First, the end of the weekend. C and I got back to my place after spending the evening round at his (unpacking boxes and assembling his bed). I walked in the front door, put on the hall light, and the bulb blew. Now, I have a stupid phobia about light bulbs exploding, so this was not a good thing. Fortunately, C was there and replaced the bulb for me (I have, in the past, spent weeks without light in parts of my flat because I'm simply too afraid of lightbulbs to be able to change them).

Then, I went to take my leather Gestapo coat off, and one of the buttons came off. Sewing buttons back on to leather coats is not my idea of fun.

C turned to me and said "Bad things happen in threes!", so I decided there and then to get into bed and not move until morning. It seemed no third bad thing was going to happen.

Until I woke up this morning and the heating had broken down.

It seems that when the light bulb blew, it tripped the fuse for the heating timer (spot the girl who's been living on her own for a while ;-). After I discovered that the fuse was tripped, I re-set it and went to turn on the boiler.

When I turned on the boiler, the fuse tripped again.

So I went and re-set the fuse, turned on the boiler... fuse trips again.

Etc.

Fortunately (and I thank $deity for this), after my central heating pump kicked the bucket last year (costing me �500 in parts and labour), I had the good sense to insure my heating and plumbing with British Gas. So, after a quick call to them, I have an engineer coming round on Wednesday morning. And I don't even have to take time off work, because there's this bloke who lives only 2 minutes away, and who doesn't mind hanging out with Jerry at my place for a few hours and letting the gas man in.

I knew he'd have his uses outside the bedroom :-)

And, of course, I also have a warm flat to go round to in the meantime. Jerry will just have to suck it up and be cold (she's got a fur coat on anyway).

Rewind back to the rest of the weekend...

Sunday marked six months since C asked me - while we were in bed, post-shag - if I fancied having a Scottish boyfriend. So I guess that means it was our six months' anniversary. And six months + 1 day since we met (I'm a fast worker, m'kay?). We didn't do much to celebrate, except naked housework. I had planned to spend the day cleaning, since my place hasn't really been cleaned for four weeks (and the window ledges - get this - had actually begun to get mouldy).

C offered to help, and to make things all the more exciting he put on his leather thong (and nothing else) and I put on my black patent & rhinestone strappy kitten heels (and nothing else) and we cleaned the whole flat from top to bottom. Then, for good measure, we re-arranged the furniture (I now have so much more room) and put up some twinkly Xmas lights.

C and I wondered how much we'd make hiring ourselves out as naked housekeepers. Only, I think anyone using that sort of service would want relatively attractive naked housekeepers, not two moderately overweight and average-looking naked people.

I'm not sure anyone would want to see a porn video starring us, either. "Chubby, average-looking, pasty Brits going for it, vol. #29". Nah, scrub that idea. I think we should stick with the day jobs.