Easter: The Sequel

What a week it’s been, people. WHAT. A. WEEK.

So, first of all, this huge explosion rips through the Lassiter’s Hotel complex, right? Daniel and Josh end both end up trapped under a giant beam, leaving Doctor Karl Kennedy with the Sophie’s Choice decision of who to save. I KNOW, right?

Well, more death and destruction ensued: Jarrod ‘Toadfish’ Rebecchi gets trapped in a pile of rubble, which was SO unfair, because Toadie had only just got off the crutches he’d been using since he was crippled in the LAST explosion (they said he’d never walk again: they were WRONG. Or they were in THAT explosion, anyway…), and now he’s… wait. You all know I’m talking about Neighbours, and not real life, don’t you?

Guys, I’m talking about Neighbours: and I’ve been talking about it all week (Mostly to Fi, who is pretty much the only person I know who GETS it…), thanks to their #HOTELHORROR storyline, which I think managed to combine almost all of the classic soap memes in just a few hours. God, it was awesome – in a totally, “I pretend to only watch this ironically, but I actually care deeply, and one day I’ll be one of those old ladies who’s all, ‘No, Nora, I can’t play bridge today, it’s time to watch my stories!'” kind of way.

(Um, never thought I’d say this, but some of this of this post contains Neighbours spoilers. Just skip down to the photo of the chickens, and you’ll be good, though…)

So, yes, I’ve spent a fair bit of the week crying over “Neighbours: WHO DIES?” Which was actually less of a mystery than you might think, given that they trailed Monday night’s one hour special (Which was actually just that day’s episode, plus a 30-minute death scene…) with that slogan, but they put the slogan over a photo of Josh Willis’s dead face, so why they didn’t just call it “Neighbours: Josh Dies!” is beyond me.

It was thrilling stuff, which now leaves us with the question: who was responsible for the explosion? Most fingers are pointing at super-villain Paul Robinson, but I’m thinking probably not, because Paul has already blown up Lassiters once before, and what are the odds of them repeating exactly the same storyline? Er, let’s not answer that: here are some chickens:

The chickens are here, because last week, Easter came back for a sequel. My poor parents had both come down with a really bad cold the week before, which meant my mum missed out on the opportunity to decorate the dinner table for the day itself. Tables are one of my mum’s passions in life, as you know, so we had a re-run this weekend, and then I had WAY too much fun playing with the toy chickens, because, hi, I’m actually only 5 years old!

We still have one more Easter to go: my Greek mother-in-law celebrates Orthodox Easter (Or ‘Greek Easter’ as it’s known in our family), which isn’t until May 1st, so this has basically been the longest drawn-out Easter in history. That’s just fine by me, of course, because any excuse to eat chocolate (and, in the case of Greek Easter, mountains of every kind of food imaginable) is a good one, no?

Actually, there was even some talk of us maybe giving Christmas a re-run: my in-laws had a pretty awful Christmas day this year, but they’re feeling a whole lot happier now, thankfully, so maybe we’ll have ourselves another celebration…

As you can probably tell from the fact that half of this post was just me recounting the plot of a soap opera, and the other half was about chickens, the rest of the week was pretty uneventful: oh, other than the fact that I had to pop out for some random errand that was apparently too boring for me to remember, and I came back to this:

and the kitchen looked like this:

Well, I literally died, obviously. I mean, 20 minutes I’d been gone. Twenty. Minutes. And I know I’ve been nagging him about the whole ‘cupboard under the stairs’ situation for my entire life now, but, well, now you know what I was talking about in that post, I guess.

“I’m dealing with it,” was all he would say, and I could tell from his face that it was one of those, “don’t you DARE start whining about the mess” situations, so I went upstairs, locked myself in the office, and breathed into a paper bag for a few minutes, while my mind silently screamed, “BUT I JUST CLEANED DOWN THERE THIS MORNING!”

Anyway, the upshot is that the cupboard under the stairs is now a little less crammed than it previously was (we got rid of that steering wheel thing – which is something to do with the Xbox, by the way – for one thing, so that freed up some space): I still can’t look at it, or even think much about it without hyperventilating, though, so there’s still a loooong way to go.

Oh, and there’s still no sign of the memory card, and I’m STILL not over it. I was kinda hoping that writing that blog post about it would make it re-appear (Like that time I wrote a long post about all the money I’d spent trying to find a replacement lip balm, only for the “missing” one to turn up two days later), but nope, no such luck, and now Terry just rolls his eyes every time I mention it, so I feel like time is running out, and it’s down to me to keep its memory (do you see what I did there?) alive. I’m thinking we could maybe do a re-enactment or something: like, all wear the same clothes, and sit in the same places, to try to jog someone’s, er, memory? (Aaand the puns just keep on coming, don’t they?) Because someone must have seen something that night, people, and I personally think its the couch. The couch KNOWS. And I will not rest until I have uncovered its dark secrets: couch, I’m coming for you – you better hope you have a good alibi.