Phone rings at 6.11am.
“Sorry, I hope we didn’t wake you?”
Well, you did. But it’s ok, I was woken at 3.23 and again at 5.37 and a few minutes earlier by the paper being hurled against the window.
It’s scheduled for Swear O’Clock, so all should be good. I’ll just lsock myself in the wardrobe. Again.
Another call from a current affairs program who want to come and film me doing all the morningy stuff. They turn up at half past Swear O’Clock, and getting into Insane O’Clock, involving lots of yelling about shoe putting on and bag getting and the like.
Course, I’ve only managed to get half dressed, clean jeans on the line, and … euwww … still slightly wet. No time to worry, and I pull them on.
Again, friends required so do a ring around and get some. No time for coffee. Or wine.
Several additional radio interviews were conducted in between walking home and chatting with the producer of the show.
Absolutely exhausted by the time they all left. And just in time for Chippie to wake after a 23 minute sleep and refuse to settle. Why is it they function like that?
And which part of