For two things you must forgive me today. The first is that this is the second blog post in 24 hours, so there is clearly some form of crisis going on. The second is the word in the above picture, the reason for which will become clear later in this monologue.
Today has revealed that new lows can still be found, even at my great age. The first clue that this was going to be THAT sort of day came when the Man-Hog bounced jauntily out of the bathroom in his natural state (and what a state) and flung himself bodily across my supine body still lying in bed. This was no fit of unbridled passion, dear friends. No – this was the Man-Hog demonstrating that romance, passion, love or whatever that funny bubbly feeling in your chest actually is has finally, and forever, left the building. His words, uttered in a fairly sexy (for him) rasp, were: “Hun, can you look at the spot on my bum? Does it have an ingrown hair in it?” Of all the things a man could say to a woman after spending the night together (albeit the billionth one), this was not what anybody wanted to hear. He somehow couldn’t understand my sudden leap from the bed squealing, running at impressive speed for one so recently horizontal and subsequently slamming the bathroom door. He is blaming it on my hormones. Aaagggh!
Having hidden the tweezers lest he be tempted to ask me to prod, I ventured sulkily downstairs in my PJs five minutes later to be greeted by the Mini-Pig boy: “Mum, I can’t find my PE kit.” I sighed heavily and trudged into the laundry room to search for the offending items. The girl-child wandered into the kitchen meantime in search of school tights without gaping holes in them (there are none) and for whatever her reasons, uttered a sentence I only half-heard from the depths of the ironing pile but which contained the word “mucus”. Mini-Pig boy – clearly more delicate in disposition than the rest of us – immediately gagged, retched and regurgitated his recently devoured Coco Pops. Still, another heavy sigh wrenched its way out of my chest, the place where the Love Bubble used to be, as I trudged back to the laundry again to fetch the mop. Clearly this is not a word to be used in his earshot within an hour of any mealtime. Forewarned now.
Keep in mind, people, this is all before 8.30.
Man-Hog despatched to visit sister to bore her with botty-spot issues, vomiting Mini-Pigs thrown onto school coach, I was finally able to get dressed and go off to work. The train journey managed to soothe my frazzled nerve endings and, never one to be down for long, hope rose within me again. It was not to be. Halfway across the one-way street housing my office building, a black cab driver flew around the corner at break-neck speed straight towards me. With an adrenaline-fuelled Kanga skip I managed to make the kerb by the skin of my teeth. Bad enough, you would think, until Taxi Neanderthal then screeched to a halt, reversed backwards like he was going for the drifting World Record, and proceeded to berate me for not looking where I was going. I pointed out that I had been halfway across a one-way street – there had been only one way to look before crossing and he had probably been in the next town at that point, the speed he’d been going. This was clearly not the right thing to say. He let fly a volley of words I haven’t heard since Bristol Rovers versus Crystal Palace away back in 1980-something (although I can clearly remember chanting Charlie Nicklas is a Horse’s Arse! I was young, what can I say.) I kept calm and merely directed Caveman-For-Hire to his copy of the Highway Code. To his credit, he was rendered speechless. He then waved a dramatic fist at me and zoomed off in a flurry of London dust and old fag ends. Miserable old git.
All in all, it’s been a poor start to the day. Boss is at a funeral (bound to come back grumpy), been promised something from a jar for tea (oh joy) and the office is out of biscuits (for the love of God, why?). There’s a great line from the 1993 Mrs Doubtfire film that sums all this up. Robin Williams says: “Did you ever wish you could sometimes freeze frame a moment in your day, look at it and say “this is not my life“?” Well, that’s me. Thinking seriously of going back to bed. Call me when the love is back in the room.
Quote reproduced from http://IMDB.com
Picture credit: http://icouldcrybutidonthavetime.wordpress.com