Thursday, December 10, 2009
Dad Is Nowhere To Be Seen
Ok, I confess: guilty as charged.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Mrs.B is a great fan of crime/detective/lawyer/police/judge/prison series. Not a day goes by that she doesn’t switch from one channel to the other watching her favourite shows. Much to the dismay of yours truly, who is more interested in human interest shows based on profound psychological insights in the human psyche, such as films with Arnold Schwarzenegger, animation series like the Simpsons or South Park or any Sci-Fi show. Oh, and high-tech geek stuff on Discovery channel!
One of mistress Bee’s favourites is NCIS, or Naval Criminal Investigative Service. I must admit I too find it appealing, as long as we don’t have to watch it every damn evening. But unfortunately, the series has a bad influence on my wife, making her even more violent than she was before.
As you may know, the leader of the Navy team has the habit of slapping people on the back of the head when they make a stupid remark. Since the series got airtime in this drizzly kingdom by the North Sea, slapping on the back of the head has made a dramatic entry into this household. It takes no crime investigation team to figure out how this has happened. And I think you can figure out the name of the victim here. But we’re not only talking about domestic violence here, oh no…
Last week, Mrs.B had to take job interviews, together with her boss. She designed the questions for the oral examination of the candidates. At one point, she poses a question to a candidate, upon which her boss inadvertently and absentmindedly gives the answer. And in a reflex…
She slapped her boss on the head! I should also add that Mrs.B is still in her probation period (which is a ridiculously long twelve months). So slapping your boss on the head may have abrupt and drastic consequences.
Good thing her boss has a well developed sense of humor then.
Monday, October 19, 2009
When Mrs.B carried a plant indoors to protect it from the first winter chills, she succeeded in getting a branch in her left eye, it swung right underneath her glasses. It stung like hell, but she put on a brave face (read: whined about it the whole evening) and went to bed.
The next morning, it was still hurting a lot, and I must confess that I was really worried. Her eyesight is not getting better anyway. So we decided she had to go and see a doctor. That was Friday morning. A couple of hours later, she called me at work. The doctor was very worried about her eye, because that branch had made a scratch right on her pupil. She had patched up her eye (literally) but refused to put Mrs.B on sick leave.
So my wife had left the car behind at the hospital for me to pick up in the evening, and had ventured on an adventurous trip by bus to work. There her boss cast one look at her and sent her home. ‘You’re in no state to work’, he’d said, and he was right.
So later that evening I swam from the bus to our car – it was raining cats and dogs, until I got in the damn car of course – and drove home. There I found my Piratess of the Caribbean listening to the TV – watching was too painful for her and not just because we have such crappy shows on every single Belgian TV station.
So we spent the whole weekend smearing ointment in her eye, then patching it up again; and running to and from the hospital to get daily checks. We also went to two birthday parties, although Mrs.B had to rest-rest-rest. And birthday parties are no fun when your eye either itches or hurts like hell and you MUST’NT TOUCH IT!
But luckily, yesterday the doctor told us that the eye is healing well and as from today, Mrs.B’s days of plundering innocent vessels at the high sees are over. She doesn’t have to wear the patch anymore during the day, although she has to keep the parrot and the patch for when she sleeps. I must confess I tend to prefer the wooden leg in bed, because although it’s harder when she kicks, it doesn’t have a cold foot attached to it. I will be glad to see that hook go, though.
During all this ordeal Wolf and I tried to be supportive as possible. I washed the dishes – no single dish or pot had been washed since my departure to Congo – and we sang a song to cheer her up. Belgian readers may know the Pete the Pirate-song (Piet Piraat):
Pete the Pirate
Pete the Pirate
Ship Ahoy – hoy – hoy
He is my
Ship Ahoy – hoy – hoy
With his ship
The Crooked Tub
He sails out
Pete the Pirate
Pete the Pirate
Pete the Pirate
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
After a series of early autumn days, summer has made a short come-back here. Last weekend we enjoyed a couple of warm sunny days, and what better way to spend them than in the company of friends in a beautiful 'gite' in the Ardennes. This time, we went to the easternmost part of Belgium, to the small town of Malmedy. It's a beautiful green region with the typical bulges of the Ardennes – you can't really call them mountains. It's also the part of Belgium where a couple of thousands of people speak German, a consequence of two World Wars.
We enjoyed a gourmet grill, a barbecue and a spaghetti festival, with plenty of hors d'oeuvres and aperitif before, deserts after and snacks in between meals. In the morning we made long walks, which turned out to be quite the exercise – pushing a buggy with a 25 pound toddler over dirt tracks and up steep hills is not for the weak and meek.
Unfortunately, Wolf had caught a bad little bug which sprang into action on the first evening. When we heard him crying we went up to check him out, and found him all covered in chunks of breakfast, lunch and dinner. His little bed was covered in half digested food, not to mention the little guy himself. An hour of scrubbing and bathing later, Wolf was clean, refreshed and calmed down again. We improvised new bedding with a large towel and luckily we had a spare cuddly bear to replace his ever faithful Booh.
Later that evening, when we went to bed, I went into his room to check on him. I knew something was seriously wrong when my sock-covered foot went 'splitch'.
His bed was Armageddon. A giant puddle of puke, even larger than the first time, covered about one third of his bed. He had vomited right trough the mesh that makes up one side of his bed, creating that bloody puddle I just had stepped in. He was covered in mucus from head to toe.
So we went to alarm phase three, gave him a bath again and then I spent until 1AM trying to clean out the towel, his bed linen, his mattress, his Pjs, his teddy bear, etc.etc. with nothing more than a small bar of hand soap.
When I finally went to bed, I found Wolf taking up most of my place. So I made do with about six inches of bed and tried to sleep. At 3:30 AM I was still awake, dozing off occasionally until Wolf would kick me in the back again. So I left my place to the ungrateful little brat and went to sleep in the next room in a spare bed, right next to his cleaned but still very smelly bed.
But the rest of the weekend was actually very nice!
Thursday, August 13, 2009
At 1:30 AM all is peace and quiet in our house, while outside thieves and roberers search their way and vampires hide in dark portals waiting for a foolish blonde maiden to come their way. In the master bedroom, I'm going crescendo to a grande finale in masterpiece in Snore flat.
Then suddenly, I get whacked in the face. Panick stricken, I awake while a hand claws violently in my eyes. It's like someone is trying to kill me and I start fighting back! I try to get a grip on the arm of my attacker.
'What are you doing ?!?!', I yell to Mrs.B.
She stares at me in confusion and bewilderment.
'I thought that Wolf was falling out of bed', she mutters.
'You daft woman, Wolf is in his own bed.'
'It was a bad dream', she explains, half apologising.
I grumble and try to go back to sleep, the adrenalin still pumping trough my veins.
Wednesday, July 08, 2009
A Woman’s Place Is Not In The Kitchen
A couple of weeks ago, my parents had new double glazing installed in a couple of rooms. Breaking out the old windows hadn’t been easy for the installers. Especially in the kitchen they had to break away half the wall to get out the big window and door with their steel sills.
So Super-plaster-man had to come to the rescue to repair the damaged walls. Less than twenty-four hours after stepping off the plane from Kinshasa, I was mucking along with cement and plasterboard.
Meanwhile, Mrs.B went through my mother’s magazines. She always has stacks of them lying around. You know the type: twenty ways to loose weight – my children hate me – the latest summer fashion – say no to the tyranny of diets – weekends in Paris and London – thirty ways to loose weight. Somewhere in there, you’ll always find a recipe and Mrs.B found a couple of them that she liked. So she asked her mother in law if she could tear them out.
Needless to say, these magazines do not contain recipes for charcoal roasted sides of pigs with brown ale. These are recipes that come out of the head of female editors that live on an apple and half a glass of water a day.
Yesterday we had our first try out. The ‘recipe’ was the following:
- Cook noodles
- Cook broccoli
- Bake small, tasteless pieces of fake bacon. Add walnuts because you can’t have a women’s magazine recipe without walnuts and because they drown out every other taste that might make the food interesting after all.
That’s it. You put the noodles on your plate; throw the broccoli on top and then the bacon/walnut mixture. And then you dig in.
Wolf took one bite, looked at his mother with eyes pleading ‘Why? Oh mother, why are you trying to poison me?’ and asked to be excused so he could go play with his train. Half an hour later, he was still gnawing on that first bite, until I took a paper napkin and made him spit it out.
Being the supportive husband that I am, I took at least three whole bites. Might even have been four. Then it became too much for me and I burst out in a detailed analysis of everything that was wrong with women’s magazines, the people that write them (women!) and their wretched recipes.
Mrs.B on the other hand quite liked it. She finished her own plate and then dug into Wolf’s. This really proves what I’ve been suspecting ever since we’ve got married: she’s one of them you see, one of those women!
Five minutes after Wolf went to bed, I was standing in line at our local drive-in hamburger restaurant.
Hamburgers, now there’s food invented by men!
Thursday, April 09, 2009
Friday, April 03, 2009
How Clean Does Clean Have To Be?
'Didn't you notice anything when you came in?', asked Mrs.B when I returned home from work today. Her stern look tells me that I better had noticed it, but what can it be? It's not that she has a new haircut. Not that I'd notice that, but luckily I remember that she has an appointment with the hairdresser's tomorrow, so that can't be it.
'The car', she says in a voice that tigers use to inform their prey that they're going to pounce... right now.
'Go look outside.'
I obey, like the good little strong independant man that I am.
'Ah, I see. You've cleaned the inside of the car. Very good, it was so dirty.'
The tigress' look tells me that insulting her right before the pounce will do nothing for my chances at survival.
'I! Did! The! Outside! As! Well!!!'
'Really?', I reply while digging my grave even deeper than it already was. 'At first I thought you had, but then I saw the roof was still dirty.'
'Well yes', Mrs.B admits, 'I didn't clean the roof.'
'Look, and there's dirt on the bonnet too, and on the windows. And on the wheelcaps.'
'I did all those, but I can't get the dirt off! Look, it's etched into the paint!'
'Maybe we should wash the car more often', I reply while trying to remember when we've last spunged it down.
We did wash it since we bought it, three years ago. I mean, at least once.
Friday, March 27, 2009
If Only The Mute Button Were Bigger
I want one of these:
Discovered it on Michel's weblog.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Mrs.B has gone to the inlaws for a couple of days. So I'm home alone tonight. Bring in the booze! Welcome to all my friends! Let's call some strippers!
Oh, whom am I kidding?
At least I got control of the remote tonight.
Too bad nothing's on TV.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
My wife doesn’t hear well. It’s not just that she doesn’t listen or that she ignores me. She does that too, but the problem was not only on the software side. The hardware was malfunctioning too. So she had to have some surgery on (or rather in) her left ear. And what better day to plan a surgical treatment than on Friday the 13th?
'You must be mad', you would say. Well, you see, we are not the kind of people that suffer from superstitious beliefs. For us, Friday the 13th is like any other day. Nothing to worry about. But then again, you would be absolutely right.
Mother in law agreed to take care of Wolf for a couple of days, so I would have my hands free and enough time to drive up and down to the hospital. That was important because for some reason Mrs.B’s type of surgery was only available at the other side of the country – in Tongeren to be precise, just follow the signs pointing to ‘Edge of the World’ and then turn left.
But on the eve of the 13th, MIL’s toy boy called to say that MIL had a bad accident with her bike. She was still alive, but both her underarms were in bandages, she was missing about five square meters of skin and she would have to stay in hospital herself until after the weekend. So no babysitter. Some people have no consideration for others.
So that Friday, we dropped Wolf at the childminder’s and set off for the Edge of the World (Tongeren). Mrs.B took the precaution of printing one of those road maps from the internet. However, I was convinced from the start that her indications were rubbish and because I know my way around everywhere on the globe and because I know best and because women can’t navigate, I deviated from the plan.
This led to a slight degree of tension in the car. But everything turned out fine, because I was right. As I always am, I might add. Don’t tell me how to drive to the Edge of the World!
Not only did we arrive in time, we had oodles of time because we had to wait, and then had to wait some more. Mrs.B had a nice room, with a very nice view. She was also the only adult in the paediatric ward, because she insisted on having a private room. And the only way they could give her one was by throwing a child out of the window. But if she felt guilty about that, she didn’t show it.
Mrs.B had to change into one of those nice hospital gowns, you know, with the open back. They just invite a man to hanky-panky, but she wouldn’t have any of that. Then the nice nurse came back and planted a huge needle in her bum. Then they rolled her out.
Instead of pacing nervously in the room until my loved one returned, I took the occasion to visit the town, have a copious diner and do some shopping. Then I returned to nervously pace in the room until my loved one appeared again, her left ear hidden under a cushion of bandages.
The surgery went without a hitch, although it will take a while before Mrs.B’s hearing fully returns. She still was feeling knocked out, but the next day she was feeling so well that she could return home earlier than expected. Which was a good thing, because after living one day on my own, I urgently needed someone to put me straight again.
Friday, February 20, 2009
One Of Those Days
'Wolf's has had a double ear infection for weeks now. I'm lucky he didn't pass it on to me'
The moment I had formed that thought into my head, the virusses clambered into their Stuka divebombers and scrambled into the air. So as of yesterday night, my head feels like it's going to explode and release a giant tsunami of puss, slime and snot.
While I remained in bed and perfected feeling sorry for myself, Mrs.B went to work. Two hours later, she was back.
The police had closed the office, arrested her bosses and sealed of the place. No-one is to enter. The investigating magistrate wouldn't give anymore information, apart from the fact that he wouldn't interrogate my wife because she's only been working for this office since the beginning of the year.
Anyway, it's very unclear now if she's without a job or not, and if she will be paid for the last couple of weeks or not.
And I thought I had a bad headache before I heard that news.
Wednesday, February 04, 2009
Hell = A Shoe Store
We went shopping for shoes last weekend. Anyone who has an ounce of testosterone in his blood will know that men would walk trough fire, swim naked under the North pole, wrestle an anaconda or dive from a 200 metre high cliff into shark infested waters rather than enter a single shoe store. In fact, there lies the heart of the problem, because it never is just a single shoe store. It's shoe store in, shoe store out while you follow your wife while she reprimands you for the shoes you like and makes you try on shoes you don't like.
To make it even worse, it was the sales period, or 'solden' as we call it here. As if shopping for shoes wasn't horrible enough, you have to fight your way through the shopping districts and into the shops through a mass of hyperkinetic women, grumpy men and screaming children. Sales periods are when Belgians leave their houses in one giant mass to buy their clothes, I'm always surprised people buy any between the winter and the summer sales. Personally, I think running around naked is a sound alternative to trying to survive this mass frenzy. This must be why naturism is becoming increasingly popular.
But there was no escape to it. I've been walking in my summer shoes all winter long, even when it was very cold and when I had to march through a thick (at least 1,5cm) layer of snow. My old winter shoes had given up on my a year ago, when the shoe sole broke in two. It always does, because I have a tendency to walk on my toes. It's a genetic thing, my mother does it, my sister and brother do it and unfortunately my son does it too. If we want more children we'll have a hefty annual shoe bill to take into account.
But in a remarkable and happy twist, we found a pair of shoes both Mrs.B and I agreed upon, right on the last day of the sales period. We were in and out of the shop in five minutes. And then we went in again to buy a pair of slippers, because the two balls of rags I wear in the house qualify as toxic waste. So I bought four items of footwear at a time, in a single store, during the sales period, without having to wrestle through a crowd or wait for a seat to try them on or having to pull a shop assistant by the hair or anything.
And if anyone is wondering how they look: they are brown - both the shoes and the slippers - and shoe-like. Except the slippers, which are more slipper-like. I'd like to give you more details, but I'm a bloke.
Monday, December 22, 2008
That Was The Week That Was
Everybody knows that the yearend is a busy period, but last week we really felt the strain. Last Saturday, Mrs.B and I wanted to celebrate my birthday by going out for diner to the big city. Our plan was to wonder around and see if we could find a nice restaurant. But at the last moment, our babysitter called in sick, so we had to unearth a new one. Everyone we called was unavailable, some people even ran to Egypt, which is a bit exagerated because Wolf is a good boy most of the time. Finally, the our left door neighbours returned from their Christmas shopping and they were happy to look after our little guy.
It was frrrrrreezing cold in the city, so after twenty minutes we just ran to this Thaï restaurant I'd been wanting to try for ages. And I must say, it was a good choice. I had bits of molten lava in cream of sun sauce, while Mrs.B had the megaton explosion with various vegetables. It was so hot, that the next day I almost succeeded in melting the toilet bowl when I was doing a number two.
Finding a babysitter that wouldn't infect our little boy was important, because on Tuesday he had to go to the hospital to get holes drilled into his ear drums to insert drainage pipes. That should deal with the non-stop sequence of colds and ear infections. While he was at the nose-ear-troath-and-various-plumbings doctor, Mrs.B also made an appointment to get her ears checked. She'd been complaining that she didn't hear well on one side, and I think she's almost deaf at the other side. That, or she just doesn't listen to what I say. Anyway, one thing led to another, and she went under the C/T scanner the day before Wolf's operation.
Wednessday wasn't exactly a quiet day either. Mrs.B got an offer for a new job, which came just in time because she was desperatly trying to leave her current blood sucking, slave driving, money robbing boss. But the elation of the first moment also brought fear and dread as she had to announce her resignment the next day. It was almost too much to take, and the tension meter went way into the red that day.
But now at least it looks asif 2009 will bring some good fortunes towards the our little family. Which is good, because we could do with a psychological, financial, physical and emotional break.
Tuesday, September 02, 2008
The day before we left, Mrs.B ‘inadvertently’ opens my Visa bill and discovers that I ordered a weekend in London. So far for the big surprise then. I was not amused.
...we got up at 6 AM – why do voyages always have to start at such early hours? The taxi I ordered almost missed our house, but I was on the lookout so I was able to grab him by the neck. After a train ride of an hour, we arrived at the Eurostar check-in desk at Brussels’ South station (oh, for the group of English tourists at the bakery shop: Bruxelles-Midi = Brussel Zuid = Brussels South Station. They’re not three different train stations).
It was there and then that Mrs.B discovers that she’d forgotten her ID-card. And despite the fact that the English are radically against ID-cards, you still have to have one to enter their stupid country. I didn’t take much imagination to see my wonderful weekend in London fly away, together with the 500 or so Euros it had cost me. I had steam coming out of my ears, my eyes were shooting fire and as we say here, I was shitting beans. But luckily-luckily-luckily this very nice-nice-nice lady from Eurostar had mercy on our poor souls and she managed to find us a couple of places on the next train, around noon.
So we took the train back to Antwerp, then a taxi back to our house, where Mrs.B ran in and out to fetch her ID-card and the we taxied back to the train station and took the next train to Brussels South Station. The whole operation took us a mere two and a half hours, but we’d made it.
Of course, we had to make do with the seats that were left. And I must say, I’ve rarely had any crappier seats on a train before. Even a toddler would complain about the leg room and the seat drooped so that we constantly felt we were sliding under the seats on the opposite side. By the time we’d arrived, both our backs and bums were broken, shattered, crumbled and bruised slightly.
The other good news was that the Eurostar now has its own custom-laid tracks, which enables it to ride at full speed. And there are lots of tunnels, which you enter and leave at around 300 kilometres per hour. This means that the air pressure in the train builds and drops violently, making your eyes pop like one of those clicker toys.
Big compensation for this whole experience: I made Mrs.B look in the middle of the tunnel under the English channel by pointing outside and saying: ‘hey look, a fish’.
After we’d arrived in the beautifully restored St-Pancras station, we took the tube (subway/metro) to our hotel. For once, I’d managed to book a hotel that doesn’t look stunning on the internet, only to discover it’s a cramped, flea-infested shack in real life. The only downside was that it was robot-operated: we had to check-in ourselves on a terminal, using a credit card. Luckily, there was human assistance to do the fully automated check-in procedure for us (so what’s the whole bloody point?) Sadly, all our credit cards were not acceptable in the UK or otherwise very, very empty. Luckily, I was able to dig one out of my wallet that I’d been meaning to give up for ages, but which now came in handy.
The room was nice and spacious, but the oversized air-conditioning had its very British interpretation of a balmy room temperature: it was freezing. So we had to keep each other warm. With physical exercise. In the bed.
More on this trip later, including the infamous ‘Incident in the Park’…
Friday, August 22, 2008
I’m So Excited
In ten days, on the first of September, it’s Mrs.B’s birthday. And I’ve prepared a BIG surprise, because it’s not just any old birthday. In a bit more than one week, my lovely lust-object will celebrate her thirtieth year on this merry blob of dirt in space. Imagine that: three whole decades. Naturally, this calls for sarcastic remarks about ageing and wrinkles and going downhill and grey hair and so on, all in good fun of course.
But back to that BIG surprise. It’s not just a big surprise, anyone can claim to have a big surprise these days. It’s an enormous surprise, even a humongous surprise. I don’t think I’ve surprised her this much ever since I asked her to marry me (which was in fact not a surprise at all because she ordered me to do so, it was only the exact moment that she didn’t know about).
The last couple of days, I’ve done nothing but being all mysterious about the BIG surprise, just bragging about how truly fantastic it will, without giving too many clues about it. You see, I want to get her to be so curious she’ll almost burst at the seams. It could be anything she’s been dreaming (secretly) about, like:
- A weekend in a naturist camp (better hope the weather improves then)
- A day-trip to Paris
- A night in a swingers club
- A weekend in that nice hotel in Spa, like the one she gave me for my birthday a couple of years ago (she’d been bragging about her BIG surprise for weeks then, but you know me: I’m too big a man to show any desire for revenge)
- A day at a nudist beach (see remark about the weather above)
- A helicopter flight from Bruges (were she was born) to Antwerp (where she lives thirty years later)
- A nice long walk around town (given the current state of our budget)
- Or nothing of the above (would I be so careless to mention it on my blog, knowing that she reads if from time to time?)
Oooooh, it will be such a BIG, BIG, BIIIIIIG surprise.
And as a bonus I got you all worked up now
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Two Weddings And My Funeral
Our last two weekends have been busy as ever, with two weddings to attend to. First we had to get rid off Wolf, and luckily some passing strangers were willing to take him out of our hands for a while.
The first marriage was very posh, with a 514-course meal. Everything was beautifully decorated, to the point that the tables were pack with candles, menu cards, napkins, flower arrangements and the like. Mrs.B’s table neighbour, an elderly Ukrainian gentleman, inadvertently knocked over his menu card, right onto a candle. The smell of burning paper and plastic decoration quickly warned us that something was wrong. Ever the hero, I saved the day by calmly picking up the burning card and taking it outside. And I didn’t even singe my hands, hair or costume!
The food was nice, and copious amounts of excellent wine were consumed by all – well, by me at least. This resulted in embarrassing scenes on the dance floor later that evening, up to the point that people gave me compliments about my dancing skills. That’s how drunk I was. The next morning (well, afternoon) brought sudden flashbacks of what exactly I’d done, followed by hot flashes of shame and attempts to bury myself under my pillow.
I must say we weren’t very fit at the beginning of the second marriage. After all, we’re not 21 anymore. And in between marriages, I’d been very busy tearing apart walls and floors to install the new central heating. But it was a very nice party, with excellent company, excellent food and excellent drinks. Need I say more? Fast forward to the next morning, with similar sequences of flashbacks and embarrassment.
All that partying has left us truly exhausted. My legs and back ache, and I feel like an old fart. Actually it takes effort to stay awake most of the day. Luckily we have no social engagements next weekend, or I’d snuff it.
Friday, June 06, 2008
How many holes can a man's underpants have
before he must throw them away?
The answer, my friend
Is blowing in the wind
Is blowing in the wind
Friday, May 23, 2008
One morning not long ago, we were – ehm – exploring the realms of tenderness (as couples with babies do once every four months or so). We were foolishly spending some time on foreplay. Foolishly, because every minute counts when you've got a two-feet-terrorist about to wake up and scream for food any moment now.
Mrs.B. moaned, but unfortunately not because I was doing such a great job. 'Your hands are like sandpaper', she snapped. It seemed I was almost scraping away her skin. Some people, who like to dress up in black leather and latex may think that's very erotic, but Mrs.B would have none of it.
It seems I'm taking that rebuilding-the-house thing a bit too serious, I'm turning into a regular bricklayer. But at least now I know what that tube of lubricant is for.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
Last Tuesday, when I came home, I found myself under rapid fire from Mrs.B because of some highly illegal and unnecessary items I had purchased. I must say I was a bit stunned, I hadn't expected to be interogated by the Spanish inquisition.
But then again, no-one expects the Spanish inquisition...
Upside down on a stretching rack with needles underneath my toe nails and boiling hot oil dripping on my private parts, I quickly admitted my crimes. I had indeed purchased two jars of apple sauce AND two bottles of shampoo while there were still plenty of jars of apple sauce and bottle of shampoos in stock in the cellar. So – the prosecuter screamed at high voice while she made her whip crack – I had spent no less than seven euros extra. Seven euros from our rapidly dwindling budget. Now there wouldn't be enough food for us at the end of the month. The baby would starve, or we would have to eat him to survive ourselves. Monster that I am!
I feebly tried to argue that the items that I bought would serve us well sooner or later, but the prosecuter would listen to none of my whimpering arguments. A big €-sign was burnt into my forehead, so that all can see what happens to mad spenders like me.
Three days later – in a totally unrelated event – my wife reminded me that she would go over to the neighbours' house for an 'evening with the girls'. Apart from 'the girls' there would be a saleswoman promoting make-up and other beauty products. Mrs.B assured me that she wouldn't spend a lot of money. Just for safety she'd withdrawn 40 € from our account, but of course she wouldn't spend it all. By golly, no! She hardly ever uses any make-up anyway.
And true to her word, when she returned a couple of hours later, not a single coin had left her purse. But only because she ordered for way more than 40 € worth of products. Not that she had succumbed to any peer pressure or the slick presentation of the saleswoman, you understand. She had just bought some utterly essential hard to get by very important urgently needed products for herself and for the baby. And all that for a measly 61 €.