It’s Friday night. I’m filthy (and not in a good, sexual way). My house is filthy (not in a good, sexual way either), my week has been long and, at times difficult, difficult, lemon difficult, and I am frozen. I am currently wearing ALL the clothes, and the dressing gown, and the UGGS and a hot water bottle.
I am still cold.
And the heating is on.
The house is not only filthy, but also messy – which is a whole other thing, and it’s beginning to annoy the shit out of me.
My period started. It is particularly badly behaved and not only am I as bloated as a washed up halibut, I am aching and messy and really rocking the heroin chic look but with more rolls of fat, less chic and no heroin.
My hair looks like a heron’s nest. I worry something will actually land in it and lay an egg. My head is throbbing and I woke up at four this morning with a migraine. The drugs I took made me groggy, and meant that I overslept.
My morning consisted of getting dressed in under five minutes, shouting a lot, shovelling raffle prizes, cakes for the cake sale, packed lunches for the choir rehearsal, a bag of fake moustaches and a lot of children into the car whilst chewing on a huge lump of brioche and trying to drink a pint of coffee.
There are lots of things I cannot control at the moment.
I realise that in reality – which is a miserable place , and it’s no wonder people don’t want to stay there long – I cannot control anything except my head, so please don’t send me a philosophical picture of a whale wearing a kimono saying wise things like this, because I shall just Hulk Smash you.
I am just having a moan.
Because there are lots of things I cannot control, and there are lots of things which are niggling me, and some things which are downright aggravating the living crap out of me, and yet I am unable to do anything about them (actually I am unwilling rather than unable, because the result would be a bloodbath and Christmas in chokey), I am doing compensating and also allowing my addictive stuff to come creeping out.
It is not terrible addictive stuff like eating forty three family bags of Maltesers and then vomiting. It is not shooting crack into my eyeballs or selling the children and buying other, cleaner ones with better manners. Mostly it’s just compulsively buying everything that isn’t nailed down, and eating every forty three seconds, but it is still addictive. I know this because it has ceased making me happy and is just making me rather tired and a bit out of sorts. It is however, an itch I seem incapable of not scratching right now.
I am also thinking about how fat I am (I am not, and I only think like this when I am very tired, and very out of sorts, and very not the thing – and don’t worry, it never stops me eating). I am also thinking how much I look like a mad old lady and how much I hate looking at myself (normally I do not care. I accepted long ago that I will never grace the cover of Vogue and I mostly don’t bother with mirrors unless I think my eyebrows are getting a bit Dennis Healey).
Pooh and pooh.
Tomorrow is a huge day. Tallulah is confessing her sins – which if we are taking into account her difficult toddler years and the rough patch she went through between the ages of six and eight, could take a few hours. It is her first confession, so it’s a big deal. I will be interested to see if there is a second confession.
It is also the school Christmas Fair – as you know.
I have decked, and tra la la’d, and enthused about mince pies, and dragged clinking bags full of bottles up and down draughty corridors. I have folded raffle tickets. I have ensured Santa has the correct beard and trousers. Tomorrow we transform the school hall into Winter Wonderland – or the school hall with mince pies in it – whichever we have time for really.
The children are very excited – which is wonderful.
Me, I just want it all to be over.
I want it to be this time tomorrow night when I shall undoubtedly be tired, and filthy and possibly frozen. My house will still be a midden. I will still be living in fear of the crazy neighbour ringing Vole Watch and informing on me to Chris Packham. I will still have crazy hair and a menstrual cycle which is more like a badly behaved tricycle – but my Christmas responsibilities will be over, as will my religious ones.
It does not mean I can rest on my laurels. Oh no. I have a last minute choir outing to arrange next week and two school discos I need to be a bouncer at. I have to take Tilly for yet another eye test as she cannot see with or without her glasses on now and keeps stroking fur hats and mistaking them for Derek. I have children to get ready for trips with their father, singing lessons to sort out and all the usual weekly crap – but there will be no raffle tickets or begging letters or tinsel.
There will be no committee meetings or wrapping. There will be no confessing or professions of faith.
And I won’t even be too upset if I do get informed on if it means Chris Packham comes round for tea.