Don’t you love it when you wake up at 1:30am after only a couple of hours sleep with your mind buzzing full of niggles of nothingness and convinced that you are bloody useless?
No, me either!
Brain tick-tick-ticking away; churning over shizzle and shite that nothing can be done about at that time in the morning. Some of it, nothing could be done about at any time of the day in fact. Feelings of inadequacy and ineptitude are always much more intense between the hours of midnight and 6am aren’t they? Laid in the dark, wide awake and over-analysing your life!
On top of that, my belly was bubbling away, due to vegetarian chilli overload and a Kopperberg chaser. Bman, (as of today, my husband of 10 years) rasping away next to me like a wasp in a coke can. Ten years? Worse people than us have been released back into the community after less time and given new identities with Australian passports FFS!
I got him 4 cans of Gold Label and a DVD of ‘The Thing’ for £6 from Morridogs. Hardly seems fair really. Both of us probably deserve some kind of Certificate of Merit for dealing with each other for so long without committing murder. Gary Barlow got an OBE for organising a party full of auld farts FFS! Either me or the Bman could easily have shown the Queen a far more interesting night out…. “there was this one time…”
I was visited by the Muse aswell and felt the urge to get up and write, but feared that clickety clack of the keyboard would awake the household. I couldn’t go downstairs and make a cuppa because the MiL is staying over and was asleep on the downstairs sofabed. Besides that, the newly released crooked cripple cat was firmly ensconced on the bed; half on my crotch and half on my thigh. Pussy on pussy action indeed (but not in the kind of way that might have disturbed my husband from his old man-like snoring.)
Consequently (after eventually getting a couple of hours kip in the bunk bed with The Bear) I have felt slightly delirious all day at work. In honour of the 10 year anniversary I did wear my hand-crafted tiara (and at one stage, my veil aswell) in class. Thought it best not to keep them on for the staff photo – tempting as it was to do so and then give my name as ‘Miss Haversham’.
So glad I wore my heeled boots so I didn’t look like a dwarf again like last year, but was then told that no footwear was allowed on the backdrop/floor cover. Wouldn’t have worn my novelty bright-green frog socks had I been forewarned. Brilliant! (Although to be fair, the end result can’t possibly be as bad as last years ‘Rod Jane and Freddy gone to seed’ farrago).
Right, I’m off to try my wedding dress on and see if it will still zip up without giving me back-tits.