I’m tired. Everyone at work is either on leave or off sick, and I am doing overtime and extra dealing-with-hysterical-students-who-have-exams duty, and it’s exhausting. And not particularly rewarding. I’m tired and peeved when I get to work, and tired and peeved when I get home again. My commute takes me over an hour each way – do you think this helps? I don’t.
And anyway, it’s the two week wait, and I am sick of two week waits, and I am sick of vapouring on and on about my aching breasts and suddenly being covered in blue veins and how I’ve developed this strong desire to club each and every smoker I pass to the ground with a bucket of Thames water. It happens every two-week-wait and it’s boring and stressful every two-week-wait and incidentally, H himself is getting his knickers in a twist this month, poor sod.
I shall think of something clever and interesting to say tomorrow. Or maybe next week. Or eventually. It’s too close to midnight and I am tired. Did I mention that?