All that I appear to have achieved is that now, the dog is no longer speaking to me either.
Breakfast, this morning, was a riot.
Annabelle was glaring at me because I had inhibited her right to free expression by refusing to allow her to kick the new half-term off by wearing a red gingham school-dress that she had last worn when she, actually was, aged 5-6.
At the now ripe old age of gangly-grow-bag-nine, she looked like she was heading off for an audition for ‘Whatever Happened to Baby-Jane’, particularly since her attempts to pimp up her uniform had included a mouth to chin smear of coordinating red lippy.
The Teenager was glaring at Annabelle because, according to him, she’d turned the bathroom into a knocking shop where he had apparently had the ‘bejezus’ scared out of him, (despite his desperate attempts to convey macho-manliness, he has been scared of clowns since he was about eleven when his mate made him watch ‘It’).
The Teenager alleges that when he entered the bathroom, Baby-Jane, hoping to avoid detection of the Single-Mum kind, had hidden herself behind the shower curtain to complete her transformation.
The Teenager claims that he had initially seen a shadowy figure concealing itself in the bath. The shadowy figure, hearing the sound of head scratching and yawning had thrown back the curtain and bellowed ‘Look at meeee, I’m Katy Perry’.
The Teenager sustained a small injury to his head when he hurtled backwards out of the door, where he landed on the heap of cups and plates that he’d left on the landing for the maid to clear up.
As a result of the fact that we don’t actually have a maid, I am, as far as the Teenager is concerned, implicated in the whole shambles. This is because I didn’t leap out of bed with my duster when the crockery first made its appearance outside his bedroom door at 1am this morning (it fell on him apparently, when he knocked it from its precarious bedside perch in his sleep).
The dog is narked because of the whole ‘come-on-you-pansy-harnesses-are-fun’ incident of yesterday afternoon.
All in all, I have to agree with the Boomtown Rats, I don’t like Mondays much either.
Still, there’s always Tuesday to look forward to.