Nobody ever told me…

…that sex could be this good. Or, not sex precisely; more sort-of high-pressure water hoses… but first some context…

This has been a weekend of spending money and crank phone calls; on friday night I received a call from on his cellphone; thing is, he hadn’t dialled it.

This sort of thing happens once every 6 weeks or so; because I am often the first person on peoples speed-dials – due to alphabetic sorting – every so often I get called by someone’s dropping their telephone, or sitting on it, or whatever.

Friday night was Ian’s turn, wherein he was having some late-night social event with (at least) a couple of girlies of our ken. Since you cannot hangup an inbound call, I eventually (through loud whistling) managed to get them to notice the phone, explain, have a laugh together, and hang up.

Saturday was shopping in that hell-hole that is Reading; finding that the Park&Ride was a better option for city-centre access, I went to High&Mighty and blew 130 quid on clothing; wandered around some camping shops and cook shops, latterly spent another 100 quid on camping gear, and a further 120 at B&Q, buying fire extinguishers, misc DIY equipment, and – (aha!) – a Karcher high-pressure jet washer. I dropped shopping at R&G’s in the evening and vegged, returning home to find 12 blank SMS messages received from .

Apparently this was another mobile-phone weirdness. The cause of the SMS messages remains a mystery.

Sunday dawned, and I tried out the washer for half an hour; it’s phenomenal fun – motorbike clean (enough) in minutes, being careful not to wash the grease out of the headstock and wheel bearings; slime-encrusted flagstones, waterbutts and wheeliebins washed clean, and the moss-encrusted barbecue is now 97% spotless and even fit for use, which it’s not been since before I bought the house.

I think my childlike glee in playing with this thing can be excused as precisely such – when growing up in Pittsburgh like all good suburban pseudo-American sprogs, my sisters’ and my favourite summer pastime was as-traditional, playing with the lawn sprinkler and hosepipes. My favourite trick was in using the jet nozzle to knock pollen out of the long-needled pine trees, causing enormous clouds of chlorine-green pollen to descend upon the neighbourhood from 30 feet up. The parents used to give me hell, but it was fun to watch.

I had sunday morning coffee with the neighbours, went to M&S for further clothes shopping, laundered, cleaned, tidied – the house is heading pell-mell towards showhome standards of cleanliness – and set about braising some large field mushrooms in a vegetable stock, encrusted with parmesan & slivers of wild-boar salami when the phone rang.

Yet again it was Ian’s mobile calling, and this time I was unable to raise him. Having a speakerphone, I left it on listened to him and yet another ladyfriend watching Shrek whilst I cooked, and the connection died eventually. Called him back and explained. I suspect that it won’t reoccur anytime soon. Also arranged to go see a comedian together towards the end of the month.

Reorganisation contines apace, and I feel pleased to have crossed-off almost a sheet’s worth of tasks this weekend.

Now back to real work.

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