A pen in the shape of an ironing board

I have been thinking about the word sluggish. It is, when you think about the oily, pointless way slugs move, an excellent descriptor for the sort of feelings I had yesterday.

I had a shocking night’s sleep. It took me ages to get off. Then I kept waking up, sometimes because I was dreaming, sometimes because I was imagining I could hear noises downstairs, sometimes because I was dreaming that people were whispering things in my ear. Those were the times I woke up in a ‘Nfgrllwaargh!’ sort of way, which is not conducive to getting back to sleep afterwards.

When I finally got properly to sleep, the alarm went off eleven minutes later, as I had to roust the girls from their pits to send them off camping with my cousins for a couple of days.

The first part of the morning, therefore, was conducted at high speed by me, and in various states of lethargy by the girls. Neither of them were born with any sense of urgency whatsoever, and despite the fact that I made them pack their kit the night before, they were still trailing around with half a sock on, feebly gesturing at things with towels, mislaying vital pieces of stuff and things and utterly failing to get ready. Tallulah still sailed off magnificently sans coat and had to come back for it an entire five minutes after they had set off.

By the time they had gone, I managed to sit down and catch my breath and realised I was unbelievably tired. The sort of new baby tired. The one where you spend the whole day shouting things like: ‘WHERE IS MY IRONING BOARD?’ and realising as soon as the words are out of your mouth that you actually wanted a pen, but the word wouldn’t form on the end of your tongue. The sort of day where your eyes feel like they’ve been lightly rolled in matzoh meal and fried, and every time you close your eyes, which is about every thirty seconds, your eyelids make a scrawping sound.

Luckily, Oscar is a pretty undemanding type of chap, as long as you throw him the odd morsel to eat and allow him access to some kind of screen, he is more than happy to sit quietly in the gloom until you are more compus mentis.

It took until about half past eleven for me to feel I was able to communicate sufficiently with the outside world, and then only the supermarket cashier and granny. Granny is the sort of person who when you shout: ‘WHERE IS MY IRONING BOARD?” gives you a pen.


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