Before I begin this post I, your humble narrator, would like to apologise for the tardy nature of its submission. Due to the unpredictable nature of thirty-six year old underground cabling, my home, along with ninety-seven others in our street, was hit with a major power outage that lasted until four o'clock this afternoon, and my son and I were forced to decamp to my mother's place until everything was put right again. When it first happened, I planned to wait it out, and to prove my resilience, I took a bubble bath. My toes had barely pierced the suds when my son bashed on the bathroom door to tell me that Nana had called my neighbour and wanted to speak to me urgently. I changed and rushed over, all sorts of dire scenarios playing out in my head, only to have my mother make the following enquiry.
'So, are any of the sparkies cute?' (For my non-Aussie readers, 'Sparky' is a colloquial Australian euphemism for an electrician).
My mother then went on to encourage me to go back outside and strike up a conversation with the, admittedly rather handsome looking, men. I declined, given my attire; beguiling a combination as blue rosebud pyjamas, five-year-old faded pink robe and brown knee-high ug boots might be, my hair was damp and doused in conditioner, and the juiced-up psychiatric patient look hasn't been in since Jack Nicholson popularised it in 1975. Undeterred, my mother then proceeded to give me a half-hour lecture on my unattractive habit of spitting in the face of opportunity whenever it comes knocking. I then explained to her that, should any of these potential suitors not be phased by my appearance, the fact that my son was running around trying to coerce them into playing 'Murder in the dark' might be a bit of a turn-off.
'There's always a bloody excuse whenever I make a suggestion, isn't there? You should be glad you've got a mother who cares enough to interfere.'
Which brought to mind another possible turn-off; one I didn't verbalise, for obvious reasons.