grumble, whine, grumble, moan

I am sort of back.

You will wish I wasn’t after this litany of non festive woe.

I am feeling niggly with irritation at a number of things, none of which are in my control, which is frankly pointless, but there you go. I remind myself to ‘let it go’ and not in the manner of Frozen, and then thirty seconds later find myself brooding, with an odd bit of seething thrown in.

Partly this is due to the fact that the things I am irritated about will not just bugger off and leave me alone. I have to keep engaging with them, where I would be better off just turning my back on the whole shooting match and walking away.

Largely it is because I am a tenacious little bugger and I am not made to be calm and tranquil and passive and sit on my hands and go ‘there there’ in a soothing manner. I am more in the Valkyrie line, and doing anything other than a bit of ranting and smiting requires such enormous amounts of will power it is almost impossible to contain myself.

Nothing is terribly wrong. I am almost sure that most of what is wrong is with me. I am not made for winter. I am made to hibernate, but nobody will leave me alone long enough for me to make a decent fist of it.

I still feel ill. Dregs of cold remain and stubbornly refuse to feck the hell off.

I am also having an early period, which everyone assures me is brilliant because I will be feeling wholly alive by Christmas. I am not convinced. I just feel wronged, resentful, cheated and full of cramps.

Period announced itself with a doozy of a menstrual migraine that began just as my brother took me for lunch and resulted in him having to drive me home with the window wound down so I could potentially throw up all over bemused pedestrians on Welford Road.

I didn’t. But it was a close run thing.

Woe is fucking me. Frankly.

Tallulah is ill. She woke up this morning with hectic cheeks, a racking cough and a temperature. She is currently curled up in her duvet, watching the box set of Outnumbered, presumably stockpiling more ideas from Karen, so she can wreak havoc when she is better.

She has had a difficult week with some dealings with a brutally stupid child who has clearly been locked in a cupboard for the last decade and feels the need to make herself the centre of attention come what may, to the extent of pushing orphaned kittens down a well in order to shout ‘look at me’. Unpleasant and unnecessary, but dealt with splendidly by both Tallulah and her form tutor. Thank Cheezus.

Tilly is still wading her way through mocks, and other parts of GCSE’s that aren’t mocks, and count towards her final marks. The house has been ringing with French conversation all week, delivered in our trademark, broad East Midlands accent. “Ou est les toilettes mon petit canard?’ etc (everyone round our way is a me duck. Everyone).

Oscar is making some interesting friendships at school which I am monitoring carefully. Small boys are often quite unpleasant to each other, much to my disgust. Having said that, judging from Tallulah’s predicament this week, girls are no better.

Oscar is over the moon that it is his first school disco this evening. I am not. My only consolation is that it is but a short walk away from home and the comfort of the kettle.

My internet died this morning. It was terrible. On further investigation with the cunning use of 4G on my phone I managed to establish that Virgin Media were doing important repairs in our area. These had been scheduled, but it seems that nobody in our area was informed. They said things would be repaired by 3.00 p.m. Luckily it was more like midday. The whole episode did leave me with rather a hair pulling morning for a number of reasons.

Firstly, several of the things I ordered for people for Christmas have gone AWOL in the post, and needed tracking down. These are, of course, from multiple different companies, all of whom needed looking up, tracking, e-mailing etc.

Secondly, someone has sent me a parcel with customs charges on it. It may be one of the things I ordered for someone for Christmas. I do not know because with Royal Mail everything is on a need to know basis. Luckily they have now instituted a system whereby you can pay their outrageous charges online, and have your parcel redelivered, rather than try to get to the sorting office this side of Christmas. Easier said than done when the internet is dead.

Thirdly my Ocado order needed editing quite sharpish. We are eating brilliantly at the moment, but also huge amounts of brilliant food, and the cupboard is bare. I had filled the order earlier in the week with festive treats, but forgotten to put anything in like milk, or bread, or fruit. Ho hum.

And then there was the small matter of work. Work which requires me to be on the internet. Luckily my hours are flexible, although a day at home with a poorly child is a good time to be working. Because I am not desperate enough to watch Homes under the Hammer, and nor am I desperate enough to scrub the kitchen floor.

The good news is that all the parcel situations are now being addressed, fruit and bread will be forthcoming, and fines are paid. Work has been done, and I have even managed to wrap up some parcels which desperately need taking to the post office.

I am not that much of a martyr that I’m taking them today, mind you. In my current frame of mind there would be a good chance that the phrase ‘going postal’ could go back to its origins quite sharpish.

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