Sunday shitty Sunday

So, the kids are in the shower, screaming like fiends as my husband cajoles them to wash their hair. My seven year old daughter has started singing straight down her nose, like one of those R&B singers, except she sounds tone deaf with collapsed nasal cartilage. My almost five year old son is just shrieking because he can. I am down here, ensconsed in mess and trainers and magic markers, knowing that I can only put off cleaning up the kitchen for so long.


I have been writing this weekend. I've written a novel for 8-12 year olds. So the kids have dirty undercrackers and the fridge is badly stocked. The carpets are looking hairy and there is tumble weed in the corners of rooms with hard flooring. Sod it. Us mummies spread ourselves too thinly and on top of that, I'm 38. When the horrormoans come each month, they are rampaging. Today is Sunday. I have about a week until I'm on. So this week, everyone had better watch out. I make my monthly transition from sanguine and maternal to homicidal maniac.


Sunday, shitty Sunday. Work in the morning. I have the pleasure of working in basement offices in a grim, windowless corner of a damp, old building. Lucky me. There is only one toilet and everyone manages to miss the hole and pee on the seat. Yummy. But that's OK because it's not Monday yet and I've begun the 20 day count-down to my holiday. I've bought an extra big suitcase. For once, I will do more than just well-scrub and throw anything on. I will coiff and groom myself into perfectly co-ordinated splendour. I will wear an ill-fitting bikini and flash my puckered, stretchy-marked bits and I will willingly let fat German men check out my varicose veined legs.

I am beginning this blog in the hope that it will resonate with other down-trodden souls who have hopes, dreams, ambitions, kids, partners and slightly furry food in the back of the fridge. Let's see what Moaning Monday brings...