All the secrets

All the secrets are coming out today … well, a few teeny weeny ones. Former weekly magazine editors tend to embellish …

OK …

DD’s first name is David. Gasp.

My builder’s first name is Daniel. Both names start with “Da” and because I’m long and short sighted I accidentally texted the builder a pic of my drink at a Crows Nest bar called The Hayberry last night.

Upon reflection, it looked a bit like an invitation …

Fortunately, the builder wasn’t too bothered. He just sent back a message saying: “On my way” with a laughing/crying emoji.

I replied “oooooops!”, he replied “hahaha” and we both moved on.

I hope.

I’m just glad I didn’t send a photo of my boobs, which I’ve been known to do, mainly because I’m excited to have developed a cleavage in recent years. I’ll catch a glimpse of my Octoberfest barmaid-style boobs in the mirror and be so dazzled that I’ll share the excitement with DD. Discreetly lace cupped, of course. Boobs that haven’t had work done at age 52 generally require a little scaffolding.

I find my voluptuous chest fascinating – I was so flat chested in my youth that I didn’t need to wear a bra under T-shirts until I was 35.

A lot has developed in the past 17 years.

Anyways, back to The Hayberry. I met an old friend there for wine and burgers and waffle fries. We had great fun discussing middle age, menopause, everyone pissing us off, my toilet plumbing disaster etc.

She texted afterwards saying: “Can you send me a photo of your toilet pipes? I tried to explain it to my husband but he looked at me like I have two heads.”

So I sent her the pic and she replied: “Thanks. Realised that is possibly one of the strangest requests I have sent via text in a while.”

Welcome to HouseGoesHome’s world.

A world in which Tom the chippie is popping over with a jackhammer today to excavate my side path in the faint hope I can have a functioning washing machine before 2021.

Wish me luck.

Song of the day: The Angels “No secrets”

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