Yukkety Pie.


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Oh Lordy, some days are just rubbish. Our window frame has sprung a leak and it is raining in the living room. The only car keys we have to the hire car (after I crashed ours!) have gone missing and Master Finley denies all knowledge of there whereabouts with a strange smile on his scrumptious face.  Mark is seething. I have period pain. And I swear there isn’t a single square of chocalate in the whole house, except for that in my Christmas baskets to which I am pretending does not exist…

So am I flustered? Crawling the walls? Turning the house upside down in a frantic search for the keys, in pink wellys and a Sou’wester? Nope. I am sitting in a puddle in my nightie, wrapping scrumptious little gifts for my polka dotters and considering eating the cooking chocolate in the pantry…

This is officially called being past caring. 

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