Aww. It’s our wedding anniversary.
11 years and I have, yet again, not been organised enough to buy him a gift or even know what the deal is for 11 years. Nor can I convince myself “it’s ok, he won’t remember” because I know damn well he will. He’s like that.
He has organised a picnic, and organised for me to make him a bang up breakfast, which I do because I am nice. And haven’t brought him a present or card.
Put eggs in for poaching, tomato under the grill, retreive the spinach for sauteeing in lemon pepper and pour half a MUG of coffee into the overhead cupboard containing clean coffee mugs. Or, they were until I poured coffee into where they were housed. I also go the microwave and everything on top of it, the wall behind the microwave, the bench, everythign on the bench, in the underbench cupboard and a few things inside it, and the floor.
I did well.
Also, I am very tired and have my brain full of things like what to do for Monkey Boy’s birthday which is just under a month away and neither he nor I can decide what to do. It’s that case of “but if we do this, then we’ll miss out on that” vicious circle until our heads explode because we can’t do everything, even though we’d like to.
Make a salad for the picnic, coordinate the unstacking and restacking of the dishwasher by various offspring and eventually head out the door. Arrive in Daylesford where we are suitably and standardly non-prepared for the weather, eat, prevent Monkey Boy from entering then venturing the length of