Babysitting

Earlier this week, Scott and I babysat for friends. A bold move on our friends' part as, Asshole-Spring-Cold-Strain:1 has taken both Scott and I as its first victims. Undeterred by our ability to leave livestock and crops wilting in our wake, we were welcomed in to our friends' home with open arms. Clearly spurred on by the promise of a red wine fuelled, child-free night. Insert knowing sigh from all the parents out there - I got your back guys. 
Armed with microwaveable popcorn, a packet of Strepsils and reams of tissue, we declared ourselves ready to tackle the night. Like the good hosts that they are, our friends plied us with chocolate, crisps and brownies, (which Scott demolished in a move that brought the Tellytubbies hoover and my childhood, whizzing back at frightening speed.) Wine was offered, but we politely declined. You know shit's serious when you're turning down free alcohol in favour of honey and lemon lozenges. 
The girls we looked after were total angels, either that or they spied our dribbly noses on the way in and thought it wise to stay well clear. And who said 4 year olds aren't intelligent? I should point out that the house also gives me the feels and often makes me wish we could ditch our town centre apartment in favour of huge gardens with actual, real-life ducks pottering around them. *squeal* I like ducks. 
Whilst the girls presumably slept/took controlled measures to protect themselves from contamination, Scott and I tackled Netflix. Now, I'm just going to put it right out there. Using someone else's Netflix is a huge responsibility, and opens you up to judgement regarding your viewing selection. Our previous stint babysitting left a Nazi documentary-watching spree history that I'm still partially ashamed of. It's probably the reason why we weren't invited around to babysit for another eight months. Thinking we could redeem ourselves this time, we set about the Netflix browsing process, a lengthy ordeal in itself, before settling on non other than Ru Paul's Drag race and back-to-back episodes of Miranda. I'm just going to have to accept that our friends probably think we're bad people. 
In addition to our questionable television habits, Scott also broke the lock of the front door which firstly, shattered my sub-urban dreams of hand feeding ducks in my garden as I'd be forever locking myself out, and secondly, left me slightly concerned that a rampaging, Finnish, axe-murder was going to sneak in to the house and I was going to have to bust out my kickboxing skills that I save for serious occasions such as this. Note: kickboxing skills equal zero and I'd probably have been just as well breathing on said axe-wielder and hoping that he succumb to man flu before inflicting any real damage. 
As another side note, it was whilst binge-watching Miranda that I came across my favourite quote from any television series, ever. 
Whilst trying to get herself out of a gym membership that she doesn't use:
'If you don't cancel my membership, I... I'm going to... I.. I will.. I will shit all over your towels!'
And that my friends is why a fictional television character is my hero. Not that girls poo or anything, but, ya' know! 
I thought I'd finish with this loosely-related, but still relevant image:

Anyone else think that this is pretty sound advice? Plus... a duck.