After a crappy morning filled with chores and errands, the afternoon obviously took a look at me, and quietly said “hold my pint”.
While putting clothes away (because I seem to do all the damn chores around here), something itched on my foot. I looked down, and saw a flea. Fuck.
An hour later, I have hoovered the bedroom, the stairs, the landing, and the study. I will go and gas the little f*ckers in a minute with insect spray.
Of course hoovering was made more difficult by an entire family that think putting something away is “putting it somewhere not in plain view” – like the bedroom floor, or the landing floor, or the edge of the stairs. I had to go to the attic four times with arms full of assorted junk. I also made three trips out to the rubbish bins – which nobody had brought back down the drive, even though they moved them to get the car out.
I’m going to go get a drink from the fridge. Then I have to start cooking f*cking dinner. And then wash up after every f*cking body.
Not happy.
