Sarah Sturt's Blog

Balls, bins and bathrooms

It's been a bit of a day for domestic disasters. Woke up to find my big green recycling bin had somehow lost its lid between me putting it at the top of my drive the day before, it being emptied and lovely neighbour Bill wheeling it back down again. Had William finally flipped and torn the thing off in a fit of pique at literally years of being my binman? The horror. Decided I left far too early in the morning for doorstep confrontations and instead put a less than hopeful call through to my local council, expecting automated nonsense and a stern lecture at my ineptitude in failing to even look after a bin. But - result! Humans at the end of the line, sympathy, even a modicum of humour and yes, they would come round and replace said lid or the entire bin itself. Tonbridge and Malling Borough Council, I salute you!

The bathroom is slightly awkward, but I'm pretty confident Oddjobs Pete doesn't read my blog or possibly is even unaware I write one, extraordinary as that must sound, dear reader. Anyway, I finally got round to acknowledging that the whole ablutions area chez moi is a bit of a mess, terrible paint job, ancient tiles and generally not the relaxing, luxury space I feel I deserve. Enter Big Pete, who so far this year has mended my garage door, rescued my pond and painted an outside wall - perfect credentials for bathroom design! Except it's day three and not a lot has changed really and it's all supposed to be done by Friday. A bit of paint thas been splashed around, certainly, and the old tiles are gone, but there's little sign of awareness that the big pile of lovely new tiles in the garage is actually meant to be transported inside, up the stairs and onto the walls. What on earth is the polite way to say hurry up?

Which brings me to the final and most embarrassing 'b' - my shiny new fitball, a present from my lovely daughter at the weekend. Only I don't own a pump. My brainwave was to take it to my local gym, where I pretty much know all the staff, flutter my eyelashes, play the helpless damsel and get them to pump it up for me. Brilliant!

After my pilates class on Monday, I got a text - 'we've got your ball!' - shot upstairs to the gym, to find the largest, shinest, blackest ball you could imagine - but only half inflated. It had defeated the entire recreation team on duty and the, er, innuendo flying around about my unusual present is not something I feel I can quite share with you. But these guys ae not ones to take defeat lying down. Round two duly took place tonight - and there was my ball, locked away in a giant cupboard, with my name on it, no less, pumped up to capacity by some nameless brave soul.  The only problem was, it was now far too big to get into my car. Aaarrghh!

Enter best mate Kellie, owner of a ginormous people carrier, prepared to transport the thing home for me. Honestly, it barely fitted through the front door and up the stairs and I not only have nowhere to put it, but will need a stepladder to actually get on it. Any offers - one shiny black 75cm fitball.Unused.

Sarah