In typical Working Out My Plans For The Day, I settle into working around it all (changed since last week, and drastically changed from what I was advised only two days ago) Grumpy Pants walks in the door after the shift he got yesterday, and the same one he told me he wouldn’t be home till 9.00p.m. tonight after working.
Sorted. Now have a vague idea of what I’m doing.
I even remember to make the booking I need to make, and the appointment with the optometrist that I’ve been going to make for the last two years.
I even manage to get quite a few things done, when the phone rings. Author Andy Griffiths is coming to our local library. That was the booking I remembered to make earlier. The library have called and would like some of those kids who have booked to come on down to the library to have a photo taken for the local paper. I say yes, as it kills a bit of the post school time.
(Completely forgetting I have strongly advised, a.k.a. demanded, that Monkey Boy and Godizlla finish their damned science projects because I’m sick of the fuckers hanging over my head. Especially as I now have an Olympics project making it’s way around the kitchen table and trying to avoid collecting a variety of food stains.)
Chippie is beyond tired and, therefore, beyond comprehension, logic and tolerance. He curls up in his pram as we make our way along a rather busy road to our destination. Despite my trust in them, and that they ride to school every day, more often than not without parental supervision, they insist on stopping at every single road and waiting for me.
I, on the other hand, just want to keep moving, as I can’t recall how long this walk takes … so am at the “come on, come on, move it!” stage and my breath is shortening, not due to the speed I’m walking, but the fear we may be late.
Their constant stopping means I have to stop as well, increasing anxiety levels and, well, they’re just getting in my damned way. I assure them it’s perfectly ok to keep moving and to wait for me at the very end. Be safe. Etc.
Several streets on, and at the extraordinarily busy intersection, they have stopped and waited. Nice work.
“Wow, you got here quick, Mum,” observes Monkey Boy.
“Yes, that’s because I’m not faffing about,” is my reply.
“You’re … you’re like a