This post, by Belgian Waffle about the domestic crimes that she finds insupportable in her daily life, led me to think about what crimes my nearest and dearest commit that drive me to think dark, dark thoughts and indulge in spectacular scenes of under the breath muttering.
We will not talk of my own failings as a cohabitee chez Boo.
I am a paragon. As any fule no.
Firstly, my husband’s inability to put his snotty tissues in the bin when he is very ill. I understand that he might be dying. He probably is dying. But I still feel that even a dying man can put his fecking tissues in the bin.
Unless he is dying of paralysis.
Secondly, every single person in the house’s inability (except me) to put socks in the wash. Just socks. Not other things. They’re fine. They go in the wash all the time, but socks are somehow exempt. I loathe finding clumps of stiff socks under cushions and behind doors, and anywhere, except in the bloody wash basket.
Those members of my family who put packets back into cupboards when they have extracted all the food from said packets and eaten it. It is infuriating on two counts. Firstly I am disappointed that there is no ‘X’ or ‘Y’ left. Secondly I will inevitably have left ‘X’ or ‘Y’ off of my shopping list because when I went to look in the cupboard, the packet was in there so we mustn’t have run out.
Toothpaste splatters up the wall, on the ceiling, on the floor. Cemented to the tiles behind the sink. Anywhere except in the actual sink.
I am making myself shudder.
I’m going to drink wine and eat pavlova, and whirl about the house in my new sparkly shoes, and not think about things that infuriate me any more, or this could turn into the longest diatribe I’ve ever written.