The Smell

There is a smell in my outhouses. Not a euphemism. They're basically outside buildings; toilet, shed and coal shed, that have had a roof and doors put on them to connect them to the house. And there is a smell.

Ryan came in last night and asked if anyone had been sick in the downstairs loo? I looked at Mr G, got up, opened the kitchen door and sure enough, it hit you straight in the face. It smelled like someone had been sick. Or spoiled milk. Or *gag* there was this one time that a bag of carrots had fallen behind the plastic man drawers *retch*. If you've never come across weeks old carrots, that have, at this point, disintegrated into a bag of slime, and have oozed through those little holes in the plastic bag onto the floor? Then let me reliably inform you, they smell like vomit.

Bearing in mind that only an hour or so previously, I had been down there raiding the chocolate stash for a two finger KitKat and there was no smell, we were mystified as to where it was coming from. We were like a pair of sniffer dogs, smelling everything. We checked the bin, the recycling bag, both fine. The fridges, well, I'd cleaned both of those out last week, they were both fine. Tentatively, I moved the man drawers, expecting to find carrot hell again, but, with the exception of about forty thousand dead woodlice (seriously, woodlice are the stupidest creatures on the planet) there was nothing.

Come this morning and the smell is getting worse. In an ideal world, the room needs emptying, deep cleaning, steam mopping, and everything put back. However, this is my world, and things are rarely that simple. The tiny room, crammed with fridges, freezers, shelves, all my pans, cooking stuff, dishes runs out into a narrow 'hallway' that leads to my house. If anything is taken out of the room, we aren't getting back in to the bloody house any time soon.

"We need to paint the room." I said. "Wall by wall, and then clean the floor patch by patch as we move the appliances, one by one."

Poor Mr G sighed and went to get his painting gear on. Two walls down, two to go. And we still don't know what the smell is.

Back at the ranch, we had a lovely time in Manchester for Adam's 13th birthday, and I was so tempted to book another night there.

The Premier Inn that we stayed in was literally across the road from Old Trafford. I knew that it was close from Google Maps, but I didn't realise that it was this close...?

Ryan and I had a mooch around while Mr G and Adam went on the tour. They had a whale of a time, and once the tour was over I met them in the Megastore, while Adam splurged his birthday cash on the new away shirt, and last season's away shirt.

We went to check in to the hotel, had a cup of coffee and then decided that we'd go to Nando's in Salford Quays for our tea. We could have walked it in a good five, ten minutes but it was absolutely lashing it down with rain, so we took the car and parked in the Lowry Centre car park.

Once I saw the menu I could feel all of my good intentions flying out of the window, but I think I reined it in quite well. Both Mr G and I went for the butterfly chicken breast, me - extra hot, he - hot (tart). And then it came to choosing the sides and my resolve started to crumble. I mean. Peri peri chips, anyone? So we decided to compromise. I ordered my chicken with the salad and Tenderstem Broccoli, and he ordered his with chips and spicy rice, and we shared the four sides. The damage could have been a lot worse, we got a little bit of everything, and a few chips as a treat.

Could have been worse, I guess?

Once we'd eaten, we went back to the hotel, and down to the hotel bar for a Pepsi Max (honest!) and we sat next to the world's most boring father and son combo, who managed to cover everything from Manchester United's transfer signings to Glasnost within the space of about half an hour. I lost the will to live, and we went back upstairs to the room.

In the morning, it seemed like a bit of a no brainer not to take advantage of the breakfast at Premier Inn, as the kids ate free if you bought the full breakfast option. Knowing how much my lads can put away this was a good idea and saved a walk to Wetherspoons.

It was all going so well until I actually arrived in front of the food. This is what I took...

I hope those eggs were cooked in Frylight...

Now, in my defence (lol) it could have been worse (but also, not much, either...). I didn't have any hash browns, bubble and squeak or toast/bread.

However, after polishing that lot off, I then proceeded to eat three f**king Danish pastries. Three. Seriously. What is wrong with me? I am not fit to be let out of the house.

It was still early, and surprisingly, dry, and we decided to take advantage of the late check out time of noon and take a walk to Salford Quays. It's worth noting that the shops in the Lowry Outlet don't open until 10, so we took a stroll over to Media City, and had a walk around the Blue Peter Garden.

Mr G finally met his idol, Upsy Daisy...

Blue Peter Garden

So, naturally, I was shitting myself this week at the thought of facing the scales on Tuesday at another local group. Now needing 3lb to reach my three stone award. Did I get it? Did I f...

2.5 lbs off and another 1.5 lb for Mr G. If I hadn't had those bloody pastries, or the Peri Peri chips, then maybe... but still, it's done, I enjoyed myself, I enjoyed the food without making a total pig of myself, and most importantly, Adam really enjoyed his special birthday.