Saturday, 10 December 2016

Therapy, of Sorts

havant household waste recycling centre Woke up at 5. Tried again, and woke up at 9. That gave me 2 hours of Minecrafting and Tribal Warfare before a bright idea was mentioned and so we loaded the old back gate and bottlebrush branches into the car to take it to the tip.
We also took some olive tree branches but peace did not break out. The tip was quite empty and I threw my bits of wood with gay abandon etc and then a guy in a crane-digger type vehicle came along and crashed the wood down into the skip with his massive grabber attachment in a most amusing fashion.
From there it was only a complicated set of roundabouts back onto the motorway and direct access at the speed of madness to Chichester. We came off the wrong exit at the Fishbourne roundabout and toured an industrial estate before making it back onto the A27 and going back to the first roundabout where we tried again with the right exit and found the Westgate Leisure Centre.
Parking in the same place we did last time, we walked into town via a little antique shop which has trays of ancient coins at 20p each and a man who stutters worse than Michael Palin in A Fish Called Wanda. There is a Wetherspoons directly opposite the cathedral which served me scampi and a short walk back via a toyshop where I got an Evie which is a fluffy Pokémon to add to my collection of cuddly monsters.
antique shop next to peter hancockIn the pool we did the waterslide and the squirters and the buckets and lots of diving and then I invented Tickle-Test which is where I attempt to insert my naughty fingers into orifices various while screeching in Minion-ese at the top of my voice. The pool attendants thought we were doing a 1-on-1 therapy session for poor little kids born without a brain. We didn't go wrong at all on the way back but Jof was out at the eyebrow shop getting eyebrow extensions. She looked very surprised when she got home. She also had eyelash extensions, a plastic dress, and fake fingernails with added glitter. Bud helped by getting some real nails from the toolbox in the garage and Jof didn't laugh at all.
To make things simpler, I invited the JBs for a sleepover, nothing to do with their parents going out on the lash (rum & sodomy not included) and awaited their arrival with bated breath and baited traps.
First, we played on our tablets. Then, Jof left in a panic when the taxi arrived on time and forgot her nails, both glittery and steel. We ate pizza, crinkly chips, fish fingers and chicken inverted commas. I didn't know you could get poultry punctuation. During supper we re-lived the "I can't open the f***ing door" incident 27 times very loudly.
11 year old boys for sleepover
The JBs had blackcurrant AND orange squash in the same cups because they are from another planet and then we went right back upstairs again for some more thumping around while Bud catalogued my coin collection (what a life) and we chose to watch Mr Python's quest for the Grail of Holiness because they're not allowed to see Total Recall and stuff. Once that had finished I tidied up and we went to play Lego. And the thing is, when their Mum dropped them off she said good luck, but in reality, we might as well be trainspotters, we're so interesting, actually nice people with a proper upbringing. Bedtime midnight, but only because we're ordered not to meet Jof (allergic to children) in the corridor.

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