Ah, Sunday...

[mad_andy]

So it's Sunday morning. I get woken at 0800 by the sodding radio alarm that Slay has neglected to turn off; it's blurting Radio 4 at me and it's a church service.

Fuck that for a game of soldiers, says I, crawls across the bed and smack, turns it off.

What to do, what to do. It's Sunday. I haven't slept well, the jolly old bladder turfing me out of bed four times since I crashed at 2:30 - so no, not much kip at all. Go back to sleep? Nah. Let's head for the bathroom and morning ablutions, eh?

Good idea, except for the minor fact that the bathroom is full of husband and two boxes of hair dye For Men.

"Do you have scissors?"

I'm stark bollock naked, do I look like I'm carrying a pair of scissors?

"Would you help me?"

I've just got up.

"You said you would."

So before I can take so much as a slash I have to get gloved up and help Slay dye his fucking hair. He does not help by insisting on leaning over the bath no matter how often I tell the motherfucker that unless he sits up straight I'm not going to get the skunky bits at the front. Twat.

I notice the box of beard dye. He can do that one himself, ta. And then he can clean the black speckles from the bathroom walls, just like I do when I dye mine.

Only he won't, and it'll be me with a nail brush and a long list of swear words next week, as per usual.

So anyway. I finally have a bit of a sense of humour failure and get to pee, although not in private as he's now dying his beard. Hell with it.

Throw some clothes on, go downstairrs, let the dog out, give him his breakfast. Which he doesn't want because Bakers is clearly now very boring stuff indeed.

OK fine. Go without. I leave the bowl down, stuff his head into the bucket (because that's the only way I can get him not to belt round the garden and rip his foot open again) at which point he decides that he hates me so much he isn't going to listen to me ever again.

I give up on the dog, after screaming at him for chasing the cat across the garden, and feed and water the ferrets instead. They behave themselves, although while they're having their breakfast Axl stands outside their run and barks at them because their breakfast smells so much nicer than his does.

I tell him to get indoors. He runs to the end of the garden and sits down, cocking his ears at me inside the bucket. Come and get me, the gesture says.

Fine. Stay there, then.

Crumpets and tea for breakfast. Lovely!

Arsehole dog decides to come in so he can watch me eat. Arsehole husband comes downstairs and mildly announces that the bathroom needs a clean, and will I brush his hair out for him? (I caught him using my afro comb to detangle the matts this morning and had a sense of humour failure - he breaks all my brushes and combs on that mess he calls hair.) Can I eat my breakfast first?

Slay heaves a deep, resigned sigh.

Comes back with toast. Have I renewed my shotgun licence? (No) Am I coming to the market with him? (No) He needs new boots. How long has he had these ones? (A year.) Why won't I come to the market with him?

I ignore him and eat my crumpets.

Anyway. The dog pushes his luck, knocking over as many things as he can to annoy Slay. I lose my rag, stuff dog in his bed and brush the husband, then go for a quiet smoke with the ferrets. They appreciate me.

Slay departs for the market and I go upstairs. I go in the bathroom.

HOLY FUCKING SHIT.

There's streaks of brown/black down the shower walls, up the sides of the bath, the shower curtain...everywhere. The sink surround is spatetred with tiny black dots. You have never seen such a mess in your goddamn life. How? How does he do it?

I love lazy sunday mornings, don't you?