Things were looking a little ominous when I arose from Under The Doona, where I much preferred to be, poured myself a MUG and sat down at my desk.
There was my bra, sitting on my diary.
I have no idea how or why, but signs like this feeling me a little edgy.
My brain was, at that point, capable only of a few small things at a time. Listening to an incessant “Can I play my iPod?” on repeat was not helping.
I thought of every possible thing I could think of to easily explain away my “No, not now” because the usual “I think you’ve spent enough time on it already” apparently is “not an answer”.
Nor is “Because I said so” even if it is the only thing that comes to mind at the time.
So they were sent off to do stuff in the kitchen. Like the jobs they’re paid to do and that I tell them every morning and afternoon and evening that I don’t want to have to remind them because a) it’s their job that they’re paid to do and b)