So…here is part 2 of my MEMES about midlife. These cover being middle-aged in general, fashion (I use the word in its loosest sense), the menopause and the usual midlife nonsense.
Apologies if you follow me on Facebook and have already seen these. But I doubt you have – at least not every one of them. It all depends on whether your face fits, if you’re in favour, if it’s a slow day for the algorithms, if you’ve made enough comments on my previous posts and if there’s a ‘z’ in the day!
There are an awful lot of ‘ifs’ there!
Went out for a walk and snack lunch, with hubby and one of the teens. Turned out to be one of the worst lunches I’ve ever had. Nothing to do with the company – they were lovely. But typically British.
Ordered a goat’s cheese and tomato toastie – Oh. My. God. It arrived looking like a limp, pathetic, anaemic rag. I opened it up – it wasn’t even sealed – and couldn’t believe what I was looking at. Very little I tell you! Very little! I immediately had three issues with said ‘toastie’. Keep on reading!
Finally managed to talk husband into buying new jeans. He’s only had the last lot for 10 years…so actually I’ve done quite well getting him to agree to a wardrobe update so soon! He declared he needed a couple of pairs in total. I declared he needed a few pairs for ‘every day’ and a few pairs for ‘going out’. Eyes were rolled… Keep on reading!
Hubby and I went out for lunch to a charming little café with a craft/gift shop attached. Ate a lovely meal then went for a poke around the shop.
Instantly spotted, and rushed over to, a display of gorgeous Christmas decorations. Much stroking, admiring and cooing ensued. Husband quickly appeared by my side and told me – in no uncertain terms – that I DID NOT NEED any more Christmas decorations. Keep on reading!
My husband likes to cook. At the weekend he likes to read a broadsheet newspaper. And he particularly likes to combine the two – by using recipes he finds in the broadsheet’s magazine. The recipes invariably contain somewhat ‘out there’ ingredients: French rock salt in a dinky, stylish, expensive jar as opposed to table salt in a massive, plastic, economy tub.
Last night I was writing the weekly shopping list. Husband was reading the broadsheet magazine. He looked up. I knew what was coming, “Do you think the supermarket will sell quinces and malt powder?”
I went to said supermarket today. Did they stock these two items? No they did not. I looked around for replacements, and did the best I could.
I bought him an apple and some Horlicks…
I was getting dry after my shower when husband came in to the bathroom – to get something out of the cupboard. I looked at him and smiled.
Feeling a bit frisky I slipped one shoulder out of the towel and looked at him coyly, then followed it with the other. I allowed the fabric to drop tantalisingly over the top of my breasts, slowly revealing my nipples. He looked at me appreciatively as the towel slithered to the floor, and licked his lips – then his expression changed. Was it lust? Was it admiration? Was it awe?
He opened his mouth to speak the immortal words that every wife longs to hear…
“You’ve got a long hair growing out from the side of your left nipple.”