Rough times

Things haven’t been all that good this week, hence the silence.

In the space of a week, it has been intimated that my position as a non parent with the temerity to discuss child related issues is offensive, my words worthless, and on a kinder note by some more tender individuals, are just useless.

Then, to add insult to injury, I have been accused of wallowing in my bitterness (because I have the misfortune to suffer from dark thoughts at times in relation to my infertility and have said this), petty - because I thought maybe it would be a kind gesture for a poster to remove their children from their signature on the rare occasion I feel the need to ask for support in relation to my situation (not every time, mind, but those when I am in enough pain to need to ask for support), and unworthy of prayer because I wish ill on pregnant women.

Charming.

On top of that, no-one bothered to tell me that my cousin is pregnant. Not just a little bit pregnant, but 25 weeks along. Did they not think I would notice when I see her tonight? I know I am unobservant, but that was unlikely to just pass me by.

(I’m sure you can guess just how much I am looking forward to having to congratulate her (and yes, I am very happy for her and her husband. Of course, I probably don’t need to explain to the vast majority of normal and compassionate people that I can feel joy for her and sadness for me all at the same time, but of course we all know there are idiots out there, and that they tend to congregate in the same place), listen to all the pregnancy chat, and then undergo the third degree as to why I am the only one who doesn’t have children yet. Yes, I’m sure you can all appreciate just how much fun that is likely to be)

What else? Oh yes, another brief hope of pregnancy that went the way of the dodo. That was great too. There is definitely no chance of a baby Mouse appearing here before my 30th birthday, which is something I find very difficult to get past at this moment in time.

And the final straw is conducting a long review of anti social behaviour, in which the recurring theme is morons on benefits having children (twins, in a surprisingly high number of cases), assaulting each other whilst pregnant, assaulting the newborns in their mother’s arms and generally being shitty to each other.

I could do without this week.

Evaluation madness

The evaluation was on Monday.

The quick version is that it was a complete waste of everyone's time.

The longer version goes something like this....

My sister (from now on known as Gargamel) was late because she couldn't find the place. Since she was driving the Boy, my mother (now known as Big Al because that is how she signs all her notes to me) and the Sperm Donor (also known as the Twat), this complicated the assessment.

I had to fill out his forms. These were mainly on his behavioural traits, and really, the therapist should have seen this as the first clue. Aunties should not be filling out these forms, making notes and generally completing paperwork for someone else's child.

So everyone turned up. The Boy made a beeline for a box of lego on the floor (I was hard pushed not to do the same) and the talking began.

The therapists wanted to discuss with the Boy how he felt about his parents breakup. Since this happened when he was 10 months, he didn't really have any feelings about it. They turned to the current custody arrangements - formally, and per the court agreement, Gargamel has full custody, they share parental rights and Sperm Donor has him every weekend.

In reality, Sperm Donor has him every other weekend and I have him the other. Big Al acts in loco parentis during the week and Gargamel does what she pleases.

Sperm Donor said that he had decided, for the sake of the Boy to cut down on the weekend visits because it was difficult with his new baby. To hear him paint the tale, it was a noble sacrifice on his part and was hurting him intensely.

He failed to mention the fact that the Boy had requested not to go anymore because he preferred to come to my house. When the Boy made the request it was because "Auntie and Uncle are mad and I get to do all sorts of fun stuff at their house. I want to be with them not you". No, he was being a good father and trying to balance the needs of his two boys.

Why didn't I speak up, you ask. Because the Sperm Donor started to CRY at this point, sending me into fits of stifled giggles. It was so fake it hurt, but sadly the therapist fell for it. The Boy didn't, and expressed great surprise at this unexpected show of emotion.

What is even funnier, but I didn't know at the time, was that just one hour before, Sperm Donor had told Gargamel and the Boy that he could no longer go there at weekends at all because he was far too busy and couldn't make time for him......

Anyway, the meeting degenerated from there. Both parents tried to outdo each other in the doting stakes, whilst the Boy happily played with the toys and told me exactly what he was doing.

The therapist only cottoned on at the end of the meeting, despite being told several times, that I have the Boy at weekends now. I think she thought I was there for the morning off work.

Anyway, to skip to the end and save you the tedious dialogue, she feels that all his problems stem from sibling rivalry. His new step brother is three months old. Never mind that these problems have been here for years, she opted for the nice and obvious label.

Personally, I think that's bollocks, but what would I know? I'm just a work shy auntie.

However, thanks to Sperm Donor and Gargamel, I now have full weekend rights. I wasn't asked, of course, but rather it was assumed that he would be coming here. All I can say is that it is a good thing I love him, because right now I would like to throttle his parents.

He has since asked if he can live here full time and have me as his mum, and his mum as his auntie.

If only.

Unresolved

Firstly, I would like to say that I am pissed as a fart again. I just met up with some old school friends, who I haven't seen in eight years, and we had a really good time. We are going to meet up for a meal next week.

Naturally, one is pregnant (as is every single female I know of my age in real life barring my sister). So now I know two unpregnant women.

I feel so much better. End sarcasm.

The Baron is still somewhat shag-shy now that I am contraception free. Obviously, this isn't an area that he can be tricked into/forced into, but it deeply pisses me off. He has a slightly long record of saying things and then not following through (usually out of laziness) so this wasn't unexpected. I confess to be disappointed.

But I will ride it out.

Cecily kindly answered my question on declawing cats and animal rights.

I admit that I don't understand it and I don't think I will. It is partly cultural, as in we just don't do it here in the UK. Cats come with claws and that is just how it goes.

I'm not sure I would have it any other way. Apart from the fact I feel it is mutiliation, my cats just wouldn't be the same without their claws. My breasts would, since they like bare flesh, but with a toss up between intact skin and feeling their happy feet waking me up in the morning, I know what I would choose every time.

I do believe that if you want intact furniture to the point you would remove the top joint of a creatures toes, then you have no business owning said pet. That is my opinion. Of course, it doesn't necessarily make these people bad owners at all, but I simply disagree with their actions.
I would rather see cats declawed than put down for lack of a home. I really would, and I speak as someone with three rescue cats. But I stil believe that at the end of the day that cats deserve their claws.

And I am off to bed to sleep off an obscene number of double Bacardi's and Coke. Work tomorrow. Good night.

Mr Fickle

The Baron and I had a talk on New Year's Eve. A biggie.

We came to the decision that we would abstain from abstaining any longer and just see what happened. Whilst it wasn't a "let's get trying NOW" result, it was an improvement on the "so what does you chart say today? Can we shag?" conversations held in bed. Real mood killer, that.

He of course wants to be relieved whilst we are waiting for the danger to pass, and so wants my help. In fairness, he will reciprocate, but not with the good stuff. Unless I fancy some rubber action, which I most certainly do not.

So all well and good. I at least have the chance to hope, and we both get some loving out of it.

Fast forward to now. Day 7. Still (based on my cycles) far too early to start picking out names.

And the fucker has changed his mind. No loving in the DMouse House.

Happy bloody New Year

The Baron decided he wanted a party in our new house.

So yesterday he invited a few people over. And then he told me about it.

I sighed, and mentally started planning. Drinks, food, kitty hidey holes, and cleaning.

Then he announced that he invited his fucktard brother over, and his wife.

Fucking great. Just the morons I want to welcome 2005 in with.

He went to work, I prepared for the party.

And tonight he announced that it is very likely that his fucktard brother will be staying over.

Wish me luck. I am going to need it to avoid starting New Year in prison.

Happy 2005, folks!

NTQ

Dear Right Ovary,

Please ovulate NOW. You are killing me.

In eager anticipation,

Rest of Body

My head hurts

The scarlet hair fiasco was bad enough.

Fucking scarlet hair, but not all over. No, it was streaky. With reddy orange highlights, to provide that multi-tonal look.

I had to resort to a dark brown to cover the damage.

But that faded. To reveal the immortal streaky red. Which had not faded.

So I re-dyed it last night. Bloody L'Oreal again. It looked so good on the box. Chocolate brown with blonde hightlights.

They had a representative in the shop when I bought it. So, in the interests of not having hair that could light the way in a dark alley, I consulted her. She looked at my hair, and asked what I wanted.

I explained my situation and L'Oreal phobia, and she picked out what she called a "foolproof" colour for me - the chocolate brown with blonde highlights. It would be fine with my already coloured hair, she said.

So last night, I armed myself with the dye, some old towels, vaseline and I covered the mirror. Didn't want to scare myself.

The base colour went on beautifully. Then it was time for the highlights. I mixed it up and set to work. My carefully defined streaks were in place and I went off to play on the computer for the requisite 20 minutes whilst my streaks developed.

In my youth, I once decided that I wanted to be blonde. White blonde, to be precise. So I bought my bleach and set to work.

It turns out I do not have hair that likes bleach. It sort of lightened. Pelican crossing orange was not quite the look I was aiming for, but it was the best my hair would allow.

10 years later, my hair has not changed from that original stance.

I did not get chocolate brown hair with blonde highlights. I got chocolate orange hair with fucking orange streaks. That infernal fucking scarlet lives on.

But not for much longer.

In 15 minutes my dark "Brazilian Brown" will have had its alloted time and the fucking scarlet will be hidden once more.

Until the next time.

Enough

I am not the only one struggling with the urge to batter my live in annoyance to a bloody pulp with a blunt object. See? And see?

I went to bed having left a tidy kitchen. I awoke to find the Baron had eaten half of the contents of the fridge. But had he put the remains in the fridge? Bollocks.

He had piled them on the counter directly above the cupboard that houses the bin.

He refuses to clean the cat litter trays. He doesn't clean the toilet. He doesn't even replace the toilet paper. He doesn't turn his socks out for washing, or empty his pockets. He has never ever done a load of washing.

All he does is work on his clay modelling project. Don't get me wrong, it is really good, but it is taking over the fucking house. The conservatory is completely unuseable as a room as he has taken it over. The house reeks of fiberglass filler. There is kitchen roll strewn about.

And this is after I asked him at the weekend to get it all into the garage. He spent the weekend fartarsing about, supposedly cleaning, yet nothing actually happened. The room is still unuseable.

And the final straw? He turned the thermostat up last night to help his model dry. I didn't know. I couldn't sleep because I was so hot. I finally got up as I was so miserable, and went downstairs to get a cup of tea.

The fucker had turned it up. Right up. The whole house was heated to 95F.

I have had enough.

Fucktards

The Baron's brother is a waste of good oxygen. He is selfish and lazy, cheap beyond belief, and moans like an old woman constantly about everything. The last trait seems to run through all the males in that particular line..............but I digress. He is a fucktard.

This is the same brother who, not content with dragging us all out to Ireland for the wedding and refusing to help pay for his parents (leaving us to pay), is still demanding a wedding present. Not asking, but demanding. An iPod, to be exact. I don't fucking think so, you tight fuck.

Manners mean nothing to this arsewipe.

He has been moaning that the Baron never goes down to visit him and his wife. The Baron has offered on numerous occasions, but as his wife has her family over constantly, it is not deemed appropriate for the Baron to visit, who has unsurprisingly stopped offering to visit.

We moved house three weeks ago. The Baron's brother has not been here. In four and a half years he visited our previous house once. His wife was in the area over the weekend, and he came to pick her up. Did he come over to see his brother? Did he bollocks!

He did have the nerve to phone us and ask us to pick her up and take her home (an hour's drive each way) because he wanted a nap and to watch the X Factor. But once over in the area, he couldn't be bothered to come here. Too much fucking effort.

But naturally we should be willing to make the drive down to see them whenever it suits his wife's family diary.

So tomorrow is the Baron's day off. Guess which fucktard relative he is going to visit? His parents were initially coming over for a visit (so according to the Baron, I should be frantically tidying up. I don't clean for my parents, so why he thinks I am cleaning for his, I don't know), but since they found out that the Baron is going down, they are going to. No doubt to avoid paying for their own petrol.

I will be working. I planned to work at home tomorrow and was being forced into the visit, but luckily for me, a major fraud has been detected at one of my clients and so I have to go back to London tomorrow to start the investigation off.

I've just had a phonecall. Turns out that fucktard's little wifey (She of the low self esteem who married a turd she knew had cheated on her) left her glasses at her aunt's house this weekend. Like you do. Guess who has to go out of his way this evening after work (when he finishes at midnight) to collect them?

The same person who always gets taken advantage of by his family.

The one, the only, the Baron.

Goodbye

I feel ill. And saddened.

Goodbye clean air.

Goodbye to a meaningful right to choose.

Goodbye to any real homosexual rights.

Goodbye to civil liberties.

Goodbye to more lives lost in a meaningless war.

Still, people get what they vote for. And if people vote for a smirking little fucktard who can't string together a meaningful sentence, and wouldn't know the truth if it was smacked round his smirking little face, well that is what people get. And deserve. Well done, USA.

It is s shame that the rest of the world must suffer the consequences. War on terror my arse.

The world's biggest terrorist has just been given free reign for another four years.

Thanks.

Bastardos

The hospital are refusing to give me an update on Miss Ellie.

I've just called, and all they will say is that it would be better for me to speak to the admitting clinician. Who won't be in until twelve.

When I pressed them on whether she had had a good or bad night, they simply repeated the above. And then again, for good measure. Just in case I am stupid and didn't understand the first two times they told me.

I don't think this bodes well.

Until noon.

Home

At long bloody last.

Highlights:

Meeting Katie and Evil One;

Celebrating the Boy's sixth birthday (and yes, I can attest that he is a handful!);

Not working;

Feeling some heat;

Watching the Boy on the rollercoasters;

Watching the Boy punch Dopey on the nose;

Watching the Boy improve his swimming; and

Coming home to not just my four monsters, but my newest addition - my sweet one eyed girl;

Lowlights:
Having my flight cancelled by BA due to the hurricane, and then being told to effectively bugger off by BA when trying to ascertain arrangements for getting home;

Sitting in Polk County with the eye of the storm passing overhead;

Watching a tornado pass by;

Seeing the house opposite get struck by lightening and realise there is a fire;

Being told that I have to wait until the 23rd for a flight home. And no, BA will not pay for accomodation and meals in the meantime. Tough luck that their rivals chartered a plane to get their stranded passengers home. Policy decision, you know.....;

Driving two days to Atlanta, at our own expense to catch a flight home. Nothing like a bored and tired six year old to make a journey speed by;

90 other people on the flight who have made the same journey to Atlanta at their own cost. 90 other people who have been told to bugger off by BA; and

The extra cost of boarding four cats past their departure date.

I haven't slept since Sunday morning. It is now late Monday afternoon and I have been working all afternoon since I hadn't taken today as holiday. So I feel postively murderous towards BA.

So what does BA stand for?

British Arsewipes?

Barely Adequate?

Bozo Airways?

Bollocks Airways?

If I've missed any, let me know.

Rod Eddington..........your company is shite. I won't be flying with you again. Ever. And I will make sure as many people as possible know why.

Bad day

I've just spent ten minutes trying to send an e-mail. That is the pattern my working life has taken there last couple of weeks.

Turn up for a centre regularity review. No manager.

Go to a meeting, which I have waited for all damn day, and can't do anything until I have the information due to be revealed. Person is off sick and no-one thought to let me know.

And now, to top off everything, Charlie has gone missing. It seems that the trauma from the vets and the forced pilling has been too much, and he has disappeared.

Fuck.

My hair

I want to tell you about my hair.

I have hair. Lots of fine hair all over my head. Not that unusual.

The vast amounts of static I generate are noteworthy, but still not that unusual. Painful at times though.

The cut is shoulder length (ish) with layers. Nothing outlandish.

Colour? Now we are talking. My hair is chocolate brown naturally, and last summer I had some highlights put in, but they are almost all grown out. Again not, not hair that turns heads.

So, in the interests of making my hair that bit special, I invested in some permanent hair colour. By L'Oreal. Because I am worth it.

I chose dark brown, and the dye came with highlighting equipment for "multi tonal depth". Or some bollocks like that - I should read packets with more care.

I checked the colour swatches, and checked the examples on the box. WIth chocolate brown hair, I could expect beautiful glossy brown hair with lighter brown highlights. Lovely, and just what I wanted. I've been most colours of the rainbow, and am happy with nice brown. I just fancied something a little more sultry.

My sister and I and slapped the dye on. We waited the requisite 25 minutes to allow the colour to develop, washed it out, towel dried it and applied the highlighting cream to well chosen strands of my hair. We waited the 20 minutes that took to "develop a natural colour" and rinsed. Conditioned. and looked in the mirror.

I do not have glossy brown hair with lighter highlights. Oh no. That dream died when I looked in the mirror.

I have fucking scarlet hair with dark red highlights. I look like a 16 year Goth with severe angst. Scarlet bloody hair. With red highlights.

I have to go to work tomorrow. And all I own are black suits that makes my hair glow like burning embers. I won't be hiding in an office tomorrow - my hair shall light the way to wherever I hide.

Piss to L'Oreal.

Heaven help me

The update is here - I just haven't summoned the mental energy up to relive it before now.
Suffice to say that that is three days out of my life that were wasted, and I doubt the Baron's parents will invite me around for Christmas dinner this year. And if they do, well, I shall be busy.

The highlights:

The Baron's father moans a lot. And walk slowly. Both his parents do.

The Baron's father doesn't understand that when on a plane, you do not constantly grab the chair in front.

The Baron's father (BF for short) doesn't understand that it is not pleasant to see/listen to someone eat with their mouth open. I know I have issues in this department, but I tried, I really tried.

The BF thought it was ok to fart in the car. In fact, anywhere he felt like. And thought we should find it funny.

I finally escaped to my own room for some peace and quiet whilst they went to theirs. 10 seconds later, they turned up in our room as theirs wasn't ready. No "do you mind if we sit in here for a while"; they just wandered in and made themselve at home. I went and got very drunk.

The Baron's parents were harder work than a small child. His mother (who in fairness, is mentally compromised since her brain haemorrhage) doesn't go to the toilet until she is fit to burst, and that is naturally when there are no toilets around. In fact, on one occasion (and this of course was my car and not the hire car) there was a minor accident. I keep blankets for a reason, but that isn't it.

Due to the Baron's parents toilet habits we missed two airport buses to the car park. As a result I missed a long planned BBQ, and the Boy fell asleep before dinner. An apology? Don't be stupid.
The groom made a sick speech about marriage, when the only reason he got married is that he was caught out shagging his secretary. He may well love the Bride, but to pretend he asked out of love is crap.

The Irish contingent were a cliquey bunch of self righteous arses.

The Bride's father waited until half way through the first course to say grace. When everyone was eating. And did it in a holier than thou tone of voice, sure of his place in heaven. Twat. And then got as pissed as a fart.

The Irish lot brought up the subject of religion and then got offended when a non Catholic asked a question. Precious fuckers. They don't know why they were offended since they couldn't answer the question - normal side effect of religious indoctrination from an early age. The Closed Mind Syndrome - the answer to all questions lies in the Bible. Apparantly they don't talk about it, especially as it is the wrong place at a wedding. So why bring it up, me thinks?

I got smacked in the head with a tray at the reception.

Insult of insult, I was sat at the childrens table. Not with the Baron. Not with my friends who we travelled up with. With the fucking children. Who, incidently, were beautifully behaved. But sat with the children. Apparently the grooom hadn't noticed. Probably too busy mentally fucking his secretary.

We were constantly told that the Irish throw the best parties. If that was a good party, I would loathe to go to a bad one. No-one got blind drunk - since there were no free drinks other than some wine at dinner, the music was indifferent, the Irish were miserable little bleeders with no desire to mingle, and the majority of the reception party sent back the main course.

That covers it, I think.

On the good side:

I am home again.

I am home again. Bears repeating as it is the best bit of all.

I met a couple of nice people, who live locally to me. We are planning a BBQ. We shall have a good party. However, the Irish won't see it as they are not invited, even if some live down the road.

The Bride was happy. She looked lovely.

The best man aka the Baron did really well. He got nervous in his speech (my handiwork) but he did a great job.

My cats were pleased to see me.

(I should point out at this point that the Baron's parents are in fact nice people. His father loves his wife and children dearly, and just wanted things to go well, hence the five months of stressing. Which put him in hospital last weekend. But, and this is the but, he just has some repulsive habits, that given my extreme reluctance to go to the wedding and the fact that everytime I turned, they were there, led me to react to more strongly than usual to them. I did apologise at one point, but when he continued with his moaning and groaning the next morning, my hungover self simply could not cope. He was chewing gum with his mouth open and it made me sick. Literally. I was mean to him, I know but I expect more from an adult (that includes myself too) and that type of behaviour (myself included) isn't acceptable.)

Shopping

Some of you might remember that I swore the Baron could never come shopping with me ever again. Well, you can guess who came along this evening.

Usual stuff - fight due to a certain someone walking off and abandoning the trolley mid aisle, putting rubbish in, talking bollocks.....the normal stuff.

But tonight was more fun than usual as we could really spend. Normally I spend about £30-£40 for the two of us and the cats; thanks to the beauty of loyalty points (and some nifty insurance choices) we had money off coupons for £134. So a-spending we went.

Being a boring person, I stocked up on normal stuff. Batteries (bought the wrong ones so back I go tomorrow), lightbulbs (since three are out in a house with eight), and some jars and cans of food we use often.

I did get some new headphones for my mp3 player and a recipe book. The Baron got some headphones (broken as it turns out so back they go too) and lots of toys for the resident furballs.
Speaking of whom, Charlie bit me again last night and left a lovely gash on my hand.

Anyway, we spent an enormous £190, but paid £48.71. That was a nice feeling, and my cupboards are completely full.

So off to enjoy some Ben and Jerry's (a very rare treat) and read my new recipe book. And sit with a Charlie cat who has emerged from his hidey hole.

Sorry for the mundaneness of my life. It bugs me too.

Commuter woes

I'd forgotton the misery of commuting.

I thought it would have been burned indelibly into my mind, but time does appear to heal.
We will ignore the accident last night on the Tube last night, between Barbican and Farringdon where ten (oh yes, ten!) trains managed to crash one after the other into a metal bracket that was protruding from the tunnel wall, breaking windows and buckling carriages.

We will ignore the people who throw themselves under the Central Line - actually maybe if we didn't ignore them, they wouldn't feel driven to do that.

We will ignore the recent report that says that trains are crowded, but not overcrowded.
None of that happens. There haven't been several alerts at Liverpool Street this week - the prerecorded message "Will Inspector Sams please report to station reception" played every thirty seconds is just a call for a very lazy member of staff. The sirens and groups of station staff congregating are just mere conincidence.

My train yesterday wasn't fifteen minutes late, nor was it a short formation of four lucky if you can breathe carriages instead of the eight can just about hold on to a rail carriages.
Lets focus on the really good stuff:

The commuters with deplorable personal hygiene. The worst thing about being short is that you all too frequently end up with your face in someone's armpit. And fate always decrees that that person has issues of some kind with deoderant; the majority of those issues being that it isn't manly to wear it.

The gum chewers. Mouth open, fillings for all the world to admire (and we apparently have some quite creative dentists here in the UK) and plenty of gnashing, amplified by the silence caused by the train having been motionless for the last fifteen minutes.

The tourists. Individuals with nowhere to go and bugger all idea where they are. Backpacks larger than the average sumo wrestler and a map that could redecorate a large wall. And for some reason, their favourite place to study their map is right in front of the ticket barrier.

The irate commuter, guaranteed to cause a scene. The practised commuter (and although not frequent, I count myself in here) knows where the train will stop and so waits for the door. Laptop at the ready to barge onto the very limited space available. Knows the rules abut not making eyecontact or eating smelly food at rush hour. The irate commuter isn't au fait with all this and is one of the last to try to get on. No bloody chance!

But sees what she (and it is always a woman in my experience) thinks is a vast oasis of space further down the carriage. The reason no-one is there, is because there is nothing to hold onto.
So irate commuter begins:

"Can you all please move down the carriage. People want to get on"

No-one moves an inch. Someone usually pipes up that there is no room at all. That is like waving a red flag to a bull.

"I can see there is room. Move down the fucking carriage! People want to get on!"

Around this time, the people blocking the doors turn their backs, forming an inpenetrable wall of flesh, but that doesn't stop irate commuter trying to squeeze into the carriage. The doors start to close about now, and irate commuter is unceremoniously pushed back to the platform with a "sorry love" and the train departs, with the carriage united in its insults for irate commuter.

You have to play the game.

I must have missed something

When I was at school, we had a career library.

It had prospectus's for all UK universities, information on any career imaginable and then some on others perhaps not quite so imaginable. All the information anyone could possible want was there. Except no-one ever told us the truth.

Not once did anyone point out that although women can enter pretty much whatever field they want to, they still have to do the housework at a weekend.

I don't remember in those "you can be whatever you want to be" talks anyone saying that I would still have to clean, cook and wash clothes.

I must have dozed off.

Never again

The Baron and I have just returned from shopping. I need an extremely stiff drink, and a week away at a spa. But I'll settle for a cup of tea and a brownie.

Every time we go shopping together, I swear that I will never, ever go shopping with him again. But circumstances always get in my way.

This evening his car had to go to the mechanics, and since the shop I go to is almost next door we went shopping, so that the Baron didn't have to wait around by himself. I should have just left him there. It would have been for the best.

Let's see, a brief summary of what I have to put up with from a supposed adult.........aimless wandering around the games and dvd's, sulking because the shop is non smoking, putting junk in the trolley, sulking because I take all the junk out of the trolley, sulking because I tell him that junk wasn't on the list, trying to sneak more crap into the trolley, and finally getting
embarrassed at the checkout because I argued the validity of my coupons, and leaving me.

I could have belted him by the end of the trip. We ended up spending more than planned because he wanted a bottle of Cointreau (I can't stand the stuff, but he has developed an inexplicable liking for it) and some liqueor glasses.

So once again I say it. I will never go shopping with him again!

The. Baron. Is. A. Twat.

Breathe deeply. In, out, in out. And relax. And then put cat shit in his shoes.

Stupid bastard is going to a ball tonight (I was invited but politely declined). To make himself beautiful, he decided to shave his head. Would have been ok if he didn't start at three this morning. I woke up when he put the light on, and then started to hoover up the hair. Inconsiderate shit.

So at 7am, his alarm goes off. No response. I don't have to get up, so I batter him. No response. When I whack him in the bollocks, he stirs.

He finally gets up. I roll over and savour having a whole bed (I pretend the three cats lying around me aren't there). Idiot Boy turns on the light. The light blinds me again- when I get up I turn the light downstairs on so as not to disturb him, because I am a Nice Person. No such consideration for me. Not content with destroying my retina's and my chances of getting back to sleep, the Baron proceeds to huff and puff and try to blow the bed down.

"Where is my white shirt?"

"You don't have a white shirt. Now fuck off and let me sleep"

"But I need a white shirt. I can't go without a white shirt. What shall I do?"

"Wear mine then, you stupid twat."

"I'll have to buy one. Can you drive me to work?"

"Piss off and die, you stupid arse."

"I need some money"

End result I am dragged from my nice warm bed to take him to work. It's either that, or have to go tomorrow to retrieve his car, because I'll be lucky if he is conscious when he gets back, let alone sober.

As a rule, I don't drive if he is a passenger, because he is the most annoying passenger in the world. He goes mental if I go one mile over the speed limit, and if there is less than a two mile gap between me and the car in front, he practically has a nervous breakdown right there in the front seat. See my point?

So he starts almost as soon as we set off. After three miles, I told him to get out and walk. I don't have much patience with his behaviour in the car, and three miles was all I could take of his incessant moaning and shouting and swearing. He thinks he can comment on my driving when he sees fit, but heaven help anyone who comments on his driving! He drives like an old woman.

Slow and erratic, and I am surprised that no-one has actually got out (wouldn't take long to catch him up!) and punched him. I would.

Anyway. I tell him that I am going home, so if he wants to get to work he'd better get out. He doesn't move. I turn around and head for home. He starts yelling that he will be fired if he is late again and that I have a terrible temper. Look who is doing all the shouting, darlin'!

He then tells me it is my fault that he is late all the time. I try to point out that I might make him late today, but the other days he is late that have lead to trouble at work are all his own doing. Apparently, I am very wrong. It is my fault that he is always late, because I don't wake him up in time. Riiiiiiiiight.

He is nearly 27, but still needs to be woken up in the morning. It is my fault, even when I am not there, that he can't hear an alarm clock and so sleeps all day. Nothing to do with the fact that he goes to bed at 3AM every morning. Not his responsibility at all. The fact that I can get myself up and negotiate 60 miles of motorway and still get to work on time has been lost on him.

I decide that it will be quicker to turn back around and get him the hell out of my car, and my day. I ignore his yelling about my blatent speeding, cutting up of slow lorries and general getting annoyed with idiots who get in my way, and get him to work with ten minutes to spare. And tell him to fuck off out of my car.

I haven't heard from him since. Thankfully, because I don't have anything nice to say to him. He will be back some time early in the morning, so that is another fucked night of sleep and another morning I won't be able to sleep in. Yet another Baron ruined weekend. But imagine the hell that breaks loose if he thinks that his Thursday morning lie in will be interrupted. No - he must be allowed to enjoy his day off, but that doesn't extend to my days off because I have to clean and tidy. He won't - its his day off, and that as we already know, is sacred.

Piss to him.