she complains
"And why is there still no more coal on the fire?" I complain
We appear to have turned ignoring each other into a fine art.
She now needs to go and wash the dye out of her hair - to night she is going chestnut.
"That's ginger in layman's terms isn't it?" I mutter as she leaves the room,
"No - not ginger - chestnut like horses!" she yells as she goes up stairs.
"Ginger!" I mumble to myself whilst I snigger into my paws.
She'll be down in about half an hour looking damp and ginger!
Best I get some kip before hand so I have the energy to laugh.
Bob
Bob, you are a v. bad kitty. A woman's hair is her crowning glory. I mean, it's okay for your jet black, furry lush types, but the rest of us have to struggle on with artificial interventions.
ReplyDeleteCo-incidentally, I had my hair dyed yesterday. Ash brown, apparently.
Not ginger.