I had a bit of an itch to scratch this week, literally, when I convinced myself we were under attack from nasty nits. With no confirmed sightings – yet – it has still turned into practically a full-time job
• I had a sh***y enough week, to be honest with you. Literally. It started on Monday morning when I was hit with a nasty whiff when I went into the kitchen. I initially felt it might just be some sort of physiological reaction to the start of the week, my body’s way of saying a firm ‘no’ to the concept of a two-day weekend and that if it was alright with everyone, I’d grab a coffee and head back to bed. Either that or I thought maybe the bin needed cleaning, so I ploughed on. But it was the type of pungent stench that was hard to ignore (I tried!) and anyway the source soon made itself known: a nice large, fresh, almost steaming mound of doggy diarrhoea deposited by the door. Clearly the dog had got caught short during the night. Now I wouldn’t describe myself as faint-hearted in the slightest, but when it comes to doggy-do, I’m a pure pity and think it’s without doubt the most obnoxious poop of the lot (right up there with a really bad nappy of a child you’re not related to). I won’t lie, I contemplated leaving it for my husband to deal with when he got back from work. But as I was working from home that day and it was already quite warm, and the flies were beginning to circle, that wasn’t really an option. So I threw some newspapers over the pile (obviously not The Southern Star, jeepers!), steadied myself, grabbed one of the five million masks that are in my house (glad to get some use out of them), rubber gloves and kitchen paper and gagged my way through it. A most unpleasant business altogether. Let’s just say the dog spent most of that day outdoors.
• I had just about got over the trauma when come Friday another s*** show took place. The six-year-old casually asked for some wipes to clean her Crocs after standing on some dirt (well that’s not quite true, she actually handed me the Crocs to clean them). A quick glance made me think it was cow dung she had trod in, but the tell-tale stench that had me instantly retching confirmed it was a deposit from the puppy who empties his bowels on average 18 times a day. Naturally, I freaked – it was a case of ‘nobody move,’ but I was too late, the damage had been done, and that was my Friday evening nicely taken care of. Cleaning dog crap from multiple rooms. As for the Crocs? Anyone who is familiar with the choice of footwear will also know the intricate grooves on the sole are all the better for the poo to lodge in. I considered throwing them away but as it’s Budget week (who didn’t have a touch of ‘The Fear?’) I bunged them in a hot wash in the washing machine, and have been washing the washing machine since. Feck the energy bills.
• And there’s more crap. I went all the way to Cork (I know … all the way!) to collect suit alterations for my husband. I was flying it and never really thought to check the bag I was given, and when I handed it to him later that weekend I was fully expecting some sort of ‘wife of the year’ badge. It didn’t quite work out like that because yes, you guessed it, they never actually did the flipping alterations at all. Now in the scheme of things I know it’s a very (very, very) small thing, but a tad annoying all the same. Although it sort of serves me right for taking my business out of West Cork, as a local seamstress totally saved the day, and I’d wager, did a far better job, too.
• Oh yes I almost forgot, for most of the week I was convinced I had nits, which you know, isn’t the most relaxing state to be in. My head was inexplicably itchy and if you so much as made eye contact with me, I shoved my head in your face and begged for a ‘nit check.’ I’ve found no evidence of the critters but even as I’m typing I’m scratching (you too?) and I’ve spent a small fortune on various tinctures and repellents. I’ll be lucky to have any hair left by next week at this rate, I’d say.
• Anyway, like the crowds of others I made my way to Ahiohill last Sunday afternoon for the Junior A football championship final. The result didn’t go our way and as I’m no pundit, I’m going to sensibly leave the punditry to those who know what they’re talking about. What I will say, though, was that it was a fabulous example of how sport can unite and lift a whole community. For the previous week it was all any one of us could talk about, there wasn’t a gate or a pillar without a flag or bunting, anything that moved was put in a club jersey, there wasn’t a child washed in the parish and it was gloriously refreshing to actually have something positive to focus on. And while we didn’t come home with the title – and I’m not dumb enough to know that’s got to hurt a lot, like an awful lot, for the players – I just want to say a big thanks to the players from little old me for all the joy they generated on the journey. And there’s certainly nothing crap about that.
