Bumm(p)er!

Now we're both set up to work from home, Max has declared we don't need two cars. Which is a reasonable proposition, considering the beginnings are difficult and the money is thight. And considering the cost of insurance, servicing etc, and the odd re-spray after the local riffraff have been out on their bikes again. Two months ago, Max had the front bumper on his car re-sprayed and other bits touched up, which meant parting with £300. When needs must...

But, not having to drive to work, we're now saving on fuel, putting in £5 at a time (£10 at most), in case the prices drop tomorrow... Still, his car guzzles more than mine so it would have to go.

A note went up in his car's window, inviting offers and... nobody's interested. No one's phoned, not a peep. And then a good neighbour called: "Better come out. Your car's all over the road...".

It wasn't quite that bad. The front bumper was ripped off (lights, cables and all) but the main bodywork wasn't badly damaged. The police and the insureres are after the culprit - the good neighbour had seen the whole thing happen. Which means, other than the hassle of it all, the repair shouldn't cost us a thing... "Had I known, I could have saved myself 300 quid!", said Max and I mumbled something about this curious thing called "hindsight"...

The shitty bastards

Max and I were lying in bed yesterday morning, arguing over whose turn it was to make breakfast. I was thinking I should probably do it anyway, if I wanted a decent cup of coffee (his usual offering is on the stingy side, as in: you can count the grains in the cafetiere...). Besides, I didn't like the look of his fingernails: strangely green and crusty (bogies??). Then I remembered him in the garden the previous evening, scraping the last of the green paint out of an old tin, painting the bird table.

One raised eyebrow later (as we often communicate without words, just like that...) and he stuck his head out of the bedroom window. "Bloody, bloody pigeons! Bastards! Shitty, shitty bastards!". I reckoned it was worth investigating...

The shitty bastards left a thank-you note: a big white splat against the fresh green, winking up at Max: "Oi, mate, any more of that green paint left?". Dejected, Max wasn't getting up any time soon. "One of them must have seen there was no food and left me his opinion... shitty, shitty bastard!". At this point we heard urgent cooing below us: "And the shitter's harassing me now!" I thought he was probably leaving him another opinion (the paint was so old it went nuclear, maybe?) but kept my mouth shut.

There's nothing like a good, nuclear-strength coffee first thing in the morning...

The bird table is bright red now. No more old tins in the shed. No more pigeons?

The first time

The first time I met Max I had to pay for my own drink. Fair enough, it was a training day in the office (on a lunch break), and not a date, but it was obvious we were getting to know each other. The first time we did go on a date, it was no different. The barman kept ignoring him, apparently.

The first time he took me to Paris, he picked our "hotel" from the Lonely Planet. Ok, it was a few years back but (I'm not kidding you) it cost £15 a night. I still remember the wee-stained candlewick bedspread, the suspect clientele and the rottweiler behind the reception desk. The receptionist wasn't much more welcoming either. And don't even get me started on the toilet-in-the-room arrangement.

The first time I clapped my eyes on my engagement ring, I turned into that rottweiler. In my head, that is. Outwardly I remained calm and collected and accepted graciously. Six months of gentle prodding later I got what I wanted, making Max £3,000 poorer in the process. No mean feat considering the original offering was closer to £500.

Why did I marry him? Because he would always come and rescue me from the jungle (cheaper than sending in the troops...). And because he'd give me his last kidney, if need be. He'd probably try and sew it in personally, too.... You guessed it, it'd be cheaper this way...

But, above all, I married him because he makes me laugh. Good, old-fashioned belly-laughs, every time he opens his mouth and says: "How much?!"