I go on and on and on, (Mrs Doyle style, in keeping with the the Father Ted theme) about stuff cluttering up my life and causing me misery. Yes, I accept that I’m prone to hyperbole but being surrounded by shite, littering every surface and frankly devaluing the few actual nice things I possess, gets me down. In some ways, I was actually slightly less stressed (only very marginally because work was a total pain in the arse) when I was out at work, because I wasn’t surrounded by mounds of toys and clothes all day. LSB doesn’t appear to notice the debris because he goes around in a kind of daze at home, his mind distracted by binary bits and bites and some fecking Boa Constrictor, (or is it Python?) language, which I hear him muttering about occasionally. So once again, I look like some class of demented housewife, wittering on endlessly about the banal. But no, hurrah! My friend posted this article this evening which I read with a delighted relief. Like I have always said, it is neither normal, nor necessary to inhabit a space which resembles a creche. I thrust said post in his face and he conceded that I may have a point. Told you, I said.