Picture perfect

The Drudester and I went to a gig last night to see one of the best female jazz vocalists in Britain, the multi-award winning Liane Carroll. Her albums are on Splashpoint records, which the Drudester has some ownership interest in. He also coproduced a couple of her albums I think. Sumfink like that, I dunno really.
Anyway, Liane Carroll was the bollocks. The Drudester had descibed her as having the look of a large tuck-shop lady and the genius of Jimi Hendrix. He was right.
She smoked and drank her way through the first set and then during the break she came and talked to the Drudester. He introduced me and told Liane of our inpending nuptuals. Liane was ecstatic and clasped me repeatedly to her bossoms (yes, I think she has more than one pair).
Liane was a really lovely lady and she seemed genuinely delighted about the wedding. During the second set she announced that her next song was for the Drudester and me. The song was called "Ever since I put your picture in a frame". The lyrics are words to the effect of "I will love you forever - I have loved you since I put your picture in a frame". When she started singing the Drudester leaned over and said in my ear that this was his favourite song of Liane's.
I was really touched by the song, and I almost got teary by the end of it. It started me thinking of a picture the Drudester has of me that sits above our bed. It was taken a few months after we first started going out almost 14 years ago. We went away for the weekend to somewhere in Devon. The weather was terrible and everywhere we went everything was closed. But we still had the best time, just because we were together. It was the time when we were first falling in love. The Drudester took a picture of me sitting on a wall. It's not a particularly attractive picture of me, but he loved it and framed it and put it on the wall.
Three or four years later I was in England with another boyfriend and the Drudester had gotten in contact with me. I went over to his place with my then boyfriend. He was there with his then-girlfriend.
And I remember that I noticed that he still had on his wall that picture of me.

The Gym Nazi is a midget

Congratulations to me, I have managed to get off my butt.
So far I have been to an Aerobics class, a Pilates class and a 1 hour walk. The walk was only because I forgot to take the map to the classes and I kept getting lost, but nevertheless I get the points for it and I earnt the right to stuff my face with chocolate mousse on my return to Casa Drudy. Which I did.
The exercise classes were held at the unfortunately named Downs centre, where I fit right in.
The class instructor is an ex CIA, FBI, SS and IRA agent who has provided consulting services to Hamas, Hezebollah, Taliban, Al Quaeda, Edi Amin, Mugabe, Pol Pot, Adolf Hitler, Conan the Barbarian and Oscar the Grouch on advanced torture methods to housewives.
The woman is about 3 foot tall and 2 inches wide - a tiny blond bullet with an arse that could crack a walnut, and a face that could crack a mirror. Imagine the story of Peter Pan with the alternative ending where Tinkerbell gets on her back for Captain Hook. The resultant offspring would be the gym nazi. Oh come on, we all know Tinkerbell was gagging for it. Pity that Peter was a poof.
God I hope she never reads this blog - the gym nazi, that is. Or Tinkerbell, for that matter. One person actually died in the Tueday Butts Thighs and Guts class.
The Pilates class today was somewhat more sedate and only resulted in 2 people reduced to tears, one after suffering a mild stroke whose subsequent request to drop her pelvic floor was denied. Apparently one is never allowed to drop ones pelvic floor.
I'm too scared to ask what the hell my pelvic floor is. Logically, its the bottom of my pelvis - which is my bottom!
Is "pelvic floor" the fancy new word for my arse? Am I sposed to walk around all day with my arse lifted, like a cat on heat?
On the upside, the Drudester quite likes this new-look gait as it gives him ease of access.
So its smiles all round.

Art Imitates Life

I have spent the morning kicking a pair of the Drudester's trousers up and down the hallway of the house.
The Druster mistakenly believes that this is an attention-seeking gesture and an attempt to distract him and draw him from his office. In actual fact it is an eloquent statement on the attitude of society to women in the domestic sphere through the symbolic inversion of the power balance of relationships.
Obviously.
And I hate those trousers.
The Drudester and I first met nigh on 14 years ago, and I think he was wearing those trousers at the time.
It was the era of Guns N Roses, Metallica, tattoos and big hair for blokes. It was also the era for very very tight black jeans. Sexy at the time. Sad 14 years later.
The arse of those jeans hangs inches below its original resting place and the material is now so threadbare it is not so much denim as chiffon. The well-worn waistline is positioned under his armpits at the back and under his belly at the front. He now looks like my father from the front and my mother from the back.
Ughhh.
The Drudester belongs to that exclusively blokes club whose motto is "if the shoe fits, wear it until it falls off your feet rather than shop for new kit".
I am now going to the loungeroom to flagelate the couch with a couple of particularly unattractive T-shirts as a statement of man's inhumanity to man. And, more grievously, the Drudester's inhumanitiy to fashion.

No-so-good Friday

Hello peeps,
Am sat in bed while the Drudester toddles off to rehearsal. Lazy bugger sat around watching repeats of Friends for an hour this morning but apparently didn't have time to give me the promised five minutes of guitar lesson.
Bastard.
And he won't let me drive the car to Asda (grocery/department store akin to Coles or Kmart). He keeps giving the lamo excuse that I am not insured, and what if I had a crash, I would be arrested.
I pointed out that I've only ever had one crash while I was driving, and the rest had to do with parking and reversing. And the guy whose car I totalled wasn't really that upset as it wasn't his car. And there were mitigating circumstances ie I had just spent the weekend jumping out of a plane.
The Drudester is not buying it and has now left me with instructions to take the bus.
Bastard.
Decided to get him back by withholding sex,but have realised the basic flaw in that plan (ie slicing off one's own proboscis). So have decided to hide all guitar picks and eat all cakes in house.
That'll learn him.