Well, things are a little brighter today.
The washing machine is still dripping dankly all over the utility room. It is not doing itself any favours and I will be showing it the door as soon as humanly possible.
On the other hand, the sun is shining and there is no rain, so the Velux is no longer leaking into my mixing bowls. Praise tiny Cheezus.
I went to the pub quiz last night and got absolutely wasted on red wine. It was tremendously enjoyable and although I have a belting hangover today I am not in the slightest bit sorry.
I managed to get up and function this morning, albeit in a thick headed, hazy sort of way.
The children have gone to the maize maze and I have lounged about drinking lots of water, eating crisps and watching the Kate Bush documentary on iPlayer. I bloody love Kate Bush.
I was reading reviews of her live shows in the online papers today and I was amazed at how many of the comments mentioned her being fat.
Not about whether she still has a superlative, ethereal voice, unique sense of showmanship and innate musicality. No. They were just bothered that she has put on weight.
FOR FUCK’S SAKE PEOPLE. GROW THE FUCK UP.
The last I checked, being fat or thin didn’t stop you being musical, or creative, or a great author or poet, or politician or artist. I don’t like paintings by Frida Kahlo because she kept her figure. I don’t listen to Mozart because he had ankles slender enough to pull off knee breeches and stockings without looking like a sumo wrestler. Kate Moss is as thin as a bloody pencil but she can’t hold a tune in a bucket. Would you go and see her singing Kate Bush’s back catalogue simply because she’s thin, even though she sounds like she’s murdering weasels when she tries to sing? (I’m sorry Bobby Gillespie, and Kate, but it’s true.)
Who cares if she’s put on weight? Who really bloody cares?
And if you do, shame on you. You’re a ruddy disgrace.