For whom the bell doops

My season ticket for the CLD ™ continues to be fully used. I am now utterly menstrual, and mental, as well as still having conjunctivitis and now coming down with the cold that Oscar and Tallulah have been assiduously hawking around for the last two weeks.

Even the lady at the petrol station patted me on the arm today, and told me I looked like I needed a rest.

I love that I have such an informal relationship with her, and the ladies at the post office etc, but I feel a bit ‘holy crap’ when it comes to their worrying about my health and well being. I might as well just buy myself a bell and crawl around the streets shouting: ‘unclean!’ and coughing up a lung.

I have decided that the day I feel fully well again, will definitely be the day I drop dead. Probably from the shock of feeling so well…

This week I have done singing, swimming, religion, post offices on more than one occasion, paperwork up the yin yang, mathematics and dentistry and it is only Tuesday.

Tomorrow the children get the day off school because there is a strike. I have never been so grateful in my life. It is like an oasis in an ocean of poop, and I intend to turn the alarm off and spend as much of the day as humanly possible in pyjamas.

What else to tell you?

Oh, yes.

Our door bell broke at the weekend. Luckily while Jason was around to fix it.

He went slightly insane being let out to Homebase on his own and came back with a doorbell that thinks it is Cleo Laine.

It does not go bing bong.

It goes ‘Do be doop doop doo’ in a jazz saxophone type way.

Every time the door bell rings I jump. I am not used to it. It is like having Johnny Dankworth leaping out of the coat cupboard and doing a bit of free form scatting.

So that’s my other news this week.

I am frightened of my own door bell.

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