NICK: Given how much stuff we apparently have, it’s surprising that we—mainly you—manage to keep it looking so neat.
ME: Yes.
NICK: We use our space well.
ME: We?
NICK: I’m trying to express … I don’t want to make it sound like you’re the domestic … the domestic … This isn’t going at all well. Oh, dear.

ME: Oh noes. Oh noes! OH NOES!
NICK (from the bathroom): Treena, what is actually happening right now?
ME: I’m having trouble getting my cardigan on.
NICK (from the bathroom): Is this something I have to prevent myself urinating over?
ME: Not really.
NICK (from the bathroom): That didn’t come out right.
ME: Well, there’s your problem.

This week, the hallway and main bedroom are slated for painting. This leads to a complex game of Tetris (or, perhaps, Jenga), since the contents of the spare room and the study are still clogging the living room, after last week’s painting. So, rather than move all that material back and then move the hallway and main bedroom ephemera into the living room, we’ve just shuffled.

So my living room is full of my study and my spare room.

My spare room is empty, bar the actual furniture, because we need to sleep in there from Wednesday.

And my study is full of the hallway and main bedroom (which would be less of a concern if the hallway didn’t house three enormous bookcases).

All is chaos and strange juxtapositions.

But don’t think that either the chaos or the fact that my lads lost the FA Cup final will stop me from live-blogging the Eurovision semi-finals. Watch this space! Well, not tonight, but soon.

ME: I didn’t get around to mopping the bathroom floor after I dyed my hair.
NICK: That’s okay. I’ll do it later.
ME: Well, there’s isn’t any point mopping it later, because it will have dried.
NICK: True.
(Pause)
ME: See, I think when I said that, you thought, “Woohoo! No need to mop!” I was really more thinking, “So go and mop it now.”
NICK: I like to think of it as an interesting difference in perspective.

ME: As I said in the note, I always like to be colour co-ordinated at home, in case there’s an unexpected missionary and they think I’m a slob.
NICK: (Laughs)
ME: That wasn’t a joke, babe.
NICK: I know, but it was still funny.

Hmm.

ME: Honey, I’m sure you can see that it’s really annoying to have to tell you the same thing over and over again because you don’t listen.
NICK: I think the solution is for you just to tell me properly the first time.

Hmmm.

ME: I know you think you’re tall, you just make yourself look big. Like a cat.
NICK: Or one of those bullfrogs.
ME: They only do that to attract girls. You better not be trying to attract girls.
NICK: Only Treena.
ME: Too late.
NICK: You’re already fully attracted?
(Pause)
ME: Yes, I suppose that is a legitimate interpretation of what I just said. Well done.
NICK: I win!
ME: Only this round.

ME: Don’t flick that at me!
NICK: Tcah!
ME: And don’t make that noise! I’m only asking that you don’t wildly fling daddy-long-legs in my direction.
NICK: I suppose that is fair enough.
ME: I thought so.

It’s taken me a while to work out a means of blending my rampant Doctor Who fangirlishness with my research. Don’t get me wrong: I’m jolly glad I never decided to do a thesis on Doctor Who. But I am a bit surprised I didn’t hit this vein of research earlier.

Still, better late than never. So I’ve had a piece on Doctor Who and Australian national identity accepted (and, having seen the table of contents for that book, I can tell you it looks completely fascinating). And my current research? Well, this sums it up:

After all, if you’re going to be a fangirl, at least you can be a productive fangirl.

ME: Did you ever wonder whether, even though this looks like a perfectly ordinary house and we’re the only ones here, maybe we’re under the constant supervision of a Big Brother-style …
NICK: Um …
ME: No, bear with me here.
NICK: I think I’m going to have to.

NICK: I don’t know what we’re going to do, Treen.
ME: Other than you getting on a chair and changing the battery?
NICK: Yes, other than that.
ME: We’re just going to have to kill it with fire. Oh, wait!
NICK: What?
ME: It’s a fire alarm.
NICK: I know that.
ME: It’s probably immune to fire spells.
NICK: Oh yeah. It would be.

Another fine plan up in flames.

(And, lest you make the obvious suggestion, I can’t reach the fire alarm even standing on a chair. Curse you, high ceilings.)

ME: I look vastly paler when I’m standing next to you.
NICK: You really shouldn’t be so pale. It’s not healthy.
ME: Maybe you shouldn’t be so pink. Have you thought of that? Maybe that’s not healthy.
NICK: I am ruddy with health! I imagine.

Via text-message.

ME: This bus still hasn’t left. Maybe I did die in that coughing fit earlier. Maybe this is Purgatory.
NICK: Does that mean I’m in Purgatory too, since I’m getting these texts?
ME: No. It just means we have really good coverage.

ME: Could you do me a favour, since I’ve just noticed that you’ve apparently started throwing your used tissues under your desk?
NICK: Oh, that’s been there for ages.
(Pause)
ME: You do realise that doesn’t really ameliorate the situation, right?
NICK: Not really, no.