My lovely wife spent most of last week worrying about an odd smell that had pervaded our little nest in Bristol. Arriving home from work she sensed that something, somewhere, was decomposing but couldn't put her finger on what it was.
The next day the smell was worse. It was upstairs and downstairs and the fear was something had sneaked into the house and gone and died in a hidden corner.
By Saturday it was becoming pretty unbearable so Mrs R decided she could leave it no longer. Preparing herself for a gruesome discovery she first emptied the contents of the fridge but, apart from some rather dated items like cheese and bacon, nothing gave off the kind of niff that she had geared herself up to expect.
Next stop was the vegetable rack on top of the freezer but though some of the spuds had ears and a lime had gone so yellow you would be forgiven for thinking it was a lemon, there was no tell-tale smell to solve the conundrum.
Finally it was a question of getting down on hands and knees and looking through the kitchen cupboards. Out came the old tins and bags of pasta, the pots and pans and the herbs and spices. The smell was stronger, but nothing looked to be so far past its sell-by date that it needed a decent burial.
Then came the ice cream cartons in which we store rice, more pasta and other pulses. She shook the first two and back came the sound of ordinary dried macaroni. The third, however, felt heavy and gloopy and there was no giveaway rattle. Lifting the lid the smell hit her in waves, stronger than any joke shop stink bomb. The offending article, some long forgotten brocoli.
Apparently Mrs R had put it into the container to be saved into the fridge. I, however, was under the mistaken impression that it was something that could be stored safely in the cupboard. My fault, as usual.
Oh well, at least it wasn't a dead rat.
There has been one negative effect to come out of the whole episode, though. Mrs R, who loves her broccoli so much that I often wonder whether she has been stalking it (gettit?), has had her passion seriously dented by the whole affair.
It's official. I'm a muppet. Dropped a clanger at work on Saturday and was officially told as much by boss Macca in front of a room full of fellow journos. Embarrassing, but a lesson learnt. Still, far better to have a new a***hole cut for making a mistake than the whole thing to be swept under the table as if it never happened, as is the case in some places. I will certainly take care not to make the same error again.
God help us, today I actually joined a gym. Rather, it is called a health centre. To be specific it's the Esporta Health Centre near Stoke Gifford on the outskirts of Bristol and has a 25m pool which I can use during the week to my heart's content without any danger of groups of snotty nosed school kids taking over the facilities and cramping my rather limited style. It's costing an arm and a leg but the satisfaction it will give me to be able to keep up some semblance of fitness each week should more than outweigh the cash disadvantages. And, since boozeday Tuesday's sad demise, I haven't been spending as much on Carling overload as in the past.
Sunday lunch was a day out with the folks. It's my dad's birthday next Sunday and I guess he must be about 150. Not really. So Mrs R and I went to pick he and Jean up and took them out to a very nice pub called the White Lion on Frenchay Common where we enjoyed a lovely roast before giving them a tour of Chez Rippers in the afternoon. Oh, and the chocolate fudge cake with cream and extra chocolate sauce was probably the catalyst for my gym decision.