She’s on the roof again
What am I supposed to do now? My mother has stolen the butler. He’s gone for the whole week. Who will make my morning cuppa now that my butler is 15 miles away painting my mother’s house? Damn it! I thought she could at least paint her own house. After all, if she can sky dive and climb trees at 83, painting the outside of the house on a 30ft ladder should be a walk in the park! And this would not be the first time my mother has climbed a 30 ft ladder in the last few weeks. Only a month ago I got a call from the builders pleading with me to remove her from the roof. She was in her slippers bending their ears about composite cladding. Unfortunately, my mother has stolen the butler and I’ve had to make my own tea.
Butlers are very useful you know. Every girl should have one. They feed cats, put out the bins and wash the dishes. They even make cooked breakfasts. I suppose they’re similar to husbands in a way, except that you don’t have to argue with them and their snoring won’t keep you awake.
I don’t really have a butler of course. I’m talking about my long term lodger and one of my besties, Marko. He’s a diamond. He moved in when Ian (my actual husband) was dying to help me cope with the trauma and he’s been here offering help and support ever since.
Dangerous potions
However, there is one thing that scares the bejesus out of me and that’s his alternative potions! Dear Lord his homemade cure for flu is like f***ing napalm. You can smell it from Uganda. If the government ever got hold of the recipe they’d use it for chemical warfare. It could blister your eyeballs at 200 yards and I’ve recently used the leftovers to strip the paint off a door. One mouthful is enough to see you rushing to the bathroom and shitting through the eye of a needle for a decade. Thank the Lord for Thomas Crapper and the Thunderbox.
Where have all the Tradespeople gone?
Anyway let’s get back to the point of this rant…..home maintenance and the extortionate costs.
Have you tried to engage a tradesman sorry person (🙄 don’t go there!) recently? Well don’t bother, because you’ll be gloriously disappointed since they’ve all gone. Vanished. Moved out. Departed. Disappeared in a puff of smoke never to be seen again. They’re as rare as hens teeth and as elusive as the snow leopard. If you want a wardrobe fitted or God forbid new kitchen, forget it. There are none left in the UK.
The cost of living crisis has got entirely out of hand. Our economy is trashed, prices are skyrocketing, a rawl plug now costs 20 quid and all the tradespeople have quit. Every last tradesman has downed tools and buggered off back to Poland because of bloody Brexit and those who are left here are so much in demand that they can’t fit you in till next century. Plus they’ll charge you the exorbitant rate of 400 million quid a day for climbing a ladder to clean your gutters…..
What has happened to all our plumbers, carpenters and electricians? Don’t we grow our own anymore? It would appear not. Every young adult old enough to work is now being sent to college to study Woke Crafting, Vegan Knitting and Post Brexit European Trade Deficiency.
We don’t make anything in this country anymore. We can’t grow anything either. Well we can, however, we can’t find anyone to pick it. We can’t import anything either.
Brexit, the gift that keeps on giving.
This is all because some sanctimonious twat convinced the witless British electorate to put our 79 year trade deal with our European neighbours through the shredder in one of the most radically isolationist moves undertaken by any nation in its entire history. Sometimes it’s hard to plumb the depths of the stupidity that got us here and that meretricious stroke of genius has just bitten us firmly on the arse. With all this guff about sovereignty and blue passports we’ve lost sight of the fact that a quarter of our EU workforce has disappeared in under 12 months and we have no UK workforce to take their place
I’ll have to make my own tea now
So there we have it in a nutshell. My mother has stolen the butler.
It appears that once again l have to make the tea myself and whilst my mother is lauding it up choosing paint from a Farrow and Ball colour chart, I have to spend the day grappling with my own tea bags and a whingeing geriatric cat.
Perhaps I should just take a very small bottle of Mark’s flu potion and nuke Nigel Farrage.
If you enjoyed reading this blog why not take a deeper peep into my mind here. It comes with a health warning, it’s a crazy ride!