So I married a mad man. There is nothing pedestrian or normal about Sir, the love of my life.

It’s not unusual to stroll into the kitchen at 5 in the morning to find the garden hose snaking its way into the scullery where it is ‘topping up’ the washing machine because Sir thinks the Samsung is a bit schnoop with le aqua. That’s after closing 23 kitchen cupboard doors first, because for some reason, despite the fact that jugs have been allocated the same cupboard space for the past seven years, Sir wants to open and look in all 22 other cupboards first, in case, in a moment of madness, I decided to relocate his favourite orange jug. I might surprise him one of these fine days but my slight tendency toward OCD prevents this.

Oh yes, Sir does his own washing. He has his own soap mixes, some more Formula X, and on occasion he ruins perfectly good clothes when he gets a tad overzealous with chemicals or mixing dark and light colours. He then throws caution to the wind and gets inventive. He sports a considerable collection of denims with small rectangles of white polka dots, T-shirts with Valentino Rossi’s shirt number on them and an astonishing array of black T-shirts with white or purple or blue splotches all over. He sits with a bowl of bleach and dips different shaped objects, his favourite being a simple nailbrush, in it and then applying it to his clothes, bleaching a pattern on the fabric. Or he’ll just toss a tablespoon of bleach at it and see what happens………

He felt vindicated when, one Sunday, my mom-in-law who’s the best-dressed 70 something year-old fashionista this side of the equator, commented that she thought his denims were so *foonky, and she was really impressed that they were just the result of Sir playing with his nailbrush in bleach. Of course he did not disclose that these were in fact the Armani jeans she gave him just a few weeks prior. Of course it also meant that Sir would whip out his nailbrush and fuck up a whole lot more of his denims and T-shirts.

(*Foonky = funky ala Italiano accent. It is also what mom-in-law calls it when she plaits her fringe and puts a few beads in it. You would also be considered foonky by her if you only buy eggs that come from ‘chickens that walk’. Because swimming is what they normally do right? Oh…. no…. she was talking about ‘free range’ chickens there.)

So back to Sir, crazy husband of mine, who a few years ago decided that the only way to permanently rid a particular plantbed of weeds, would be to nuke it. He spent a few weekends digging up the bed, and microwaving ice cream tubs full of soil in the kitchen and then proudly taking his ‘treated’ soil back to the garden. I really think he should have his own washing machine and microwave oven in the garage to spare me these horrors. But alas, there is no room for anything on his side of the garage because it houses his vast collection of vacuum cleaners. These are not your everyday Hoovers either, some are as big as cars and most have more than one motor. A couple are capable of sucking the swimming pool dry in under an hour and I’m convinced some monsters with multiple motors, if turned on inside the house would suck up everything in it in a split second. But telling Sir he cannot pore over the latest catalogue or ogle vacuum cleaners wherever we encounter them, is like telling me I cannot enter a stationery shop or even look in the windows. I’d need therapy for fucking months!!

Sir is fascinated by dust, and will never dry vacuum any space, which means December, when the housekeeper goes on leave, my house turns into a war zone. Sir loves vacuuming stuff, often. And in December that sometimes means waking up to find the guest room furniture in the lounge, office furniture in the kitchen etc. He clears the rooms, empties buckets of soapy water on the floors and then races with his fancy multi-motor vacuum cleaners to suck up all the water before it is absorbed into the porous quarry tiles. The house is then clean and spotless, but in total disarray.

These somewhat OTT tendencies extend to anything to do with prepping / cleaning. After the renovations at our home this year, we now have to repaint the house. Simple enough. Or not. Sir wants to remove all the old paint first. Unlike normal humans who will wash the walls with sugarsoap and then give it a fresh coat of paint, Sir wants to remove all the existing paint first. And that meant two months of experimentation, expensive tools, injuries, and paint that would not budge.

Time to get a power washer! But we already have one. Just a little stronger than the everyday household power washer. When Sir first got it, he decided to test it on my car and promptly blew chunks of paint off my door frame. This one wouldn’t do for the task at hand though, he had to bring in the big guns.

In comes Diabolique, Sir’s evil alter-ego and his power washer from hell. But first, our electrician had to come and install a 350v power outlet in the garage, because this motherfucker was simply not going to produce a spittle of water on boring old 240v household power. The power outlet looks like something you’d plug the Apollo space shuttle into. Fucking long extension cord all the way from NASA and we’ll gladly help them out.

I had nightmares about our brand new roof simply being flicked off the house at the press of a power washer button and feared that a jet of water would bore through the walls and shatter mirrors and furniture and anything in its line of destruction. Sir often comes up with diabolical plans that make me uber nervous, but on the upside, it keeps my stomach pretty regular.

Diabolique loves his power washer and zaps everything from paving to walls to soil. Again the soil thing. He aims the power washer at the ground next to big shrubs and trees and then just merrily bores a hole as far down as he can to get water really really deep into the ground and close to the roots. The garden is totally fucking holy, and I don’t mean blessed.

Diabolique also employs sound effects reminiscent of bad 70s Sci-Fi movies and a bit of a Star Wars theme. This has come into the home as well and when he sprays his Formula X for the bathroom (this one is glow-in-the-dark green, looks toxic and smells like a combination of Badedas and Meths) into the bath, all you hear is “PTHEW PTHEW PTHEW-PTHEW” as he shoots at little alien bacteria or whatever the fuck lives on the bath surface.

Otherwise, there’s just the normal day-to-day crazy that is our life. Note the oxymoron there. On Mother’s Day we had lunch with the boys and our wooden rooster, as one would do. Next morning I woke up and found Geoffrey the rooster on my bedside table gawking at me. I went to get coffee and came back to find the bastard in my bed watching TV. That night Geoffrey AND the kids (2 smaller roosters) sat in the driveway waiting for Sir to come home from work. I sometimes find Geoffrey on a stool in our bedroom watching TV over weekends. What makes this NOT funny is that these damn roosters are carved from solid wood and weigh a fucking ton.

Here’s Geoffrey at lunch:

Geoffrey saying good morning:

Geoffrey watching some TV:

Sir’s crazy is as regular and consistent as ad breaks. Early mornings are his best times, and considering that he usually gets up at about 1 or 2 when the world is still sleeping, he gets bored by around 4 or 5. Sometimes he’ll pack all my shoes along the tops of doors, or he’ll redecorate the bathroom and build towers out of everything he can find in there. Worst though is when he closes the toilet lid and packs everything conceivable on it, so when I wake up bursting to pee, I first have to unpack the clutter to be able to lift the lid! He says it’s “Feng-Shui’ing”.

Last night, he put serviettes at every seat at the table. Exasperated I asked him what the hell he was doing, since the kids have all flown the coop and it is just Sir and I in the house now…….. He told me to leave it alone he had a lot of imaginary friends coming for dinner. Sigh.

Want to know how he leaves himself the equivalent of a Post-It to remember to do or take things to work in the morning? Here’s how:

A note clamped to the front door handle. He calls it a Man Post-It.


Lately I’ve been waking up to find a coffee mug tied to my ankle with a shoelace. Apparently, I should know Coffeenese according to Sir, and any fool would know straight away that it means Sir wants a Machiato. An Espresso cup would hurt less clanging on ankle bones, but Sir says that would not be as much fun.

I should have a blog called Sir’s Daily Crazy, because I’d have an endless supply of material for daily posts.

I’m off…. to tie a wallet to Sir’s ankle. It’s Xmas time after all.