I have commented before on the work we're doing in Bumbaleerie Mansions - mainly painting SLASH decorating and it is the opposite of fun. Anyway, we're needing a kitchen floor. Bumbaleerie Kitchens is quite big so we're needing quite a bit of floor. And we've been putting it off for ages, because Husband hates nothing more, NOTHING, you understand, MORE than salesmen. He hates that no matter how many times you say 'we're just looking, fanks' they still insist on telling you all this junk - like, how many colours the tiles come in, how they can be fitted, how they'll look upside down, but NEVER THE PRICE.
So, we need carpet for two rooms, walnut floor for the hall (YAAAASS!) and slate tiles for the kitchen. Easy.
First shop: Salesman sidles over, catches us unawares. Husband was looking at prices and sizes, I was seeing how far my fingers sunk into the fibers. 'HOW CAN I HELP YOUS?!' bellowed the saleschap. (DIVERSION: I hate nothing more, NOTHING MORE, than people saying 'yous' (as in the plural of 'you', I'm assuming). It's NOT A REAL WORD)) So Husband was already twitching, and even though my nerves were jangling, I managed to say 'WE'RE JUST LOOKING FANKS' (WJLF). And Husband and I looked back at the carpet.
'Righto!' said the cheery one. 'Well, just so you know, we've got a special offer on blah blah words words selling carpet blah blah more talking...' and so on for FOUR MILLION YEARS. Eventually, we muttered something about maybe wanting laminate or learning to fly so it wouldn't matter what we were standing on, and glumly walked hand-in-hand to the door (me and Husband, not me and Husband and Salesfella)
'I don't even want to do this any more' whined Husband once we were back in the safety of the car. I rubbed his hand soothingly.
Second shop: Started well! We found loads of offcuts that were big enough for our rooms, nice nice. And we were congratulating each other on not having to speak to anyone when we came across a salesboy hiding between the rolls of carpet. Hiding. Between the rolls. Of carpet. Husband said later, it was like a praying mantis waits for prey.
'Hellooooooo! Can I help yous?'
'OK-doke, what is it yous are looking for today?'
Small silence. 'Carpets. That's why we're in a carpet shop'
'And do yous know what colour it is yous are looking for?'
...it was at this point that I held my hands over my ears and started shrieking. My nerves cannot cope with repeated uses of 'yous'. I'm like Mrs Bennett with my nerves (wee Pride and Prej ref there).
EXIT STAGE LEFT.
Third shop: A saleslady! I was so pleased to see her, I started to weep over her polyester skirt. But! My relief was short lived. She was one of THEM. But, a bit more mental and scary. She curled her lip at me, did a quick up-and-down of my outfit, grimaced at Husband and barked 'How may I help yous today?' Husband looked at me mournfully. So, I took the bull by the horns and said 'Do you have a toilet I can use?' The salescow recoiled (I don't know why, I wasn't going to pee on her. Maybe I looked like I was though), and said 'Our toilets are for customers ONLY. Are yous interested in flooring?' 'NOPE!' I bellowed joyfully, 'WE'LL JUST BE OFF THEN!' And we were off.
But that means that we've still no carpets/wood/tiles.
So, to make today not a total wash out, I made some foccacia or maybe focaccia or even foccaccia. Here's some pics:
|Me sick of kneading, the dough's WELL sticky|
|Me developing the 'Bumbaleerie Method' of kneading. Much more nice.|
|In the oven. Exciting, isn't it?|
And the finished product, complete with garlic oil, chili oil and the ol' balsamic: