I am a cliche

This afternoon, while Mr Z slumbered deeply during his nap, I decided I was sick of looking at the long grass in the back and front garden, and that maybe if I mowed the back garden, he might do the front. This was also a ruse to get out of going to the gym this evening, as I thought that some pushing-up-and-down of a mower would count as exercise.

It was all going swimmingly, until I decided to do the edges. And now the lawn mower doesn't work, and one of the pieces of wood on the border is badly splintered. I fear I have become the cliche of woman-with-machinery. And now, we are have this situation.



And in the front garden? Wild fucking kingdom.


Not only can we not finish trimming the back garden, thanks to a dearth of cord for the strimmer, but the only way the front garden will get cut before next weekend is if I take my nail scissors to it.

Here are a couple more gratuitous garden shots - there's some lovely colour in the front garden, and the sneaky Christmas tree is growing again - we put it outside in its pot in January 2003, intending to burn it, and it has rooted through the pot, but it keeps pretending to die and then coming back to life.



...and one further gratuitous shot, of Mr Z peering out of the window, trying to work out why I was taking pictures of my butcher job on the lawn.


It has been a week of weeks. Due to the early commencement of the GCSE exams this year, the year 11 leavers' ball took place on Tuesday. It was the usual mixture of drinking, being ignored by the kids and dancing to the Cha Cha slide. This year, Paul, the very definitely inclined dance teacher, got tongues wagging by dancing extremely suggestively with Katie, whilst his staff "girlfriend" Cara looked on, green-eyed (oh how we love spinning these yarns for the kids); Rob and I tried to re-enact our Christmas Strinctly Come Dancing success to McFly's "Stargirl", succeeding only in knocking Heidi's drink from her hand; and I managed to get all three men in my department into a picture together. Sadly, the cover supervisor also decided to join us, since she spends such a lot of time in the History department, but oh well.

The highlight of the evening, however, has to be when Carol, the head of repro, decided to have a good old boogie in her gorgeous green satin boob tube, and forgot that she had to keep her chest lifted and shoulder blades back. The unfortunate year 11 who was having his picture taken at the time got an eyeful and is possibly scarred for life. At least it was just the one that popped out. This is why strapless bras are an absolute must under boob tubes.

Anyway, the year 11 ball was tres fun, but it was a TUESDAY for crying out loud, and I didn't manage to catch up on my sleep all week. It was so bad, I spent all day Saturday with chronic indigestion, napping on the sofa. The whole 5-fruit-and-veg-and-20-minutes-of-exercise plan has totally gone out of the window, and I am not feeling great. Back to it this week.

An aside: I am annoyed that the option to change my text into Times New Roman has gone *pout*