Well, so much for our relaxing Easter week. Most of it was spent fighting off the remnants of a sickness bug, then suffering the pain, angst and general indignity of a toothache and an extraction. Not quite how I’d envisaged it really.
So, as OH headed back into the office this morning, I saw him off with not just a slight touch of grumpiness, as I surveyed my two boys and realised it was back to business as usual, but without the benefit of having had any sort of respite whatsoever. Now, don’t misunderstand me here. I love my boys. Adore my boys. Have the hugest amount of fun with my boys. But they are hard work.
And indeed, from the very onset of the day, they set about eagerly proving it. It was DB2’s chance to really shine in the ‘who can be the most monstrous little tyke’ stakes today. Normally he takes a backseat while his elder brother runs me ragged, but today, he seized upon his chance to steal the limelight. Today, in no particular order, we have had…
1) Mounting the buggy and pushing it into our already crumbling paintwork. Repeatedly. This is not ideal at the best of times, let alone when trying to sell the house. Massive holes in the wall don’t tend to give quite the right impression, I feel.
2) Hitting the laptop and making me lose my work.
3) Eating things. Namely the cheque book, the door of the dishwasher, my flip flops and the corner of this iPad.
4) falling over and hitting his head on the door frame (cue lots of wailing)
5) trying to pull DB1’s tin spinning top out of his toy basket, pulling a bit too hard and welling it right into his head. Cue lots more wailing.
6) endlessly climbing the slate kitchen steps and then trying to come back down them by basically falling down them. Then wailing some more, before getting up and doing the exact same thing over again.
Seriously, my entire morning has basically consisted of saying ‘No, don’t do that, no, don’t do that, NO, DON’T DO THAT!!!’ whilst simultaneously doing miraculous lunges after him to either grab him mid-fall, or stop him mid-chomp. It has been fairly tiring. Add to that the stress of not being able to send over artwork for some flyers for our business (which we need by the middle of the week) after having aleady paid, and also a house seller who is refusing to take responsibility for the fact that their sodding oven doesn’t work (sooo tempted to pull out,just out of spite) and you have a fairly stressful environment.
So, it was hardly surprising, given this working environment, as to what happened next. I was on the phone to the printing company, desperately trying to find out how to send over the images for the flyers, as our graphic designer had swanned off to Las Vegas and left us with ridiculously oversized files. I got through, and immediately started bleating (in what must have been a hideously whiny tone) about my woes…to which the woman set about settling my panic with highly professional aplomb.
Just as she was offering the solution, my phone cut off. Well, at least I thought it had. To put the following events into some sort of context (and make me look a bit better), the sodding phone often has a habit of dropping calls. It is infuriating. So, my rage was in full force when I thought it had done it today. But there was no excusing the vile fountain of expletives that poured forth from my mouth as a result.
‘FAAAAHCKING PHONE!! FAAAAHCKING USELESS PIECE OF USELESS SHITE, I FAAAAHCKING HATE YOU, YOU BASTARD PHONE!’ etc etc. You get the general idea. I continued on this track for about a minute, a full minute of exuberant and unadulterated unhinged swearing, before hearing a little tinny voice through the phone speakers saying ‘Er…are you ok? Is everything alright?’
The ‘bastard’ phone had got its ultimate revenge. The phone hadn’t dropped a call at all, in fact, connection had only been briefly lost, and the poor woman the other end had copped a right earful of my obscene ranting.
How humiliating. I attempted to explain to the poor woman that it had been all the fault of the phone, but I don’t think she was convinced. In fact, I am fairly certain that she has probably written ‘psycho woman’ in big warning letters across our Pips Garden file. When I next try to order something, I bet I’m barred.