Saturday 25th June

If I were to try and sell you the idea that today hasn’t been living proof of the fact that my existence really is just a bowl of toe nail clippings, I would I fear, be the word-mongering equivalent of one of those shifty individuals down the market, toting a battered suitcase, a shit-eating grin and a boot full of ‘Jimmy Smoo’ shoes.

First up, I tried to go into town to purchase a new t-shirt for my hot date with Handsome-Rob tonight.

Car bitched and moaned when I asked it to wake up, then it tried to pretend that it had used up all of the five quids worth of petrol that I gave it last week.

Having kids and a dog has taught me that sometimes, keeping this show on the road means exercising a stubborn refusal to accept reality. That may sound ‘a bit Bear Grylls’ to you but in my experience, fronting up to danger head on, by closing your eyes, crossing your fingers and uttering the magical words:

“Ghosty, ghosty, go away, you’re not real anyway,” has gotten me out of more than one sticky situation in my life, I can tell you.

The ‘Ghosty-Ghosty-Go-Away-Fairy’ must have been away on a city-break this weekend, because two and a half miles out of the village, the car went quietly into the good night without so much as a whimper, let alone a roar.

Pathetic

Doesn’t the stupid car realise that petrol’s ever so expensive these days? We’re all having to tighten our belts. I’m reduced to drinking the ‘Produce of Kazakhstan’ cheap corner shop, six bottles for three and a half quid, wine and I’m on my way to purchase my ‘look-I’d-make-a-fabulous-wife’, hot-date outfit, from the Age Concern shop.

When I finally managed, with the assistance of my Mother and her ‘just-in-case’ petrol can, to get the car back to Pimmsley, I discovered that Annabelle had taken ‘crook’ and had occupied herself during my absence with a good old fashioned game of ‘pin the vomit on the ceiling’.

The Teenager on the other hand, was chill-axing on his bed, watching the Robbie Williams episode of cribs and eating a bumper bag of Doritos.

I dialled Handsome-Rob’s hot-date cancellation line with one hand, and ferreted around in the kitchen cupboard for my rubber gloves and a bucket with the other.

I spose it was inevitable around here, that the path of true love would turn out to be a thistle-strewn, weedy, nettle-ridden road to despair.

Sigh.

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