H has just been ‘promoted sideways’ to a more interesting job in a more interesting department, doing more interesting things in a more interesting way, and, which is pretty cool, said interesting job was his idea, in that he seems to have spent at least two years discussing such a role, promoting the creation of such a role, writing reports about it, having meetings about it, and suddenly everyone agreed with him and not only created the role but then interviewed half-a-dozen people for it and narrative tradition demands that he should not have got it at all and would have had to watch a hated rival with the brain of a fruit-fly get it, but narrative tradition can bite me because they gave H his precious job.
H now has a disgusting cold.
I am sleeping in the spare room, so H can sneeze, cough and snore without being beaten awake every 47 minutes by his wild-eyed and sleep-deprived wife.
I, mysteriously, can’t sleep in the spare room either. I am still wild-eyed and sleep-deprived. H, however, gets to sleep. He is currently eating almonds and staring out the kitchen window, still in his pyjamas, with raging bed hair (he has long hair. When he has bed hair, it is definitely a king-sized bed), as he has spent the day trying to recover from said disgusting cold by lounging, doing kakuro puzzles, and drinking fruit soup. Yes, fruit soup. There’s a carton of it in the fridge. It is absolutely nothing to do with me. Blueberries, thank you for asking.
I am so tired, in fact, I barely manged to haul self to shop and back to buy paracetamol and dental floss.
H’s mother is arriving on Friday night, for a cultural weekend.
And the flat is a mess, and H is ill, and I am exhausted, and I have a degree to start, you know, and the timing sucks, but it sucks because I am an idiot and can’t count and thought we were all discussing next weekend, and by the time I realised I can’t count, it was a bit late to go about whipping the rug of invitation out from under the feet of the invited one’s plans, and I had a little ‘damn bloody everything’ hissy fit, and H offered to cancel, and I snarled at him because that would be too, too humiliating, and now I want to know, who the hell is going to tidy up before Friday, because I so am not going to at this rate. Also, must wash spare room sheets. Also also, food shopping. And to cap it all, I will run out of pills before the weekend, but have screwed up getting a new prescription, and I am doing my best to sort this out, but there is a terrible, ghastly, terrible, remote but still ghastly possibility that I might get one of those incredibly painful and heavy periods while MIL is actually here in the flat and it is not a big flat and I may well need to refuse to leave said flat for logistics reasons and, oh, it’d be simpler to shoot myself.