[69117]
Well-Known Member
Right...
so...
the farrier saga ended when I grew a pair of big shiny brass ones, and decided that the hot soldier was a much better option in every way. Sadly, as soon as I grew my brass ones and whacked them on the barbie in front of the farrier, he decided that THEN would be the time to tell me that he adored me and that I had beautiful eyes.
SERIOUSLY?! It took two years of prancing around in front of him in my tightest jodhpurs, with my morags hoiked up to my eyeballs and barely being held in by my carefully "adapted" v-neck tops (go to primark, buy a long sleeved fitted t shirt, cut a v neck that a Las Vegas stripper would be proud of, BAM. Morags ahoy.), ripping off shoes, forcing myself to like fish, and generally being a desperate, stalkery type person....and then as soon as I give up?! He decides that it's time to tell me I'm wonderful.
Git.
But at least I was right, and my eyes are pretty. POW. Pretty eyes mcgee is what they call me.
So now I have a house and a yard with the hot soldier, who says things like "duct tape is ****, let's poultice her foot with sniper tape - it's for wrapping your gun with when you're on sniper posts so you blend in, and it's much better than duct tape" and "here, I'll carry that elephant out of that burning building, and then run back in to save a small child, because I am made of muscle and masculinity and I smell like guns and sex".... and who surprised me with a pair of stonking wellies for my birthday (I actually swooned).
He is also very comfortable with the fact that I'm slightly mad, and I've even managed to get him to partake in a lemon waxing session.
AND - HE'S NOT SCARED OF MY MOTHER! In spite of the fact that Mamamegaphonehandswouldyoulikeasausage somehow stole fit Afghanistan photos of him from my laptop, and had a little "isn't my daughters boyfriend a big steaming pot of fitness?" party with all the elderly mad in the village.
We still go to parties or do's with my mothers friends where people that he has never seen before in his life come up and tell him how much they admire him for coping so well with the death of his first dog at the age of ten.... somewhat disconcerting, but he hasn't run away yet, and he accepted proffered sausages, so we're safe.
My mother is a little bit in love with him, and as we were leaving to come home one evening following a delicious supper at her house, proceeded to cook him a bacon sandwich as he said "that was delicious, but there's always room for a bacon sandwich"....
at 1am.
The biggest test was my father. The soldier and I were involved in a fairly epic car crash just two weeks after I bought a lovely new car (thank the good baby jebus and all his holy whotsits for Volvos and their general impregnable-ness). I was stationary on a VERY main road, waiting to turn into a petrol station, and indicating like a good citizen, when Mister-head-up-sphincter-I-don't-need-to-look-where-I'm-going-because-my-wife-is-a-serious-MILF-and-my-Volvo-is-newer-than-yours-you-bumpkin came screaming up behind us at about 80mph. He tried to swerve round me, and hit the front corner on my side, spinning us round and sending us sailing about fifty metres up the road. Vera the Volvo did a massive death, as did his car (HA!) but somehow we all managed to come away unharmed, save for a bonk on my head, and a rather bewildered pair of dogs in the back of my car.
The soldier, ever the star in a crisis, made me get out of the car (which was by now sitting across both lanes of the A40 with it's innards scattered about all akimbo) while he and some kind strong farmer types (and a massive chav with a neck thicker than my very fat thigh...wait, that makes it sound like I have one fat thigh and one thin one...they're both fat, but his neck was only as fat as one thigh, not both together, that would have made him a medical marvel, and he wasn't, he was just fat and a chav) pushed Vera off the road.
I staggered into the petrol station wittering and was given a cup of tea and told to sit down. Now, problemo number one. Tow companies won't take cars away when they have Great Danes in them. Bastards. So... we decided I would ring my father, who would come and pick up the soldier and take him back to my mother's house where his car was parked, so that he could come and pick the dogs and I up.
Now, at this point, I had only been with the soldier for a couple of months, and obviously I'm a massive prude (again, HA!) and was too chicken to tell my father. So, when my massive, 6'5", 20 stone, beardy South African dad arrived, I felt VERY sorry for the soldier.
All was fine, until the soldier got into my father's car.
My darling pa, almost as mental as my darling ma, locked the doors before the soldier had even turned back from closing his, and said "So, soldier, what part do you play in my daughter's complex life?" and then, before soldier could reply, followed that chestnut up with "I have a shotgun licence you know."
Soldier came back rather paler than he was when he left.
Whilst this saga was going on, I was standing at the side of the road holding two Great Danes on makeshift leads made from tail bandages, and pretending that I was cool and crashed my car all the time and what-are-you-looking-at-you-bint.
My life doesn't get any more normal or less humiliating.
so...
the farrier saga ended when I grew a pair of big shiny brass ones, and decided that the hot soldier was a much better option in every way. Sadly, as soon as I grew my brass ones and whacked them on the barbie in front of the farrier, he decided that THEN would be the time to tell me that he adored me and that I had beautiful eyes.
SERIOUSLY?! It took two years of prancing around in front of him in my tightest jodhpurs, with my morags hoiked up to my eyeballs and barely being held in by my carefully "adapted" v-neck tops (go to primark, buy a long sleeved fitted t shirt, cut a v neck that a Las Vegas stripper would be proud of, BAM. Morags ahoy.), ripping off shoes, forcing myself to like fish, and generally being a desperate, stalkery type person....and then as soon as I give up?! He decides that it's time to tell me I'm wonderful.
Git.
But at least I was right, and my eyes are pretty. POW. Pretty eyes mcgee is what they call me.
So now I have a house and a yard with the hot soldier, who says things like "duct tape is ****, let's poultice her foot with sniper tape - it's for wrapping your gun with when you're on sniper posts so you blend in, and it's much better than duct tape" and "here, I'll carry that elephant out of that burning building, and then run back in to save a small child, because I am made of muscle and masculinity and I smell like guns and sex".... and who surprised me with a pair of stonking wellies for my birthday (I actually swooned).
He is also very comfortable with the fact that I'm slightly mad, and I've even managed to get him to partake in a lemon waxing session.
AND - HE'S NOT SCARED OF MY MOTHER! In spite of the fact that Mamamegaphonehandswouldyoulikeasausage somehow stole fit Afghanistan photos of him from my laptop, and had a little "isn't my daughters boyfriend a big steaming pot of fitness?" party with all the elderly mad in the village.
We still go to parties or do's with my mothers friends where people that he has never seen before in his life come up and tell him how much they admire him for coping so well with the death of his first dog at the age of ten.... somewhat disconcerting, but he hasn't run away yet, and he accepted proffered sausages, so we're safe.
My mother is a little bit in love with him, and as we were leaving to come home one evening following a delicious supper at her house, proceeded to cook him a bacon sandwich as he said "that was delicious, but there's always room for a bacon sandwich"....
at 1am.
The biggest test was my father. The soldier and I were involved in a fairly epic car crash just two weeks after I bought a lovely new car (thank the good baby jebus and all his holy whotsits for Volvos and their general impregnable-ness). I was stationary on a VERY main road, waiting to turn into a petrol station, and indicating like a good citizen, when Mister-head-up-sphincter-I-don't-need-to-look-where-I'm-going-because-my-wife-is-a-serious-MILF-and-my-Volvo-is-newer-than-yours-you-bumpkin came screaming up behind us at about 80mph. He tried to swerve round me, and hit the front corner on my side, spinning us round and sending us sailing about fifty metres up the road. Vera the Volvo did a massive death, as did his car (HA!) but somehow we all managed to come away unharmed, save for a bonk on my head, and a rather bewildered pair of dogs in the back of my car.
The soldier, ever the star in a crisis, made me get out of the car (which was by now sitting across both lanes of the A40 with it's innards scattered about all akimbo) while he and some kind strong farmer types (and a massive chav with a neck thicker than my very fat thigh...wait, that makes it sound like I have one fat thigh and one thin one...they're both fat, but his neck was only as fat as one thigh, not both together, that would have made him a medical marvel, and he wasn't, he was just fat and a chav) pushed Vera off the road.
I staggered into the petrol station wittering and was given a cup of tea and told to sit down. Now, problemo number one. Tow companies won't take cars away when they have Great Danes in them. Bastards. So... we decided I would ring my father, who would come and pick up the soldier and take him back to my mother's house where his car was parked, so that he could come and pick the dogs and I up.
Now, at this point, I had only been with the soldier for a couple of months, and obviously I'm a massive prude (again, HA!) and was too chicken to tell my father. So, when my massive, 6'5", 20 stone, beardy South African dad arrived, I felt VERY sorry for the soldier.
All was fine, until the soldier got into my father's car.
My darling pa, almost as mental as my darling ma, locked the doors before the soldier had even turned back from closing his, and said "So, soldier, what part do you play in my daughter's complex life?" and then, before soldier could reply, followed that chestnut up with "I have a shotgun licence you know."
Soldier came back rather paler than he was when he left.
Whilst this saga was going on, I was standing at the side of the road holding two Great Danes on makeshift leads made from tail bandages, and pretending that I was cool and crashed my car all the time and what-are-you-looking-at-you-bint.
My life doesn't get any more normal or less humiliating.
)**
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