There are days I should be ashamed of myself.
Today is such a day.
The fact that I am actually writing about this at all is something I'll have to deal with at a later date I'm sure. Or not, I'm quite confident no one I know actually reads my blog. Except maybe Vernon because he's trying to figure out what I actually do in my spare time - which according to him I have too much of.
To be clear, I am not an adventurous man, nor am I given to flights of fancy or wildly inappropriate conduct. There are always exceptions, and after a few beers and a couple shots of tequila, strange things can and may occur (consult your doctor if the condition worsens or lasts longer than 24 hours).
Margaret was over and she was sitting in the front room watching TV. I'm not sure what was on, American X Glee Factor or something. Doesn't really matter. Her visit happened to coincide with laundry day so I was wandering about the house in my underpants. I had also decided a couple of mid week drinks after a hard day in the shop was a good idea (see above). She was lounging on the couch and I walked up behind her and asked her if she'd even worn a little chicken hat.
She craned her neck and gave me a look.
"A chicken hat." I repeated.
"No. I can't say I've worn a chicken hat John."
Without thinking I dropped my gear and contorted myself in a way I can only assume would make a yoga instructor proud and laid my junk on top of Margaret's head. "Ta da! A chicken hat." There was a brief moment of indescribable triumph.
Her response was quick and merciless.
Next thing I remember I was rolling on the floor, holding my wounded pride, gonch around my ankles, legs in the air when Norton strolled in holding the laundry basket.
All in all not a proud day for me. Wednesday should have been hump day, but not for me ... not for a couple days at least.
Note to self, drinking on the weekend okay. Mid week: Not so much.
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