So, I lost my sunglasses.
And yes, I know what you’re thinking. Other than, “Holy hell, is this woman going to lose EVERY. SINGLE. THING she owns?” I mean. (The answer to that, by the way, is surely “yes”. Yes, it would appear that I am. ) “So what?” you’re thinking. “It’s just a pair of sunglasses! It’s not like losing a dress, say. And it’s February, it’s not even sunny for God’s sake!”
You’re right, of course. It is just a pair of sunglasses, but the thing is: these were SPECIAL sunglasses. (Have you noticed how I always lose the spechul stuff, never the totally ordinary, take-it-or-leave-it stuff? Yeah, me too.) I got them on my honeymoon, as a “reward” for agreeing to almost kill myself on a quad bike, so they had sentimental value, and I LOVED them.
Also: I’ve been surgically attached to those sunglasses ever since I got them. I know I’ve probably mentioned this before once or twice or fourteen times, but my eyes are super-sensitive to sunlight, so I always, always have a pair of sunglasses with me. Or maybe three pairs:
 The passenger seat of my car, last year (Oh God. The pair at the very front? Is THE pair. The LOST pair. It makes me sad just to look at them. Where are you now, oh sunglasses? Where did you sleep last night? Is some other girl loving you the way I loved you? Or are you perhaps sleeping in a cardboard box somewhere, probably under a bridge near a railway station?)
You see, for years now (since I was a teenager, in fact) I’ve had this paranoia that I’ll be out somewhere and it’ll all of a sudden turn SUNNY, and I’ll be dazzled by it and, I don’t know, go blind or something. (On a more practical note, if it’s sunny AT ALL, I can’t drive without my sunglasses, and I also whine a lot. That last bit has nothing to do with the sunglasses, by the way, I just whine a lot.) So I carry my sunglasses everywhere, and because I wear them so much I am generally prepared to pay a bit more for a pair I really, really like. That’s what I did with these ones, and for the past three years, they have been my constant companions. They have been to America with me. They have been to Spain with me. They have been to… well, they’ve been to America and Spain, OK? They appear in almost every single one of my holiday snaps from the past three years, and I had optimistically thought that we would have many more happy years ahead of us, my big-ass sunnies and me.
And then yesterday I lost them. Because that’s what I do.
Actually, that’s not quite true. Well, the “losing stuff” bit IS true, but not the “yesterday” bit. Yesterday I found out that I’d lost them. I actually have no idea when I lost them, and this is because the horrible weather we’ve been having lately means that I can’t even remember when I last had to wear them. Unfortunately for me, the whole “carrying them with me at all times” thing means I could have lost them ANYWHERE. The handbag I use has two zips which both have to be closed to make it secure, and because I’m lazy, I normally don’t bother, which means it would’ve been all too easy for them to have fallen out somewhere. Especially when you consider that it’s ME carrying the bag.
So, yesterday was one of THOSE days, and by that I mean, “One of those days which Terry and I spend turning the house upside down as we hunt YET AGAIN for something I have lost.” We searched the house. We searched both cars. We searched in the rubbish bins. We called my parents and asked if I had, YET AGAIN left something at their house the last time I was there. We called Terry’s mum and asked if I had, YET AGAIN, left something at her house the last time I was there. Terry called the mall I went to last weekend and asked if anything had been handed in.
Nothing. Nada. Zilch.
Obviously, as the photo above shows, it’s not like I don’t have other, (albeit non-spechul) pairs I can wear for now, but seriously: how do I learn to stop losing stuff all the time? Is there some kind of a course you can take for that? Should I start tying all of my belongings to me with string (if I can find the string, that is), or should I just admit defeat and never leave the house ever again? I’m starting to think that might be the best idea…
Tagged sunglasses, things I lost
Well, today was the day the mouse traps in our attic were scheduled to be inspected by The Man From the Council – or The Mouse Man, as he shall henceforth be known. Or maybe The Evil Mouse Killing Man, Enemy of Mice All Over the Land? Maybe that would be better?
From this you will gather than I am rooting for the mice here. Mice, I am ON YOUR SIDE! I’m having the ‘Team Mouse!’ t-shirts printed up as we speak. On Saturday morning, as I lay drifting in and out of sleep, I heard the little critters resume their scratching above my head. It was horrible. They were up there, happily eating my clothes, and not realising they were but moments from certain death! How could I lie there and do nothing, while all mousekind was at risk? How will I look Mickey in the eye next time I go to the Magic Kingdom, HOW?
Well, readers, I did nothing. But only because Terry was there at the time, and Terry is firmly on Team Man-From-the-Council. But I felt bad about those mice. And I still feel bad about them, even although….
*drumroll*
…THEY MAY NOT ACTUALLY BE MICE!
“Hmm,” said the man from the council, scratching his head after his inspection of our attic. (At least, I’d imagine he was scratching his head. I don’t actually KNOW this for sure, on account of how I was still in my dressing gown when he arrived, and was listening to this conversation from the office, with my ear pressed against the door, and a hysterical Rubinman in my arms. Rubin hates the Mouse Man. I think it’s safe to say that he is also on Team Mouse.) “It’s strange,” said Mouse Man. “There are mouse droppings up there… but there are no mice in the traps. Which is unusual. We would normally expect to have a few of them by now. And the funny thing is…”
I pressed my ear even closer to the door. There was a FUNNY thing about the mice in the attic? Awesome!
“The funny thing is, whatever it is up there…”
WAIT! “Whatever it is up there“? We’re dealing with a “Whatever” now, rather than a mouse? GOD.
“…has eaten a hole in the top of one of the traps, but hasn’t taken the bait. We’d normally associate that with a much bigger animal.”
A MUCH BIGGER ANIMAL! Like a vampire, you mean? Or an International Man of Mystery, say?
“There’s definitely SOMETHING up there,” concluded Mouse Man cheerfully. “We just need to find out what it is!” And with that he headed off to murder mice somewhere else.
So. As I see it, there are a couple of options:
1. It’s a huge, mutant mouse, which is too big to get into the trap. Good for it. You go, Mutant Mouseman!
2. There are ordinary mice up there. But there is ALSO some kind of other, dastardly creature which eats mice for breakfast. Not so keen on this option, actually.
3. Yeah, it’s NIGEL. And his months, nay, years, of living on the run have made him feral, so not only is he eating my clothes, he’s ALSO eating my mice. And when he finally tires of that – or eats all the mice in all the world – he will descend… and EAT OUR BRAINS.
Either that or we just have some particularly clever mice. Hmm.
Tagged the thing that lives in the attic
Well, I’ve always suspected it, but now I know for sure: I was born without a brain.
The proof of this came on Sunday afternoon, when I decided to hit the town and do a little bit of shopping. This, I might add, was in addition to the shopping I’d already done on Saturday, and which had merely served to whet my appetite for the much larger shopping expedition that would be known as “Sunday”. Oh yes, Saturday’s shopping had been but the appetiser: Sunday’s event would be the main course, and I drifted off to sleep on Saturday night happily envisioning the long, leisurely stroll around the shops I’d enjoy the next day.
Of course, what I’d failed to take into account was the fact that the next day was Sunday, and that I generally like to spend my Sunday mornings languishing in bed, reading books, drinking coffee and basically being a lazy-ass. Yesterday was no different, so by the time I got myself showered and caffeinated, it was already almost 3pm, and most of the shops would be closing in another couple of hours. Undaunted, I quickly threw on whatever clothes were available at the time, and headed out on my grand expedition.
It was only as I walked from the car park to the mall that I realised something was wrong. I felt… different, somehow. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I felt like I was walking funny. (Funnier than usual, I mean.) And the more I thought about this, the more I realised it was true: in fact, when I finally entered the mall and started walking across the tiled floor, I realised I sounded different too, in that one heel was making a particularly loud “click” every time it made contact with the floor, while the other one was pretty much silent.
“Damn!” I thought. “I bet the heel tip has come off this boot, and I’ll need to get it replaced!” So I stopped, and I looked at the offending boot. “Strange,” I thought. “The heel tip’s still there, and doesn’t look like it’s coming off any time soon. And even stranger: THAT’S NOT THE BOOT I PUT ON BEFORE LEAVING THE HOUSE! In fact, I can clearly remember pulling on a different boot altogether. OMG, I must be going mad!”
But I wasn’t. Or, no, actually, I was: but not for the reason I first thought. Lookit:
Do you see anything wrong with this picture, readers, DO YOU?
OK, how ’bout now?
Yes! I went out wearing TWO COMPLETELY DIFFERENT BOOTS! Witness:
Two. Completely. Different. Boots.
Well. As soon as I realised what I’d done, I felt like there was a giant spotlight shining down on me, out of which a disembodied voice was shouting, “Your attention, shoppers! Crazy lady here wearing two different boots! Feel free to mock her mercilessly!” Now, I’m 100% sure that most people in the world – and, more, specifically, in the mall – have better things to do with their lives than look at my mismatched legs. BUT. When you’re out in public wearing two different boots (and walking with a slight list, thanks to the fact that the heels on said boots are not exactly the same height, GOD) you just don’t feel like that. In fact, I felt like all eyes were upon me. I felt like everyone had noticed, and was laughing. And also that, if I was particularly unlucky, some of them would be saying to each other, “Hey, isn’t that the chick who has the blog about shoes? And who calls herself ‘Shoeperwoman‘? Could she not have at least tried to make sure her shoes matched before leaving the house? Doesn’t she OWN a mirror? Or a brain?” Or maybe, “Quick! Someone call The Fashion Police! Oh no, wait: that IS The Fashion Police!” Hoist by my own petard, people, hoist.
I tried to continue with my shopping, but it’s actually pretty hard to shop when you’re having to duck behind a rack of clothes every time someone comes near you, and of course, because The Others have such a strange fascination with me, it’s absolutely impossible for me to occupy a space inside a shop without at least six other people appearing and trying to squash into that space with me. I knew it was no good: something would have to be done, and by that I mean, “shoes would have to be bought, what a shame!”
Luckily for me, one of the stores near the entrance of the mall is New Look, and New Look is a veritable haven of cheap n’ cheerful shoes. I lurched into the store, looking like a mad, drunk woman, grabbed a random dress from the first rail I came to, and used it as a shield to cover my legs while I ran rolled to the shoe section. Once there, I bought the cheapest pair of shoes I could find, which I put on as soon as I’d finished paying for them:
OK, they may not have been the absolute cheapest, but they were the reddest. I may be mad, but I’m not stupid. Oh no, wait…
(Do not be fooled by the appearance of these shoes, readers: they may look harmless enough, but these shoes are made of EVIL and they proceeded to rub my ankles raw as I walked around in them. Which I guess is what I get for not being able to dress myself properly. I’d like to say I’ve learned my lesson, but I think we all know I probably haven’t…)
Tagged shoes, Things I Bought
I wish this could be a more interesting newsflash for you, folks, but the things that live in our attic? Yeah, they’re mice. Not vampires. Not Nigel, the International Man of Mystery Next Door. Not even Shergar, or Lord Lucan, or some other famously missing person/animal, with a massive reward on their head.
Just mice.
This has been confirmed by a nice man from the council, who we finally called in last week, after another night spent listening to the scratching noises coming from directly above our head, and thinking about THAT scene in Paranormal Activity. (With the attic? And the going into the attic? And the DEMON?) . He came to investigate the situation today, and, of course, after waiting all morning for his arrival, TNMFTC arrived when I was in the shower, meaning that Terry had to deal with him alone, while I spent the duration of his visit trapped in the bathroom, which was a preferable option to running the gauntlet of the hall, dressed only in my ratty old dressing gown and a towel turban. (The hatch for the attic is directly outside the bathroom door. It wouldn’t have been pleasant for the poor man.)
I passed the time by re-organising the bathroom cabinet, and very nice it looks too. Rubin, meanwhile, passed the time by pretending that TNMFTC was a dastardly villain, sent to skin us alive and eat our brains for breakfast. I expect TNMFTC was absolutely terrified, which is a shame given that he now has to return every week, until our guests are gone, and by “gone”, I mean… well, you know.
(He put down traps. Apparently this is how our council deals with such things. I’m a bit upset about it, to be honest, because I had pictured the little mice being taken off to live out the rest of their lives in some sunny meadow somewhere. But I was trapped in the bathroom at the time, so the NMFTC got his way. Actually, maybe Rubin was onto something there?)
Anyway, one mystery is solved, and we now know that Nigel is NOT living in our attic. So where IS HE?
Tagged the thing that lives in the attic
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