The cat greeted me this morning by escorting me to her litter tray where she had deposited a noxious turd, which clearly even she couldn’t stand.
It was eye waveringly awful.
The good thing is that her IBS seems to have cleared up.
The bad thing is that I am not good at mornings, and smells you can cut with a knife and fork do not feature heavily on my top five things to do while it’s still dark and you are resenting the fact that you are not in bed.
After donning my hazmat suit and disposing of the toxic waste I still had the usual wet laundry to put out, dry laundry to sort out, dishwasher to empty, breakfast to make etc…
All of which was accomplished with low level muttering that would have put a town square drunkard to shame.
Then, just as I was thinking I might be able to relax slightly, the coffee pot exploded over everything and I spent the next five minutes clearing coffee grounds unsuccessfully out of the grouting and shouting:
This sort of stuff happens quite regularly – and because I am not a morning person, I tackle it with the same bad grace and smouldering sense of resentment every time. I am nothing if not predictable.
When the milk ran out and I had to drink my second cup of coffee black, I knew that the world was against me, and rending my hair and wailing commenced.
I know that I am not alone in having the domestic yoke thrust upon me at an ungodly hour every morning. I know that I am not alone in my ascent of the EU laundry mountain and trial by coffee pot. Nothing I have described here is unusual. Many of you, I am sure, will be nodding your head in agreement at some point during this diatribe, or at least weary resignation.
Because of this, sometimes I feel that I shouldn’t moan.
Other people don’t. Other people are cheerfully domestic.
But then I think. For FUCK’S SAKE PEOPLE! Do I really have to spend fifty odd years of my life waking up to the same irritating routines day after day? If I only get one, brief life to live, and then wink out like a birthday candle, why am I spending so much of the time I have staring at cat shit through a bleary haze of exhaustion?
Why shouldn’t I be enraged?
It’s bloody infuriating. No wonder people have revolutions.
I don’t mind which, really.