No really. This isn’t for you. I’m only blogging this cos the thought of being able to do so was my sole comfort in the heat of a stressful afternoon.
Walked into the kitchen this avo to find a carton of milk lying on its side with its entire two litres of contents spilled onto the floor. As if this wasn’t enough of an injustice, just you try to interrogate a two year old to establish the truth of what went down and who should pay.
Endured an almost-hour-long kids-whingeing-in-peak-hour drive to have dinner with Tim at his work, only to find he’d overlooked a work function, meaning we had not only wasted a trip, but had to drive the entire way back again. With even MORE whingeing. It’s a good thing the air-bag didn’t accidentally go off – I might have been tempted to self-suffocate.
Ended my last-minute grocery mission with Caleb jumping violently in the trolley (okay, admittedly I shouldn’t have had him in there in the first place, but PUH-LEASE….anything that even resembles a ‘mute’ switch gets my vote) and landing square on top of the yoghurt, thereby splitting it in half and spilling its entire litre of contents over my groceries, my jeans and the shop floor. Even my fleeting dad-pun thought of ‘hey, I’ve always wanted to feel cultured’ didn’t cut it. There ain’t nothing making that funny. Well, except the passing of time.
So there you go. I’ve gotten that out of my system and feel suitably purified. Now…assuming you neglected to heed my advice and read it anyway…consider it officially done with.
You move on, I move on: it’s all good.