Sooooo lets moan as it's stupid o'clock and I can't sleep, all I have is four mini vegetable samosas for company, and lets face it, they just wont last. Yesterday, another busy day, my James Hetfield Explorer guitar went out the door around noon and so I thought I
should go shopping. Of course, what else would a woman do with a few hours to
kill but shop (retail therapy is good for the soul) even if it was only the supermarket...? Plus it gave my husband some quiet time to get some writing done without me barking at him. So off I tootled to the shops – Asda by the Molineux; not been there for a while, thought it was worth a look. I was right, after an hour or two I had crammed my trolley with a month's load of shopping and baby clothes (bibs and tops thanks to the never ending drool caused from teething). I get to the checkout and start to unload my trolley – only to have that awful feeling: Did I pick up my bank card? Yes, you would think I would have my bank card in my purse wouldn't you? You would be wrong, my husband keeps it... Foolish I know, but in my infinite wisdom, when he has my card I have no need for a bag or purse thus removing all responsibility from me. All I have to remember is the baby, and so far 'baby brain', which really does exist, or I have just dyed my hair far too many times and the chemicals have taken effect. So on checking my purse I had £30 in cash and no card. I huffed and puffed and threw items back into my trolley and stormed off down a quiet aisle to ring my husband and check I had left the card at home; of course I had. I just needed to bellow at someone; wrong someone. His come backs are usually far quicker than mine (at the moment), so then I huffed and puffed some more and not so promptly emptied out half the contents of the trolley in order to be able to get the 'essentials' with the cash I had on me. How flipping infuriating. I think I was more annoyed that my husband could not get on my motorbike, ride down to me and hand me the card grrrrrr. It's riding lessons and 'L' plates for him shortly I feel.
Any way, after the furore I get home (only to be laughed at) and start mixing up a lemon sponge for a friend's party tonight and a Madeira for a Halloween cake I’m working on. Lemon sponge, came out lovely as always, Madeira – well, I put it in a pudding bowl didn't I, for it to form the shape I wanted, I tested it before I took it out the oven, skewered in several places, it seemed fine. Once cooled I turned it out onto my wire rack, only to have the middle pour out like a volcano, it wasn't cooked at all, how ridiculous, how did I not see that... I blame the hair dye, I've been red for so long, my brain is now peroxide blonde. Anyhow, second cake mixed and cooled, came out fine.
Oooh better make my rant quick, the samosas have gone and my cup of tea is running on empty, which means I had better do something a little more constructive with my early start and decorate a cake... So the final thing to round off my irritating day was being pooped on. Yes, my son, sat on my lap, made some almighty toe curling noises from his nethers only for me to feel a touch damp. I lift him, I see his trousers appear wet, as do mine, I go to change him to find some rather impressive nappy-matter running down his leg... which ended up smeared into his sock and at point of nappy change, on my husbands side of the bed. Ah well, at least I could take my trousers off.... not changed the bed linen yet, it's rather hectic being a
mother.
should go shopping. Of course, what else would a woman do with a few hours to
kill but shop (retail therapy is good for the soul) even if it was only the supermarket...? Plus it gave my husband some quiet time to get some writing done without me barking at him. So off I tootled to the shops – Asda by the Molineux; not been there for a while, thought it was worth a look. I was right, after an hour or two I had crammed my trolley with a month's load of shopping and baby clothes (bibs and tops thanks to the never ending drool caused from teething). I get to the checkout and start to unload my trolley – only to have that awful feeling: Did I pick up my bank card? Yes, you would think I would have my bank card in my purse wouldn't you? You would be wrong, my husband keeps it... Foolish I know, but in my infinite wisdom, when he has my card I have no need for a bag or purse thus removing all responsibility from me. All I have to remember is the baby, and so far 'baby brain', which really does exist, or I have just dyed my hair far too many times and the chemicals have taken effect. So on checking my purse I had £30 in cash and no card. I huffed and puffed and threw items back into my trolley and stormed off down a quiet aisle to ring my husband and check I had left the card at home; of course I had. I just needed to bellow at someone; wrong someone. His come backs are usually far quicker than mine (at the moment), so then I huffed and puffed some more and not so promptly emptied out half the contents of the trolley in order to be able to get the 'essentials' with the cash I had on me. How flipping infuriating. I think I was more annoyed that my husband could not get on my motorbike, ride down to me and hand me the card grrrrrr. It's riding lessons and 'L' plates for him shortly I feel.
Any way, after the furore I get home (only to be laughed at) and start mixing up a lemon sponge for a friend's party tonight and a Madeira for a Halloween cake I’m working on. Lemon sponge, came out lovely as always, Madeira – well, I put it in a pudding bowl didn't I, for it to form the shape I wanted, I tested it before I took it out the oven, skewered in several places, it seemed fine. Once cooled I turned it out onto my wire rack, only to have the middle pour out like a volcano, it wasn't cooked at all, how ridiculous, how did I not see that... I blame the hair dye, I've been red for so long, my brain is now peroxide blonde. Anyhow, second cake mixed and cooled, came out fine.
Oooh better make my rant quick, the samosas have gone and my cup of tea is running on empty, which means I had better do something a little more constructive with my early start and decorate a cake... So the final thing to round off my irritating day was being pooped on. Yes, my son, sat on my lap, made some almighty toe curling noises from his nethers only for me to feel a touch damp. I lift him, I see his trousers appear wet, as do mine, I go to change him to find some rather impressive nappy-matter running down his leg... which ended up smeared into his sock and at point of nappy change, on my husbands side of the bed. Ah well, at least I could take my trousers off.... not changed the bed linen yet, it's rather hectic being a
mother.
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