I love my little shits.
I love my dog.
I love my husband.
I just wish that sometimes they’d all fuck off for a few hours, or maybe even, a full day…
No amount of sunshine and bank holiday good cheer can make up for the fact that my youngest has been in bed with me for the last three nights and he’s been up since 5.14am.
No amount of nice Sauvignon Blanc can make up for the two Manchester City champions flags that are stuck on the boys bedrooms walls with some contraband drawing pins. This seriously interferes with my fear of marks on walls, as does the dirty handprints that I can see in the sunshine. I have been wiping dirty walls all day, when not in the fucking car, ferrying children around.
No amount of five days off from school drop off can make up for the Thug Pug pissing on the carpet again or that Dangerous has been very rude to one of our neighbours for no apparent reason.
And no amount of anything can get me over Moto GP, mock eleven plus exams, middle child accidentally buying something on his X box for twenty quid and then lying about it, Dangerous pissing off to watch City, football practise, gymnastics practise, hanging out in Aldi, constantly cleaning up dog hair, refereeing fights on the trampoline whilst knowing that another eighteen households can hear you hissing “just stop it, you dicks! I AM NOT GOING TO FUCKING A&E TODAY”
In a sort of shouty whisper weird thing that’s neither shouting nor whispering BUT EVERY FUCKER CAN HEAR ME!
The bank holiday can fuck off!
I fucking insist that we desist with this ridiculous outdated holiday that serves no purpose other than to make me look forward to it and then dash my hopes with motherfucking reality.