I am not myself these days. Not that I have any bloody idea anymore who this mythical ‘self’ is, what with Life being Like That. Recently, however, I simply can’t think who this demented bitch sharing my bra is. The mood swings alone are extraordinary. From any given observation point, she appears to be good old May, smiling, chatty, helpful May. Sweet. Even cuddly. Nevertheless I warn you, oh, how I warn you, do not approach. May is a direct descendant of The Killer Bunny from Monty Python’s Holy Grail (NB – Not really a work-friendly link).
Take my poor husband. No, please do take him, for his own protection. He will come in from work, kiss his wife’s rosy face, sympathise with her (very) long gripe about stupid bloody buggering cretins in the workplace, share a joke, receive an affectionate hug from her, offer to make her dinner, and then make some tomfool mistake like ask whether she’d prefer brown rice or basmati rice.
And after some little interval of carnage and banshee-like wailing, May will be banging saucepans about in the kitchen and muttering in a tone of blood-curdling scorn that if you want something doing properly, you should do it yourself, and H will have retreated, bewildered, with his head under his arm, to the bathroom to look for the Savlon. What happened here? we may ask ourselves, and verily, we may never know.
On top of the super-screamy trigger-hair irritability thing, May is also prone to bouts of apathy the like of which would have three-toed sloths handing in their resignations and taking up a new life as Olympic sprinters.
And when she’s not horizontal and whining, or vertical and bitching, she’s slumped in an anxious little huddle and chewing all her nails off.
To be frank, I’m sick of her. There are quite a few Real Issues (i.e. important, and/or life-altering) in my life at the moment, my health, going back to university (did I tell you? All the official forms came in the post last week), a couple of actual problems H and I need to sort out before we drive each other distracted. Getting hyperactively aggravated on whether or not asking about rice constitutes violation of the ‘who’s cooking dinner’ cordon is the most colossal waste of time and energy, and undermines the Real Issues.
I don’t normally drink during the week…