We’re all now in week three of cohabiting during isolation, and heading towards the Easter weekend. Hope you manage to have a lovely one by the way, even if it is all rather the samey.
To give you a little light relief, here’s Mr & Mrs S.H.I.T’s update on life so far.
We’ve created a Sunday evening cinema club which basically involves banishing the kids to their rooms and sitting on our bums on the sofa watching a film that we’ve taken it in turns to chose.
So far we’ve had a great choice from me – Marriage Story – a moving tale of a couple struggling through a gruelling divorce that pushes them to their personal and creative extremes. I cried through the entire thing. Nothing makes me feel better than an emotive, heart wrenching weepy.
And The Terminator from Mr S.H.I.T.
This is going to be harder than I thought.
I thought the Sunday cinema club was a great idea until we watched Mrs S.H.I.T’s first pick, Marriage Story, which was basically two hours spent watching the most depressing couple go through the most depressing divorce in one of the most depressing films I’ve ever seen.
Mrs S claims it was brilliant, despite sobbing through the entire thing. Why anyone would put themselves through that for fun, is beyond me.
My choice, on the other hand, was genius. The Terminator.
What gets better than a cyborg assassin being sent back in time to kill a waitress whose son will one day become a saviour against machines in a post-apocalyptic future?
It’s beyond me how anyone could fall asleep in the middle of something as gripping as that.
Luckily I don’t need to worry about cutting my hair but my grey roots are definitely not something to get excited about.
They’re coming in thick and fast and I found Mr S.H.I.T looking at them quizzically the other day.
I’ve managed to protect him from the truth for several years, but luckily I’ve got a black sharpie which seems to be doing the job for now.
I did help the kids with Mr S’s barnet though and I think we made a pretty good job of it.
Without even trying, I’ve managed to give him a cool Cillian Murphy in Peaky Blinders look.
I might explore hairdressing as a career option once this is all over.
Mrs S.H.I.T seems to have gone grey overnight. Must be all the worry during this unsettling time. Poor thing. She sort of resembles a present day Steve Tyler.
I got her and the kids to clip my hair for me at the back and sides.
The kids did a pretty good job but Mrs S’s attempt was woeful and she managed to give me a nasty 90’s step.
She seemed very pleased with herself though so I didn’t have the heart to tell her that a career in hairdressing might not be a viable option.
I dread going to do the weekly shop these days (although I know how lucky we are even being able to do it).
It seems like one of those weird sci-fi movies (that I hate) as we all sombrely wait in a long queue outside, two metres apart until you get ‘the nod’ and a sacred trolley gets whizzed towards you.
And then you’re in – into the abyss of stress and human interaction avoidance. God forbid if someone comes too close at the fruit n’ veg.
When I get home, I put my gloves in a 195 degree wash, disinfect the car, the food, the fridge, myself and pray I didn’t bring any CV-19 into the home.
I’m not quite sure why Mrs S.H.I.T finds the supermarket trip so stressful. I’ve been once and I found it quite relaxing.
A half hour wait in the queue while I check hilarious memes from all the lads. Then in I went, a quick whizz round, grabbed my bits, then back home. It was a nice change of scene to be honest.
The most stressful part was her shrieking at me hysterically not to touch anything as soon as I walked through the door and then proceeded to spray me all over with Dettol, finishing off by squooshing some in my eyes ‘by accident.’
By the end of the day, having been with small people for twelve straight hours, trying to keep them from ripping each other’s heads off, watching them break into TikToks when I’m trying to tell them off, feeding them endlessly and trying to get some snippets of work done, I really, really need time on my own.
I announce this before I head up to the sanctuary of my bedroom.
On my own.
Then after five minutes of blissful peace lying on my bed, in he comes, plonks himself down on the bed, unnecessarily heavily breathing like Tyson Fury after round six, while slurping down a pint of milk like a giant five year old.
When I suggested last night that he take a giant fuck off pill with his excessive loud breathing and milk slurping, he genuinely looked confused.
By the end of my very hard working day, and after I’ve had some quality me time up in my ‘office’ watching Tiger Woods YouTube clips to unwind, I just want to be with my wife.
I’m not sure that’s such a crime.
However, she tends to scurry up to the bedroom as soon as I come downstairs, muttering about time on her own.
I’m sure she’s just saying that though.
And anyway there’s no point trying to talk to the kids as they sporadically break into these weird dance routines, and blatantly ignore me.
But last night while I was relaxing on our bed, minding my own business while quietly enjoying my lovely, refreshing pint of milk, she aggressively told me to fuck right off and to stop making that revolting noise like Alberto Frog from Bod choosing his stupid bloody milkshake.
I used to love that show. No need for her to ruin it.
We had a massive fight.
Over the kitchen roll.
Now, tell me if I’m mistaken, but I would put kitchen roll down on the list of sacred items that we should not waste unnecessarily during this time.
So, every time I see Mr S.H.I.T rip off another few sheets willy nilly because he can’t be arsed to locate the jiffy cloth, it makes my blood boil. And this morning I just couldn’t take it any longer.
I’ll show him the stupid Terminator, I thought, and started trying to wrestle three sheets of ‘Thirst Pockets’ finest out of his grubby mitts.
And then he threw some low blows. He told me I have dreadful taste in movies, I can’t cut hair for toffee, I shouldn’t take Alberto Frog’s name in vain and I look like Steve Tyler.
It’s going to be an icy cold Easter weekend for him.
I was innocently helping myself to some kitchen roll this morning when Mrs S.H.I.T came at me.
Out of nowhere.
I had no idea what I’d done, when she started screeching at me about being a lazy ars, and not having any respect for rationing, whilst trying to wrestle the sheets out of my hand.
She’s officially lost the plot.
So I had to tell her a few home truths. I’m not proud of it, but she had it coming. I think the Steve Tyler one may have cut particularly deep.
I’m guessing I won’t be getting any Easter treats this weekend…