Yesterday, at breakfast, after a reasonably successful start to the morning – no cat vomit, as per the day before, no surprise letters in children’s book bags demanding last moment payments for things in the correct change etc, I managed to catch the edge of Tallulah’s cereal bowl with the bottom of the milk bottle, and upend a full bowl of Cocoa pops into her lap.
She was remarkably restrained about it. She was wearing her coat, so the wool soaked up most of the milk, dulling the shock of the cold liquid seeping into her thighs.
As I stood, frozen for those few seconds and watched the liquid cascading down her front, my first instinct was to shout disapprovingly.
Then I realised I would actually be shouting at myself.
I do spend large amounts of time shouting at myself in my head – I tend to refrain from doing it out loud. It attracts the wrong sort of attention, and then people don’t want to sit next to me on the bus.
As I bit back the angry words I realised how frustrating it is not to be able to have a good rant, when whatever has prompted that rant is unequivocally your own fault.
No wonder people who live alone end up talking to themselves.
And then nobody wants to sit next to them on the bus.
Which means that when the children inevitably fly the nest, and should Jason swap me out for a younger, less clumsy model who doesn’t stumble zombie like through the days, I shall have no choice but to become a mad old cat lady.
Then at least I’ll have someone to someone to shout at.