All has been quiet on the SWB blog, because at certain times during the year I do actually, shock horror, undertake some work. Oh yes. During these stressful periods, LSB develops a tick in his jaw and runs for cover as my legendary sourness goes off the chart. The exact details of my work I won’t disclose, but it involves trawling through mounds of paperwork, deciphering information, separating the wheat from the chaff. It necessitates great concentration, so I can’t listen to Lauren Laverne in the background, or Jane Garvey on Woman’s Hour. I actually think I’d be great on Woman’s hour. ‘The Trials of the Modern Mum; women who try to have it all, then realize their life is shite, so turn to blogging in an effort to redefine themselves.’ Might make for an interesting feature. Back to THE JOB. It is also monumentally boring, ninety percent of the time. Can you imagine any other work, which gives you a longing, an actual longing, to iron? Or contemplate the heady thrills of scrubbing the bathroom floor? There’s a corner of the floor by the shower door and I’m itching to get at with an old toothbrush. This behaviour, it goes without say, is quite alien to me. I’m not a bit pleased with the turn of events.
The Wise Old Elf has withdrawn all sympathy for my sorry state. I landed down this afternoon so I could offload the kids and get some of this infernal work done in peace. I was about to launch into a tirade when he fixed me with the look. It clearly said: “I tell you every year not to do it, you do anyway, so don’t come running to me with the face guerned off you.” I withdrew wordlessly to the other room with a cup of perfectly brewed tea (if there’s one thing that AAI does well, is make tea. And God forbid you hand her a substandard cup. Really, she needs to get out more.) My Dad has a point, and indeed it’s one I’ve made many times myself over the years. We all know someone who drones on and on about an issue, but doesn’t take heed of any advice. If you don’t like it, don’t do it, and if you still insist on doing it, then shut the fuck up about it. I’m sure there’s many a person has put that more succinctly, but my brain feels like partially cooked mashed potato, so you’ll have to make do with drivel. And I guess, if you don’t like it, feel free to unfollow me. I wouldn’t want to read this rubbish of an evening either.
Thankfully, gin is at hand, and a rather spectacular bottle my sister-in-law bought me for Christmas is now on the go. Nick Mulvey is on the playlist and I’ve put both my work and the hoover down. Equilibrium is returning with each sip of the Sipsmith. Cheers everyone, let the weekend begin. 🙂
