Rear Window

Continuing with the theme of Bizarro (the world I inhabit), I’m not sure what I’ve done...or should I say what the sausage fingered destroyer of all manmade things (JJ King, hubby, The Canuck, Sausage Boy, Silver backed gorilla - take your pick) has done, but his little window-wave relationship with the neighbours from the next block whose kitchen window faces ours, has now progressed to the writing of messages on bits of paper.

It has evolved from shirtless anonymous gesticulation to “Hi, I’m A – nice to meet you.”  By 'you' he means me for I was alone in the kitchen when he held aloft said greeting and I really don't know what to make of this new development.

To be fair, during the week, 'A', a full-bodied Englishman sees more of me than Jimjamalicious, being that I'm the so-called 'homemaker'  while Jim Jams goes off to hunt.  I'm a little worried ‘A’  may have mistaken the hubby for a flatmate given the almost romantic nature of his delivery.  Who he thinks the nipper belongs to is a mystery? Or perhaps he’s genuinely just being friendly.  Or perhaps he is a hot blooded swinger.

Now, I love a far -fetched pseudo romantic storyline as much as the next person, but I am left wondering whether he would have approached such an introduction quite in the same way had it been The Canuck and not me standing by the window at the time.  Don't get me wrong, the hubby is already quite taken by 'A' who when not cavorting around naked (I CAN ONLY HOPE) from the waist up, jiggling his rosey man boobs over the colander, is partial to the rugby shirt look; you know, the one where it is required by law to turn the collar up.

The Canuck is utterly bewildered by this very British custom and just simply cannot start the weekend without a glimpse of : The Collar.

Anyway it took me by surprise and I felt obliged to reciprocate with my own captioned message. “Hi, I’m N, nice to meet you too” and then immediately fled the kitchen. Now what? I’ll have to PDA - up my relationship with JJ King when he gets back (he's pissed off to Philly) in order that ‘A’ perhaps figures out the dynamic.

If I were single and looking (and perhaps just a little bit peculiar) you have got to admit, it’s kind of romantic in a Hugh Grant sort of way.  Not that I'm in the least bit concerned of an impending 'pistols at dawn' situation with t'other half.  No, on the contrary, Sausage Boy would most likely schedule a handover meeting to go over the instruction manual and throw in a pork belly dinner (by way of celebration).

No I'm more concerned over what I will do if I ever bump into 'A' in the street and I've still got to get through kitchen heavy, Sausage Boy-free, Saturday and Sunday morning.

In the words of Hugh Grant himself: fuck-a-doodle do.