Sometimes I have the strongest feeling someone upstairs is laughing at me. They’re hanging about, devising crisis after crisis to throw at me, just for kicks. Then they watch me doing my headless chicken routine. Their latest idea: let’s make her shift house with only a week’s notice. What, she’s coping? Hmm. Let’s throw in a sick kid as well. And work that is critical and can’t be delegated or put off. Mwah-ah-ah. Cackle. Snort.
Thanks, cosmos. Thanks a blinkin’ lot.
So now the old house is cleaned and sparkling and vacant, and we’re back in our own home, the quake-broken one, and it feels like home. I’m tired. So tired. But there are boxes and unstashed stuff and kiddie mess all around me and, really, I shouldn’t be sitting here in a stupor. No time. Ah well, next week will be better. (Oh. Next week is talk-to-bank manager week. Hmm. Okay, the week after will be better. I hope . . . )
