My husband, the sexpot

I used to be a normal blogger. (Ha. Normal. I can just hear you now, Gertrude.) What I mean is, I used to blog every day, or every few days. I actually found it difficult to function without blogging, as though by getting my thoughts out I cleared some space in my cerebral hard drive. Or something.

But after Adam's funeral, I found it very difficult to put my thoughts out there. Not because I didn't know what to say. Rather, pretty much everything I thought about was tinged with Blackboard from Mr. Squiggle. Do you remember him?? The most pessimistic piece of chalk-related equipment to ever grace the airwaves.

If I had blogged in the weeks following Adam's death, it would have gone something like this:

"Went to the shops today. Saw a pizza place. It reminded me of Adam *insert sad face and Blackboard-type noises*"

or

"Drove the kids to school. Heard a Paul Kelly song on the radio. It reminded me of Adam *insert crying face and incomprehensible noises*"

So in the end, I didn't blog. Instead, I became a Head Blogger. And by that, I don't mean a Head Blogger in the style of a Head Girl, such as in Mallory Towers, going around being the captain of the lacrosse team and bullying the girls in the Lower Fourth. (Although that would be way fun for a while) No, what I mean is that I began writing all my blog posts in my head, pretty much constantly. I didn't bother putting any of them out there because most of them were so morose they depressed even me.

And then I actually became too busy to blog!! I know!!! I think it was because I had gone so long without writing a post (and also because I had been working pretty much non-stop over the last few weeks, and it's fairly impossible to juggle a lap-top on your lap whilst driving) that I simply got out of the habit. Oh, and I might have been watching MKR a bit. But only when those really catty men were cooking. Or eating. Or talking.

So anyway. I'm probably still too busy to blog, given that I am up to my ears in packing boxes (Optimistic? Yes. But I figure that packing boxes in a hopeful manner is more productive than killing the builder) and I am now working two part-time jobs. I'm also prone to black moods of mourning. Usually provoked by the sight of 4WDs, tall men, home made pizza, Paul Kelly, the word cancer, and Archie. Nevertheless.

It's time to tell you a very funny story. It happened a few weeks ago, on the weekend of Christian's birthday. It's too funny to keep it to myself, and besides, I need new people to giggle at it because the fact that I am still guffawing about it in private is slightly irritating my husband.

If you know Christian IRL, you'd know that he's a pretty quiet bloke. Sense of humour drier than the Sahara. Teaches Literature. Knows as much about cars as the gents on Top Gear (which is sometimes very handy, and other times extremely annoying). Is addicted to road bikes. Loves nothing more than hanging out with me and the kids. Definitely not the type to go out boozing and carrying on, if you know what I mean.

Christian really wasn't in the mood to celebrate his birthday this year. He's not a big birthday person anyway, but considering it was only two weeks after Adam's passing, he really wanted to forget about it this year. So his parents and his brothers very kindly sent us away for the night, taking care of the kids and our accommodation. We spent a lovely weekend in the city, trundling around looking at the shops, eating dinner down at Southbank and just, well, relaxing.

The hotel we stayed in was gorgeous, and right in the heart of the city. The king-size bed alone would have been enough for me (for SLEEPING, people. Sheesh.) and I did indeed spend quite a while on the Saturday afternoon lying under the covers, reading. Mmmmm.

As we went down in the lift early on Saturday evening to get some dinner, a woman joined us in the lift. I was most amused to watch her spend the entire 30 second lift journey staring at my hubby, a little smile playing on her lips. As far as she was concerned, he was obviously a sight for sore eyes, and I was...quite frankly, I was invisible. Which I found simply incredible. Now don't get me wrong - my husband is a bit of a spunkrat. But it's not often complete strangers stare so blatantly at him with the same expression as the singles surrounding the dancefloor at Retro.

As we exited the lift, and Christian's admirer moved away, I dissolved in hiccupy giggles. Christian clearly didn't believe me after I had relayed the story, as he had been completely unaware of the lady's attention. And we probably would have forgotten the whole episode, had we not had breakfast in the hotel's restaurant the next morning. Which was where the most disgustingly hilarious thing was done to my husband while I was away at the toaster.

(NOW you're intrigued!!)

A group of *ahem* ladies aged in their forties (generously speaking) placed themselves at the table adjacent to ours shortly after I departed to obtain my breakfast. While Christian sat quietly sipping his cappucino, one of them picked up a spoon, looked him dead in the eye, and put the spoon in her mouth. Without breaking eye contact, she slowly slid the spoon out of her mouth so that it curved over her tongue, and then smacked her lips. Did I mention that the lady in question had not a skerrick of food in front of her? And the spoon being abused was unused??

This was breakfast, peoples. Breakfast in a rather hoity-toity hotel, and my sweet, unassuming spouse. Not a seedy bar for over 40's at the wrong end of the evening. His face, when I returned to the table, was priceless. It was a mixture of amusement and sheer bewilderment. I've never laughed so hard in a breakfast hall in my life.

I took great glee in grabbing his bum as we passed the scarlet woman's table. Considering the emotional rollercoaster we'd been on for so long, I was going to enjoy this high for as long as I could! And since I know Adam would have gained months of leverage for jokes at Christian's expense out of this, I thought the least I could do was tell you all about it. So there you go.