Christmas approaches fast and not only are we faced with all the pressure of what presents to buy we have to decide what to eat for our celebration meal.
It seemed so easy when was younger; it was just a case of turning up and, as if by mum magic, the food appeared.
Now most of the responsibility is ours because we are supposed to be adults.
Another pressure of this festive season is what we should wear for the Christmas parties. The surgery that keeps my wife busy as a nurse for most of the week have decided upon a theme to aid us in our choice. This year we are encouraged to don 1920's attire.
My wife seems to have it sussed but I feel limited to bringing out my tuxedo again. In light of this I decided to add a little challenge to the ensemble by including a moustache. I could have bought one from the local fancy dress store but my wife suggested that I might grow one.
This appealed to me for a number of reasons. Firstly, I haven't had a muzzy for over twenty years and the idea of growing one intrigued me. Mrs M had always been negative toward the idea but now it was her suggestion.
The second reason is that when I was a teenager I had a handle bar moustache which I lost within two-weeks of going out with my future wife. I was proud of it but I wanted to impress her more than fighting to keep it.
I need to point out that back in the day such facial hair was fashionable and this was before the village people made it in the UK charts, just.
Anyway, for the last two weeks I have been holding back from shaving my top lip. As an extra bonus I have allowed the growth to form the shape of a handle bar.
At first Mrs M didn't notice the extra hair but when she did she was quick to voice her disapproval. It seems that the passage of time has not softened her feelings towards the look.
I tried to appease her by saying that it was only for a bit of fun but it didn't convince her and for two of three days she found plenty of opportunities to make comment.
I resisted for a while until eventually she broke my resolve. She looked at me for a moment and then said that she found it interesting that unlike the hair on my top lip the handlebars were growing out grey.
So without objection I have shaved them off and left the remains of what might turn out to be an authentic 1920's muzzy.
All I need now is a monocle, a hand full of hair gel, and a kiss curl. Bring on the Charleston!
Hairy Top Lip
Bathroom Blues
Early morning bathroom fever used to hit our house every day, as the five females of the home all tried to mark out their territory. Mostly this involved laying claim to the hairdryer or carrying round the curly brush to make sure it was always available (I still, to this day, have to work out why, in a house of a hundred brushes, only one was good enough for all of them). Added to this was the rush for the bathroom door with each one demanding that they had a reason to take priority. I often tried to bring some logic to the arguments that raged about who should rightfully inherit the water closet first. I soon realised that my involvement was neither wanted nor useful.
Things have not always been so tense in casa Molineaux; for the first eighteen months of married life we owned a terraced house. It was advertised to us as having an ‘indoor toilet’, because at that time many older homes still only had an external ‘privy’.
In truth it was an extra cupboard built into the back box room but, because we are at a nostalgic age, we now lovingly refer to it as an en suite bedroom.
Over time we gradually increased our bedroom space to accommodate our offspring but, due to the older nature of our houses, we never quite managed extra bathrooms; meaning that queues for baths and toilets have been a regular feature.
I have tried several schemes in order to avoid such gridlock in the morning. I had a run of setting the girl’s alarms at 15 minute intervals, but it only took one daughter to sleep in to throw the whole schedule into chaos.
I have learnt over the years to spend as little time doing my own ablutions as possible in order that I might not enrage the already anxious female population of our house. When I do leave the shower, after the shortest time possible, it is to the sound of my wife complaining about the excess water on the floor; apparently I am supposed to begin the drying process whilst still in the foot and half of cubicle space.
I am not sure that the complaints are justified when you consider the obstacle course that I have to negotiate following female bath time; this after I have found my way through the haze of perfume and other noxious gases that come out of the cosmetic pots.
For me shower time is a quick event with the point of the exercise being to get clean. All our girls are unanimous in the view that it can also be good therapy to stand motionless under moving water for a very long time. If I were cruel I would try to speed up the process by turning on a downstairs hot tap in order to change the water pressure and temperature. (No! Honestly I haven’t done this).
At a moment of greatest frustration I once joined a local sports club because it had excellent showers and the queue was less than the one at home.
Things started to get a little easier as two of the girls headed for university and I hoped that my opportunity for a free bathroom might arrive when our eldest daughter got married last year. The actual result was that she now visits and brings her new husband along to join the queue.
My other main complaint is that my razor is no longer my own; after I have spent a small fortune on blades I find that they lose their sharpness within days. Apparently those designed especially for females are not as good.
I have finally fallen on an excellent idea that I am sure will solve such problems. It came to me whilst I was waiting to buy cheese at our local supermarket. I pulled the ticket from the handy machine provided and calmly waited for my number to be displayed on the electronic sign. Then it came to me; if it is good enough for shoppers wanting dairy products then it should work well with daughters wanting to start the day with a shower.
