Show us what you want, but can't have.
Never ask a woman that question. I'll just confine myself to cars:
The Lamborghini Miura, made between 1966 - 1973. The sharp eyed among you will recognise it as the car from the title sequence of 'The Italian Job' (the original film of course). It reminds me of home, hot summers and twisty mountain roads.
If I had to get a more modern car it would have to be another lamborghini: the Gallardo. But which one?
I'll have to think some more on that one...
I need a holiday in the alps STAT.
Just when I thought the DIY trauma was over.
Before I go completely off into a rant I wanted to say thanks to everyone who came on Saturday to see our new place, it was lovely to see you all again.
But, but. Someone on Saturday broke our loo. After vainly attempting to get it unblocked ourselves yesterday we had to call the plumber 'round (ouch to Sunday call out fees). He unblocked it but we think the 'stress' on the pipe has fractured / moved it out of place.
This morning we have to take out the access panel behind the loo - that I spent four fucking hours of my life putting in with sealant - and assessing the damage.
We think the leak has also damaged the loo and hall floors as they are damp; god fucking knows what has to come up. And taking up sealed floors and tiles isn't going to be cheap or easy.
To say I am annoyed is an understatement. To say I hate my flat even more than before is true.
Why is this happening to us?
Update: We've just opened the panel, it's bad.
I made one of those fundamental connections last night; I fancy brainy men with long hair. Age doesn't seem to make a difference. I must have a long hair geek kink.
(Also I seem to like long skinny fingers on men, I am a freak, obviously.)
You'll have to excuse me today, the gloss paint fumes are making me feel like a giddy teenager.
The handful of evidence:
We could talk about indie music if I let him out the bedroom for five minutes, yeah. He is so cheeky and cute.
We could talk about playing the piano, lamborghinis and motorbikes, when we weren't snogging like 15 year olds of course. Don't ask me why I like him, I can't explain it.
Andrew could talk to me in that very sexy voice of his about fourteenth century moorish art and my toes would curl up with sheer pleasure. His gaze should carry a public health warning. I could think up endless ways to wear him out.
There are exceptions to the rule like James Masters and Matt Bellamy, but hey why limit yourself?
Right back to the paint fumes.
