Diary | 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-villian 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 flu 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. In fact, the biggest excitement came from the delivery of a mystery package on Thursday morning. Now, for once in my life, I wasn’t actually expecting any deliveries, so as soon as Terry handed it over, I ripped it open enthusiastically… and pulled out a pair of tiny pink dungarees, with an ickle bunny rabbit on them, for age “newborn to 3 months” or something. “Well, THESE will NEVER fit me!” I said in disgust, looking to see if there was anything else in the package to give me a clue as to which hapless PR had thought I might struggle into them for an outfit post. As it turned out, however, the other items in the package were a book about bunnies (Why are babies so obsessed with bunnies? I mean, I’m not judging: bunnies are cute and all, but why not baby goats? Or llamas? THERE ARE OTHER ANIMALS IN THE WORLD, BABIES!) and a card addressed to someone who blatantly wasn’t me: which shouldn’t have been a surprise because, yeah, you guessed it, the package wasn’t address to me either – WHOOPS.
I blame Terry for all of this. The package HAD been sent to our address, and, working on the basis that all packages that come to our house (and honestly, there are a LOT of them) ARE for me, he’d just assumed this one was, too. I DID ask him ‘Is that for me?’ when he brought it into the office, and he said yes, so I took him at his word and didn’t bother checking: rookie mistake. No one nearby had heard of the person the package was addressed to, so in the end, Terry had to go door-to-door in order to re-unite the pink dungarees with their rightful owner. Whattaguy. (He did find them in the end, and it turned out the package had been addressed to the baby rather than its parents, which is why no one recognised the name…)
Speaking of people who live in our street: remember the new neighbours? The ones I was going to become BFFs with, and it would be just like Friends, only much less funny? Well, last week I was looking into their bedroom window, and… wait, that sounded bad, didn’t it? I wasn’t INTENTIONALLY looking into their bedroom window (I PROMISE): the curtains were open and the light was on, so I could see right in from our kitchen, and, OMG, IS THAT OUR CANVASES ON THEIR WALL? Yes, it was: and this what you get for buying mass-produced artwork, because you were too lazy/cheap to buy something a bit more original – every house in your street ends up looking identical. (Well, two so far: there could be more, though…) So now I need new artwork for my wall, obviously: not that this is a major home-related priority right now, mind you, because on Thursday afternoon I took Rubin for a quick walk, and when I came home, the hall looked like 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.