Ten whole days since I trashed the ash and only ten pounds heavier. Could be worse.
In addition to looking for the little one’s off switch, there are times when a volume control is desirable.
On yesterday’s quiet walk to school we were greeted by a crowd. The little-one loudly asked if there was a wedding (the last reason our street was crowded). Too late to tell her to pipe down, she spotted a hearse. Shouting, she excitedly told the crowd she’d seen one of those before. It was a cage. To put dead things in. Well more of a wardrobe than a cage because it was made of wood and stuff and did you know you need a very big very special car if you've got a dead wardrobe. And flowers. We came the long way home.
Worked today. To make up time off on bowl patrol. He-who-must-be-adored played phone tag with me for most of the morning. But please don’t be confused by the word ‘played’ and think there was any sense of fun at all. When he eventually got through to lecture me on how many attempts blah blah blah I never did hear what he wanted to speak to me about. Is it because on ‘earlies’ he misses lecturing me in the mornings. You’d think by 40 I wouldn’t have to listen to it, so I didn’t. He cut off my sarky tones. And good riddance too.
Then had to endure boss bemoaning the difficulty of empire building when I’m talking bollocks on the phone. But it wasn't bollocks. Both supersis and the designer have repetitive strain injury from redailing ticket hotlines. Both have struck gold. Although isn’t it unfair that all UK venues believe that if you need a wheelchair space you can’t have any friends. The O2 dome hasn’t actually built the wheelchair spaces yet, so though dosh is debited, you’ll have to wait to find out where your seats are.
Supersis has a ticket. Her daughter has a ticket. The designer has a ticket, on her birthday, no-less. And I have a ticket. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah. The truth is I never really got over the departure of Robbie, and although it’s never quite been the same since, I CAN’T WAIT to see Take That relight me fire. Oh yes indeedy.
Was brought down from this reliving of youth high by a customer turning up. Yes I could take his money, yes I could give him a receipt. No I cannot forgive Captain Choas for planting, in my drawer, the sound machine. And no I can’t see the funny side of turning my back on a customer to the sound of a woman re-enacting that famous when harry met sally scene.