I started writing this post this morning and it began...
"Roll up, roll up, come and see the Incredibly Hairy* Mummy Lady lose her mind in spectacular fashion. Marvel as she flies by the seat of her unwashed pants, gasp as her cracked and battered marbles spin out of control, swoon as she plummets down to hell in a hand cart."
The fella is away this week. And every week from now until Christmas. I will not be answerable for the state of our little housebarelyholdingtogether by the time old Saint Nick arrives. I will answer only to the sound of a cork being popped.
*Shaving is for special occasions. Like armageddon.
This is self-pity thinly disguised by a veneer of joviality. That and a confession to incipient alcoholism.
Then during the bedtime breastfeed I had my usual ponderings for the day. This weekend the fella suggested that I didn't take much time to consider our situation from his perspective. And I think he's right. Generally (unless I'm completely self-deluded) I am good at listening to and understanding other people but the poor old fella is the one person who does sometimes get slapped around the face (metaphorically) by my inner self-obsessed neurotic bratkind. I was sitting on the sofa tonight, with Wrigglesworth snuggled into my chest and the Monster cuddling under my arm and stroking my hair and I thought, "I wish the fella was here so I could share these moments, poor me". Bad unworthy concubine. I should have been thinking, "poor him". Hard as I find it coping with my two mini-beasts on my own, I wouldn't swap situations with Fanf. But I think he would swap with me in a flash.
So tonight, I find that I art most happy that I have my Fanf and thank him for allowing me to sit on the sofa and get my hair stroked by our Monster. Although Fanf, if you're reading this in your hotel room, Wrigglesworth put in some sterling crying this evening and my head is pounding so enjoy the peace!