After a horrid night with Chippie, he managed to sleep in quite significantly and dropped off to childcare an hour later than normal.
No huge deal as I have school-aged children home with me due to school holidays. Much coffee enable me to manage discussion of expected behaviours and they were pretty good until I suggested we leave the house, thus resulting in Monkey Boy performing only half a job on the dishwasher and me having a tantrum about it and everyone being grumpy.
Eventually we leave the house, secure the new ink for the printer that I so desperately need, wander another several blocks and I discover I am still wearing the first shirt I tossed on. Yes, the one covered in food and god knows what else stains, holes in the front and some substance sitting just above my left boob which, or so it appears, cannot be removed by washing. Not even by washing it by spitting on your finger and rubbing really hard.
I convince myself, now I can be considered a ‘real’ writer, that it is just part of my creative nature and I can now be considered quirky and eccentric.
Except I am also wearing some fairly standard MumGear in the form of comfortable, faded jeans. Or, they were comfortable a few months back, and aren’t quite so comfortable now. Fortunatley, as the shirt I am wearing has stretched considerably out of shape, it