Have you heard the one: "The ironing board's on my foot."
"No son, but you hum it and I'll play it..."
The old joke sprang to mind this week as I was rushing about my business, getting considerably more stressed than I really needed to one morning this week.
With the humid conditions I had showered and ironed a summer shirt, then dressed but was already feeling uncomfortable with the heat. Mrs Rippers and I had talked about things we needed to do to sort out a mortgage, and I'd had a message from the Royal Mail to say a parcel was waiting for me at the depot because the full fee had been short by £1.08 and I had to make up the difference.
Thinking I could sort everything out before attending a really important management meeting with Meeja Wales at 11 (never mind the fact I won't be working for them eight days from now) I rushed into the front room to find my shoes. As I did so my right foot gave the leg of the ironing board a huge kick, my small toe wrapping itself one side of the leg while the rest of the foot went the other way. I swore rather a lot, then sank onto the sofa and swore a lot more.
After that I hobbled to the car and drove to the Royal Mail depot in considerable pain. When I handed over the receipt slip it turned out the "parcel" was actually my Father's Day card from the Fat Kid, two weeks late because she hadn't put enough stamps on the envelope. In effect, then, I bought my own Father's Day card this year. No change there, then.
By the evening I had a huge bruise covering my little toe and half my foot - I don't suppose I will learn anything from this disaster, though, like putting the ironing board away after using it.
On Tuesday lunchtime I met some of the guys I will be working with in my new role. They all work for Coley at Westgate - son of Bono, the Dazzler and Tea Caddy. We had a good chat about what I would be expecting from them in the future and Mrs R gave me a very good little phrase that I am hoping Son of Bono will put up behind his desk in future: Pressure Is A Privilege. I must admit I am getting quite excited about my big move.
We met at a Barocco's Bar in Cardiff, which used to be known as Izit but now Izn't, and ordered some food. I opted for a seafood pasta dish while Son of Bono went for a lemon chicken salad and Tea Caddy chose the Wild Boar sausages and Mash. Altogether it came to just under £20 I reckon.
When it arrived it is fair to say we weren't exactly overwhelmed. The Wild Boar sausages were definitely the best choice, because my plate contained about 10 strands of ribbon pasta and a mussel in a shell. Son of Bono was equally upset at his portion which contained about three small disks of chicken, a meagre sprinkling of rabbit food (ie lettuce) and a swirly thin line of some kind of sauce.
The waitress returned as we started to tuck in. "Everything all right with your food, sir?" she asked Son of Bono. "Um, it's not exactly a big portion is it? Perhaps you could ask the chef if he has any more anywhere."
"It's a new menu, sir, we are trying it out today."
So, in effect, we were guinea pigs - which maybe explains why we got guinea pig portions...
The following night was completely the opposite. My former sports desk colleagues took me for a meal to a restaurant called Prezzo where I enjoyed a meat calzone meal. Expecting pasta, it actually turned out to be the Italian version of a giant cornish pastie. I couldn't finish it and wobbled home very bloated.
It was a great night with Jarhead, Shutts, the little bowling ball, Smashy and Owenov as we swapped long-forgotten stories of our time on the WoS sports desk. Great days.