Today was crazy; what with having to face a horrible fear, delivering cupcakes to school, functioning on limited sleep thanks to a pre-schooler who’s sock had come off at 4.47am and
a ten year old an eleven year old vomiting into the loo at 5.07am, ensuring the house was in a suitable state for an inspection and deciding what we could do after swimming, before being allowed back home and during that time that is simply fraught with “But I’m hungry, what’s for dinner”, I was well and truly due for a wine.
A whine as well, but a wine would have to do it.
I curled up on the couch, feet tucked in neatly under my ample buttocks, wine glass within easy reach on a stool beside me. My slippers, not needed until I was forced to get up to get someone a drink or wipe a bum, were aligned and placed in such a position as to enable me to easily slip my dainty feet into them when needed.
At which point, Godzilla danced across the room, jeted onto the couch and clipped the glass with his foot. It wobbled precariously before taunting me, lulling me into a false sense of security by stopping in the upright position.
It must have been me letting my breath out in relief that tipped it over the edge. Or the clumsy foot of a gangly eight year old.
I glanced down. The wine was not, as anticipated, all over the floor.