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Parties and Boilers and Ears, oh my

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Parties and Boilers and Ears, oh my…

(Note – looking back on this entry before posting, it might be hard to follow, but may give you some deep insight into how my mind works.)

Let’s start with the Hobbit’s leaving party on Friday. We adjourned to a nearby watering hole after work where we began to imbibe large amounts of brown liquid designed to lower your intelligence. I was already starting to get quite ‘happy’ when we left there. We stopped next door (worrying about impending quantities of drink on a largely empty stomach) at a fish & chip shop. For anyone who doesn’t know me, I might need to point out that despite my apparent bulkiness, I actually eat very little. My life is a constant walk on the fine line between uppers and downers. I try to keep the balance of alcohol, nicotine, caffeine and cheese (yes it IS a drug) just right. If I hit the right balance, the combination keeps me awake through the day and asleep at night. Anyway, back to the plot… We stop at the fooderie, and the Hobbit, Mrs Moosehunter and her friend buy chips (with a bun – Chip Butty). I couldn’t realistically hope to eat all that, and most things these days have to be ordered when you enter and waited for. I scanned the heated glass container for something vaguely edible. In the end I plumped for a suspicious-looking sausage. It made my eyes water just looking at it. I generally don’t eat sausages (partially because I often don’t like the taste, and partially because I know that they’re made mostly out of ram scrotum and pig rectum). In this case the sausage was the only real choice. I had, earlier in the day said something to Chicken Boy (when offered a sausage roll) about not minding the party-sized ones but being unable to handle a whole sausage! Standing there with a handful of phallic, drooping skin-full of pig’s ass, the phrase shot through my mind once again. As an aside, I stopped eating sausages once for several years after buying one from the chippy near my parents’ house and discovering that the sausage had hair. Nothing had prepared me for that and even the sight of a sausage made me think about that for years afterwards. Somewhere, I suspect, there was a castrated Irish Wolfhound looking for revenge. Anyway, once more back to the night. We then descended on another public house, where they did not have any of what I call REAL beer (beer that’s kept at a constant cold temperature and pumped electrically is far too newfangled and fancy for me, boy). This is when the Hobbit and I started on the Jack Daniels. The evening slid by in a haze of drivel and alcoholism and ended with five of us returning to Chez Moose, where the Hobbit and I finished off my bottle of Single Malt and then some Lemoncello spirit. The Hobbit stopped over in our spare room and the next day we sat in a daze and watched TV while the London Symphony Orchestra performed the 1812 overture in my head. At least we saw him out in style. It did, however, cause me to have a headache that lasted all of Saturday, dropped in for tea on Sunday and is still making guest appearances and cameos on Monday and Tuesday.

Now, on to the boiler. The weekend was largely spent away from the house with friends and family, which is good as the house was still devoid of hot water and heated only by a motley collection of fan-heaters, halogen heaters and electric radiators. This inevitably led to two rooms being sub-tropical and other rooms being tundra, stalked by timber wolves and rabid penguins. It was quite peculiar. One day this weekend, I woke up having thrown the duvet off the bed because I was so warm I was sweating oceans and having dreams about playing baccarat with the Sultan of Brunei. I then opened the bedroom door to cross the landing into the bathroom. I was hit by an icy blast of arctic air when I opened the door and my body went into some kind of spasmic shock as it tried to accommodate the heat index of Cameroon on my back with the danger of icebergs on my front. I’d showered at my parents’ house on Saturday afternoon, but there was no hope on Sunday for such a treat. I would be smeggy and make it through. I had, of course, not counted on going to work on Monday morning. I realised as soon as I got up that there was no way on God’s earth I would have time to fill a bath with water boiled in pans and kettles, or I would have been very late for work. Instead, I hunted around the room and found every deodorant and body spray I could lay my hands on. At work on Monday nobody commented and I’m astounded. I must have smelled like an explosion of a Lynx container wagon at the Chelsea flower show! Still, at least I didn’t smell like I hadn’t showered. I returned home Monday night and, lo and behold, the plumbers had finished. We had a nice new boiler. I almost cried. Mrs Moosehunter fortunately didn’t find me standing in my shorts, hugging the shiny white plastic of the new boiler. I may have looked a little odd, but we had heating. The house was a uniform temperature. Heaven! Last night I had a shower and it was bliss. Not only that, but in the old days, we had to organise showers carefully by time as there often was insufficient hot water for two proper showers. Now there’s enough for as many showers as you like, in a lobster-boiling temperature if you wish. Yay! Several small things have come to light, though, since Yosemite Cletus and the Acne Kid plumbed their hearts out. Firstly, where the nice new copper piping goes into the wall of the cupboard (where the old calcium-lump-coated pipes had been removed) there are a number of scary scorch marks on the walls. What the f**k? Has our old central heating system being gradually trying to burn down the house? I’m rather glad we do have the new system now as, even if the heating hadn’t died, I never really counted on becoming Kentucky-Fried Moosehunter at the tender age of 33. A second interesting thing: The plumbers had apparently made a mess of the landing carpet while taking out the old water tank. Since they were alone in the house (Mrs Moosehunter and I were at work), they took the initiative and cleaned it up. I give them points for that. I retract the points, however, because of their method. Why in God’s name would someone take a flannel wash-mitten and ‘relaxation’ shower gel and scrub the goddamn carpet with them? Could they not think of ANYTHING more appropriate? Perhaps that’s what they use in the Cletus residence. Thirdly: They appear to have taken up either the linoleum flooring of the bathroom or the stairs carpet at some point on Monday as they had removed the metal strip that separates the carpets. The thing was screwed down flush in four places. I can only assume that they didn’t have a screwdriver with them and just jemmied the thing from the floor. On Monday night I examined the thing and it was screwed down flush at one side, but the other stood proud around an inch from the floor, its gleaming metal edge lying in wait for my inevitable middle-of-the-night trip to the bathroom, when it could sever my foot just above the toenails. I removed my new cordless power drill/screwdriver (that I got from the outlaws for Christmas) from its case and attempted to screw the thing back down. It sprang up again. Yes, they appear to have destroyed the piece of floor the screws go into. Tonight I attempt to take the whole thing up, turn it round, and screw it back down in slightly different places. If that doesn’t work, I’ll just buy three donkeys’ worth of glue and fasten the bloody thing down permanently.

I think that if we dig deep into the 13 year history of our house, we’ll find some horror story of murder and betrayal, as I’m now pretty sure the place is haunted. I can only assume that the ghost we had was living behind the old hot water tank until Cletus and his butt-boy removed it. On Sunday night we sat watching M*A*S*H when there was a tremendous thump from upstairs (our bedroom). If we had a coal fire, I’d have been climbing the stairs armed with a poker. I could find nothing amiss in the room, though that’s no real indication. Having not been truly ‘living’ in the house for several days and with Mrs Moosehunter being one of those people who is clinically incapable of putting things away on shelves or in drawers, it’s often hard to tell whether something’s out of place, since nothing seems to have a place. I shrugged and returned to watch M*A*S*H once more. After a while there was a muffled thump from the kitchen. I rushed to the door and opened it and absolutely nothing was out of place in there. By now I was starting to fantasise (and this time not about Lesbian Nuns, but about Poltergeists.) I can find no reason and no evidence for these noises, but again, later in the evening something fell off Mrs Moosehunter’s computer desk and slid down the side of the cupboard. Nothing was on and there was nothing near it. There were no fan pointing towards it. In fact the only one pointed away. I am starting to freak (but in a good way, as I kind of like the idea of being haunted.) Mysterious thumps are the beginning. Several of my movies have gone missing (including three video tapes I only brought back at the end of last week from a friend.) Creepy, since I ran a complete check of my video and DVD collection last night to keep the catalogue up to date (yes, I know I’m sad.)

Ears. There’s a bit of a back story here. Please feel free to look back a couple of entries and read about Mrs Moosehunter’s aural elephants. In addition to that, we went to see Uncle Fester and his good lady on Saturday night and it turns out that he’s had an ear infection too. His sounds worse than Mrs Moosehunter’s one. His apparently leaked gushing gluey liquid. Ewwww. That being said, I started to develop a slightly painful ear on Sunday. By Monday lunchtime I was starting to lose a little hearing quality in it, and it felt a bit bunged up. Last night it filled up completely. Now I’ll try to describe the situation. I am almost totally deaf in my right ear. When I move my head too much or too sharply, I can feel the sloshing of the tide in my inner ear. It’s very disconcerting. I have to strain to hear what people are saying over the sound of inner crashing waves. I’m not really surprised that it takes a lot of effort, when you think that the sound arrives at the eardrum, has to ring a little bell on a wooden stand and wait for a small rowing boat to take it across the choppy sea of deafness to the brain, where it has to knock to be let in. I’m hoping this goes away soon before it starts to even out and I end up with the Caspian Sea in both ears. The problem is, that the little remainders of headaches that keep popping up are being made considerably worse by the ear.


Then finally, there’s work this morning. The printer in our room said ‘Toner needs replacing’, so I went to the shelves where we keep our toners and checked. We have a spare ready. I opened the cover and removed the old toner, intending to give it a good shake, which will often prolong the cartridge’s life by a week or more. At this point I should, perhaps point out that I am to Printers, Fax Machines and Photocopiers what the Shiny One is to computers, or Michael Jackson is to daycare, or Klaus Barbie was to inter-Semitic relations. I only have to stand near a fax machine and it gurgles and makes clunking noises and starts to print with an inconvenient black line. But this is just shaking the toner, which is about the simplest thing you can do. I pulled the toner out of its grooves, there was a ‘Sproing’ noise, and a plastic cover that actually conceals the delicate drum catapulted into the air. There followed a furious few minutes of trying to discern how the hell this thing fit back on before I gave up and handed both parts to Chicken Boy while I unpacked the replacement. I inserted the new toner and just then there was a click and Chicken Boy (the bastard) held up the perfectly repaired old one. This week is going to be a doozy!

Oh and one more thing. Yesterday morning, when only Chicken Boy and I were in the room, he was frowning at something, and while I was up to the armpits in databases, I was absent-mindedly humming ‘pub, pub, pub, pubbity, pub, pub, pub’ (to the tune of the Monty Python ‘Spam’ song), when Chicken Boy suddenly sat up straight, stared straight at me and said “SHUT THE FUCK UP!” I was so stunned I couldn’t think of anything to say for a moment, and then fell about laughing. To his credit, Chicken Boy looked just as stunned that he’d said it. I think it came out accidentally and took him by surprise (and that kind of thing only usually happens to him at a weekend.)

Oh well. Let’s see what today brings, and the quiz tonight.

Ciao for now.



Written by SJAT

August 20, 2009 at 2:59 pm

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