Well, for frack's sake, Husband off sick from work for the last two days. And do you know why? Because he can't hear properly in one ear! I mean, poor didums! There's me walking around like John Wayne (my little trouble has not gone away, o my brothers) with a shit-load of housework and kid type stuff, and there HE is, pissing around in bed.
He eventually crawls to the Doctors, who simply arranges to have his ear syringed. I mean fair enough, but couldn't he have done that in his lunch hour?
I took no prisoners with him. This shit-hole, I mean house, is MY manor in the daytime. Its bad enough the kids take it over at a quarter to four, let alone Him loafing around. Anyway, I told him, You'll have to be quiet, 'cos I'm writing! This taking place in the kitchen, being the only place I'm allowed to smoke. (Though I have had a crafty few out of the bedroom window before, between you and me, o my brothers).
The book is not going well, o my only friends, so I've written a frackin short story instead. A real godammed personal one about my sister in law and brother and everything. Have sent it off into the magazine orbit with some trepidation, it being such a raw and autobiographical subject. None of this shit about boy meeting girl and that. This is Real stuff!
However, HE is not to know that. And part of me protests at being such a battleaxe. But you know, how would he like it if I walked around in his office all day - eh? The shoe on the other foot - tell me that one, eh!
Got invigiliating this afternoon. Not gonna stick at this much. Got bad-tempered the other morning. It can only get worse. Gonna get a bag of bloody chips and eat 'em in the car, bollocks to it!