Thursday, 17 May 2012

George Formby

So there I am cleaning windows with a washing up sponge. Greg Davies looks less than impressed and asks me why I'm smearing 18 months' worth of DIY filth from one part of the window to another. And why am I adding remnants of last night's tea to the exceedingly more opaque glass?

He's right. This is futile. I need some malt vinegar to bring these beauties up to scratch and in the kitchen
I've got a seal-intact bottle of Sarson's itching to get involved. 13 down and 13 up and I'm back in the back bedroom liberally vinegaring the windows with the sponge. Incredibly, this does little more than make the mess smell more like Ruby's Fish Bar.

Greg sneers in the corner. He's right; I should be applying the malt with some old newspaper. But today is recycling day and all of the papers, local curry, Chinese and offer-to-tidy the garden/driveway/household chores/handyman flyers have been taken by two upstanding members of the local hi-viz Polish population.
Resigned, I pick off a piece of yesterday's carrot peel and try to comfort myself with the fact that we do not need to put up curtains.

I tell Greg this. However, Greg is not Greg but the fringed bloke off last week's 8 out of 10 cats. I don't know his name but keep this to myself.

It's not often I remember my dreams so why would my brain choose to retain this epic piece of inanity?

No comments:

Post a Comment

Come on, spit it out. You're not normally this quiet so let's hear your thoughts.