Something rather odd happened last night.
I don't have curtains in my bedroom; I have blinds. Badly fitted blinds, at that.
Well, these badly-fitted blinds were slightly open last night, whilst I was sat in bed working on the computer, and I saw a strange dark shape appear in the corner of the window.
I have no idea what it was, but – if I didn't know any better – I'd say that, whatever it was, it was looking in. Creepy.
Male housemate denies knowledge.
So, another Saturday evening rolled around, and I had no plans. Male Housemate decided, therefore, to challenge me to a game of SingStar.
And, yes, cider may have been involved.
Now, apparently, he's amazingly good at this game; and was threatening to trounce me with his dazzling musical performances. I confess, however, that I was quietly confident.
The outcome?
Well, perhaps he's not quite as good as this game as I had been led to believe. Either that, or I am considerably better than I had previously thought.
Either way, I am now the proud owner of a memory card save featuring Male Housemate singing along to Sophie Ellis Bextor's Murder On The Dancefloor, whilst sounding alarmingly similar, in both voice and pitch, to Miss Piggy. And, as if that wasn't pure comedy gold on its own, it's also followed by an exasperated and beautifully enunciated "F–cking hell!" over the fading music at the end.
I'm still deciding what I should do with this. Your thoughts?
Not that I'd ordinarily watch this nonsense, but Female Housemate was watching Home and Away earlier.
Now, I admit that I used to watch this soap opera religiously when I was a child but – really – what a load of old drivel!
Maybe I just caught the script writers on a particularly bad day, but I don't believe that conversations with members of law enforcement agencies do generally go like this:
Police-type: Sorry, but there's nothing we can do.
Regular cast member: But—
Police-type: Oh, alright, then. But just this once.
OK, yes, so I will admit that wasn't quite how the script went – it is a very, very approximate rendition, based on a complete lack of interest at the time and a failing memory – but I'm sure that really was about the size of it.
If I used to avidly watch nonsense like that as a child then, frankly, it's a wonder I turned out normal.
It would seem that one of my housemates loves to sing. And he seems to know the words to everything.
I have no idea what was going on, or what he was watching on the TV, but I definitely heard him singing along to Bette Midler's Wind Beneath My Wings while he was in the kitchen earlier.
I keep trying to think of a good excuse for that, but I just can't and it frightens me.
