Yes, I know last week I said I was going to tell you about my birthday. But the moment has passed. It’s over. Gone. Done and dusted. Kaput. I am well and truly 33 years old now – so let’s just forget about the day it happened. Let’s also forget about how I only blogged once last week. I was TIRED you guys. I mean, I’m 33. No spring chicken – whatever a spring chicken is. (At least it’s probably slimmer than a winter chicken, those lazy, pie-and-mash-eating bastards). Instead, I shall swiftly move on from this appallingly rambling introduction to Monday’s blog post, and tell you in eloquent and articulate detail about my mother-daughter day with Tiggy last week (Tiggy being my daughter. By which I mean, my dog.) Just don’t hold me to the eloquent and articulate bit, ok?
There’s no other way to say this: Yesterday, I felt completely wretched. Not a little bit discombobulated, or run-of the mill unhappy or mildly depressed, but truly wretched, in the most conspicuous-wailing, red-eyed-and-sodden-faced kind of way.
If you know me at all, you’ll know I’m a crazy dog lady.