Monday, 16 May 2011

Mon Day

The sort of day which carelessly throws out poor quality fare to me, and I give it back superior disdain.

Quite frankly, I say, Day can do better than this. I have not come this far to be disappointed by unsatisfactory nourishment. If Day does not address its failings and offer better, then I may have to deliver to it my Stern Talk.

This is the type of dog's dinner that Day provides. As you can see, quantity, no quality.

1. A moth infestation. Location uncertain, but in my boudoir, and close enough to my bed that I spend the first fifteen minutes of my alive time with a cup of French roast stupidly wondering about the flapping wildlife over my head.

Flapping wildlife is not a normal start to the day. Reflecting on that, I then seriously alarm myself with horrible imaginings that involve a part-chewed Betty Jackson. There is only one solution. Hit the furniture with shoes to stop them all having babies.

I am on to Doctor Internet before breakfast, begging for help in the event of cloth-moth invasion. Doctor Internet is disappointing. Nay, he is rubbish. One of his ideas is get in a colony of moth-eating wasps. I think my sanctuary has been invaded enough, thank you very much.

2. The children all distract me from my great purpose of scrutinising the wardrobe with a stiletto. They bicker, pointlessly, about pointless things. Like raspberries. We haven't got any raspberries. Pencils. We have 200 of those (mostly on the floor). And pasta, when I am not cooking pasta and, by the time they have finished, have no intention of cooking pasta ever again. I retaliate by becoming shouty and obnoxious and sulky and passive aggressive while hitting a chest of drawers with a pair of loafers, and it is not even lunchtime.

3. Depart house in a froth of outrage. Take up residence in garage. Start throwing away stuff in a burst of satisfying spite. If only I could eject moths and children and all conflict! Basically I am unable to handle any of those unless I am winning.

Actually, 'throwing away stuff' is a bit far. I pile up stuff so that the resultant heap looks temptingly like a bonfire. When I am discovered, the froth has subsided a bit and become self-pity and martyrdom, so I claim this is for everyone else's benefit not mine and that I am clearing out the garage so it can become a craftroom from which I will not benefit.

4. After lunch, take resentful, awkward children to park to meet lovely friends. Observe how everyone else's home educated children are socially well-balanced, delightfully happy and playful. Mine are sulky, awkward, and refuse to talk to anyone. Every fifteen minutes one of them appears at my side demanding to go home. No. We are staying. Home is a pit of moths, a stew of bicker, and now, thanks to my efforts, a pile of junk in the yard. We are staying here, in the park, where we may all be miserable but the sun is shining, the sky is blue and the grass is green.

Hmph. On consideration I think I'd better quit while I'm ahead and not explain what Day did next when it handed round the cheese and tomato pasties.