Disclaimer: Although nothing in this post is sexual, it contains details of my life, banter and conversations that happen within a self-described 24/7 D/s dynamic and is aimed at normalising and providing acceptance of those of us who choose to live this way. For further reading on my decision not to provide an adult content disclaimer on my non-sexual posts, please see my post “LGBTQ+K: A Case For “Kinky” As A Sexuality“. Thank you.
Contains some strong language.
“I broke rule two or three, or whichever one it was, about not having biscuits for breakfast” I said, snapplng my ASDA’s oatie crumble in two.
“It’s fine, Matt replied, “I know you’re out of Belvita at the moment” .I shrugged and nodded. Exactly.
I’d always been a Belvita girl, and I can remember the Johnny Vaughan & Lisa Snowdon advert on TV;
“Biscuits for breakfast?!” Johnny exclaims, “what’s next? Marmalade for lunch?”
It’s ironically British, but ever since they appeared in the UK, they’ve been my morning staple.
I’ve tried steering away from the chocolatier varieties, really I have, and ever since discovering the cranberry and hazelnut bars, I’ve finally found the one for me. As breakfast goes, breakfast annoys me: Cereal is time-consuming, toast and rushing gives chronic me indigestion and most breakfast bars are loaded with not much but pounds of sugar. Like a lot of people, I really do need something that I can eat on the go, and that would leave me feeling full.
By now, this probably sounds like an advertisement for Bevita, and it’s not, I promise, but believe me when I say this: That sh*t really works. It’s not unusual for me to go without lunch, you know, because I’m still breaking down breakfast at lunchtime. I’m still powering through on Belvita alone, and before I know it, it’s 3PM.
Last night, time clicked on and the freezer still hadn’t been defrosted in time for the shopping today. Instead, I’d found the tape measure and so, finally, I could get down some measurements for our conservatory plans. That letter is supposed to go this week and it was still nowhere near ready to be printed. Now that I have the measurements, I can finally get on with the diagrams.
4.86 metres squared, and that’s not even accounting for space lost to units and worktops!
“Our kitchen is only marginally bigger than our shed” I casually observed.
“it doesn’t feel it” Matt concluded.
It didn’t, and much of that had to do with storage and organisation. Our shed boasts two floor-to-ceiling shelf units and tool racks, whereas our kitchen boasts a large, ugly combi boiler, a tall fridge/freezer and a compact dishwasher. along one wall lie the sink, the cooker and washing machine, along the other lies a large radiator and a narrow counter. In the far corner lies the fridge/freezer, and in the other is the door. All that’s left for floor space is a bare square metre or two to move around.
I’d always hated the radiator. Rather, I hated the boxing beneath the radiator, the boxing which prevents even a slimline shelf unit from sitting nicely at the far end of the counter. It houses some pipes of some sort of nature, and as a rental, I’m not allowed to know exactly what those pipes are, or whether they’re important. The water stopcock is behind the fridge/freezer and the switch on the wall controls the boiler, that’s about all I know. I’ve already taken out the boxing beneath the boiler to make a scrap of room for a food waste caddy that, as a Bristol City Council waste serves user, I was also somehow supposed to fit into my kitchen. A few years ago, our bins got bound in yellow tape as a stark reminder not to throw food waste away, a decision that got decried for the excessive use of plastic. The antedote to the disgruntled residents? Giving us faces for our bins. I accept sole responsibility for the aftermath that followed from that decision:
This morning, I boiled the kettle again almost no sooner than I’d boiled it the first time. The first time was to get some caffeine in me, and the second lot was going in the freezer. It’s not the most energy-efficient way to defrost your freezer, I agree, but I’ve always found that it works.
“It’s done it again” I noted to Matt. Our kettle has been messing about as of late, and periodically, something seems to boil wrong and it trips the surge protection on the kitchen power tower. Not the toaster and the kettle at the same time, which of course would use up more electricity. Nope, it seems, just the kettle.
Next week, the kettel is getting replaced. Next week, a lot of things are getting sorted out, it’s just that this week is “hell week”, the week when, typically, lots of financial stuff goes out and nothing at all comes in. Today we had our two-week grocery delivery which typically halves my bank balance, but next week Matt gets paid and I have PIP and ESA coming in. We aren’t spendaholics, but it does give us some breathing space to sort out some things. Things, like broken, finger-cutting drawers in our freezer and faulty, fuse-tripping kettles. We ummed and arred about treating ourselves to a smart kettle even, we just haven’t decided yet if it’s really worth it. We don’t really need it, do we? Do we? You know, I do work pretty hard around the home…
Everything we have is about simplicity and energy efficiency, and nothing at all is about designer names or products. I almost died laughing a few weeks ago when I saw Govee mentioned on in a Youtube short. Why? Because quite by chance, I used Govee strip lights to turn a narrow bookcase in to a minibar in my lounge. It works well, and it didn’t cost a lot to do. That’s the problem with a creative mind, if you’re bored and have some money to spare, a hopeless situation can become a creative pursuit. I’ve still not forgotten about the glass display unit that Matt wouldn’t let me upcycle – painted black with smart strip lights inside, it would have been perfect for something, I’m sure. It’s official I’ve decided: my husband is not a lot of fun. I want to get into upcycling for environmental reasons as well as the money, it’s just that Mr McMeanyPants won’t let me, because of our lack of space.
But for the third time, back to the freezer.
Drawers removed, I added a washing up bowl full of successfully boiled water and closed the door. It was a fight to get the bowl into the most built-up area, and I managed to splash some boiling water onto my arms, much to my displeasure. I even worked out what had caused the door to jar open and had been the culprit of the ice build-up in the first place; one of the base unit plinths had come off and had been kicked beneath the freezer, somehow, with the door then closed on top of it, blocked by the holding bracket on the back. I’m looking at Matt’s lack of observational skills here, given he normally does the cooking.
“I’ll fix that on with No More Nails again,” I said, “waterproof this time, so this time, the fucker shouldn’t come off.”
In it’s defence, water or damp had probably been the reason that it hadn’t stuck the first time around. The plinth on the other unit had come off previously and had been tucked inside the base for fixing, but with both of them off, it’s quite obvious that my adhesive of choice wasn’t quite right for the job. No More Nails is normally fairly reliable, you just need to use the waterproof version in likely-to-get-wet places (don’t be rude).
Freezer defrosting, I decided to get down to some drying. We don’t have a tumble dryer, but what we do have is an electric clothes airer. They’re pretty easy to use and cut out the need to iron your clothes, you just hang up your wet clothes in the airer, turn on the heating fan and let warm air do the rest. I iron so little now, I even got rid of my ironing board.
“What the fuck is that on there?”
Today is bed-linen-changing day and typically, on bed-linen-changing day, one of my pillowcases was badly stained. Blood stains were frustrating enough (and entirely my own fault for catching myself with a fingernail), but what were those orange spots? Patches of them, in several places?
Rust? Is our washing machine suddenly rusty?
Nope. Curry powder.
“Oh, that’s fucked” I concluded. My chances of getting tumeric out of white cotton were borderline nil. It’s printed cotton too, so bleach was a no-no. Laundry detergent and water failed. Bicarbonate of soda and water failed and bicarbonate of soda and vinegar did, too. With all housewifely remedies failed, it was time for a replacement.
“‘Well that’s fine, I don’t need anything from ‘Prime Day’ anyway” Matt mocked, I glowered at him as I browsed Amazon for some new bedding. I’d been so determined not to get caught up in the madness of a quick sale and now here I was, browsing Amazon for my next purchase.
“It turns out, you do need something” he added. Oh yes, I still hadn’t looked up the judicial sentence for murder.
“I’m trying to save money” I explained, “I have fifty quid to last me until Monday and things still to come out. This is sort of something that I don’t need.”
“Well let me help then” he said softly, “I have money, and there are rules.”
Oh yes, the rules. How could I forget the rules? The rules about not struggling for cash. The rules about speaking up if we desperately needed something that I couldn’t afford. The rules about… well, just about anything to do with money and budgeting, really. Work out what we need, and then tell him. Those rules.
“Ten okay?” I asked.
“I thought it was fifteen?”
“Wrong one, but sixteen divided by two is eight, so say eight quid each.”
“I’ll do twenty then, and you can keep your eight quid for something else.”
I wanted to argue with him, really I did, and I wanted to stuff him, too. It’s just that, this time around, I knew he had me. I was tight for cash, and I had little other option but to concede.
“That was easy” he smirked.
As a little treat and something new to try, I also added macarons to today’s ASDA shop. I have no idea if they’ll be any good, but we’ve never tried macarons before, and so it’ll be something new for us to try. Matt could never afford them, and I was never allowed them. To my parents, macarons were just a fancy, expensive French biscuit.
“Would you like to try one?” I offered.
“Later” Matt said, “let me exercise the dog first”. I shrugged and, stupidly, bent to put the macarons away in the cupboard.
“Ready, take aim. Fire!”
The next thing I felt was the sting of a small tennis ball hitting me squarely in the hip, It hurt a little, but nothing too extreme.
So you have chosen death…
“The next time you try to get past me, I won’t hesitate to shoot you in the nuts” I playfully warned. “Last time I didn’t, because I am nice.”
So when Matt left the gun unattended to visit the bathroom, I seized my opportunity.
“Ready, take aim-”
Matt re-entered the lounge, side on and ready to catch the ball.
“You don’t have anything in there” he said.
“No, you’re right. I don’t” I replied, half-loading the gun and shooting him in the leg.
“Thank you” Matt laughed, adding the tennis ball to the ones already in his pocket.
“Well Matthew, for the first time in your life…” I smirked as I slinked my way around the safety gate, “it would seem as though you finally, finally have some balls.”