Legends from our own lunchtimes

Friday, March 25, 2011


We've been here forever and we haven't scratched the surface yet.

We have disposed of enough boxes so that we can walk around the house at least, and a few gallons of bleach later most of the things that once smelled ever so faintly of someone else's dog no longer do, at least until it gets damp again, but the ceiling fans have thus far escaped.

We are unsure quite what to do you see.   They once were white, but now they are not, like wanna be Rastafarians they hang from the centre of the living room and our bedroom, with dreadlocks of dust trailing in their wake.

If we could crochet, I'm sure they'd have little caps by now, sort of bulging beret things that would keep their hair safe, but we can't.

I think they are in for a trim tomorrow.


Julie said...

Now, I suspect I need to hear your definition of 'trim' ... does it involve a chain-saw?

Joan Elizabeth said...

Oh my goodness, much worse than I imagined.

cara said...

I like the idea of a Rasta fan. It would have to go much slower than normal, though.

Have you seen Rastamouse? Could be one for the grandkids...


sorry i don't know how to post in html

Annie said...


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