You know your day is not going well when halfway through the morning, you're at work and you discover your knickers are inside out. What makes it worse is they're the Bridget Jones big kind and the waistband is higher than the one on your trousers. So the world and his wife knows officially how big your arse is.
My day at the Death Star started like this yesterday and then got worse. I broke my mug when someone walked through a door in front of me. I was startled, the mug I was carrying became like a juggling ball with an in-built electric shock system and it flew out of my hands. The handle smashed all over the floor. Then, as I filled up my excuse for a mug with hot water from the dispenser, I turned away to get milk out of the fridge. I know how long I usually have to do this because the pipe is furred up and the water takes ages to come through. However, some bastard had fixed it, hadn't they? Scalding hot water went everywhere.
So I was looking forward to an evening last night with Buggles and her man, Gomez D'Arthur. I had forgotten, though, that in company, Gomez swears like a trooper, uttering the F-word as often as he can manage. I had also forgotten that Mr Grigg, though deep, is very easily led. So the pair of them were f-ing and blinding like a couple of grumpy old men with tourettes passing the time of day in the bookies or children in the schoolyard who have just learned to swear. Poor Buggles. She kept wriggling in her seat with embarrassment. Every now and then she had to go out for a fag. I must say, I was very tempted to take up smoking again so I could join her. However, the end of this swearfest came when I turned to Gomez and simply said: 'Gomez. Shut the f... up.' He will dispute that, I'm sure, but that's how I remember it.
Today, I went to the Big-City-that-is-Bristol to pick up Number One Son (or The Chosen One, as Number One Daughter and Mr Grigg call him) from university. We had lunch at Cabot Circus. I, aka country mouse, was completely in awe of the architecture. An electric violin wailed music to slit your wrists by as we entered this new shopping mall. It was like something out of Blade Runner.
I found a great pair of shoes and ummed and ahhed about whether I should buy them. After all, Number One Daughter's wedding is months away. However, when the assistant said I had 365 days to return them I thought, bugger it, why not? And Number One Son said they looked pretty funky. Just as well he said that really, because when I got to the till, my credit card wouldn't work and neither would my debit card so the poor lad paid for them instead. I will make it up to him, honestly.
As we wound our way back to the village early this evening, the pace of life slowed as the Nymph's Dad held up the traffic in his open-topped Massey Ferguson.
Tonight, it's sensible heads on as we sharpen our pencils and fight it out at a quiz in the village hall. I am rather concerned because Darling Loggins is batting for the Sheepwashes and not only is she clever, she is very competitive. They don't even have the handicap of Mr Loggins holding them back this time, as he won't be there. So I am relying on Mrs Bancroft and her vast knowledge of the New and Old Testaments and Number One Son for his scientific prowess.
After that, a trip to the pub maybe in order. Yesterday, I saw Super Mario down on his hands and knees clearing up cigarette butts from the front step. He is working so hard I feel we have a duty to call in. But I haven't forgotten he needs to finish the paint job on my front door.
That's about it
Love Maddie x
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