Last night I posted to myself on Facebook. Dear me, I wrote, could I please not make a tit of myself tomorrow. Thank you. I mean it’s not that I mind the occasional self inflicted goonery but every day, really? Could I not just limit it to weekly for instance.
But dear Emma it was not to be. so I started today at an all time low, with one dog throwing up bright yellow bones right outside the school gate and in front of a whole array of horrified mothers with toddlers in tow, who then watched on aghast as the other dog first wee’d on it and then ate it, before greeting my children (and a few others) with a rapturous licking!
And I might just have got away with that level of shame, had I not, on returning home, inadvertently (and without my knowledge) speed dialled a fellow parent at the precise moment that I let rip at the children with all the dignity of an over weight hippo having a bad day. You know the sort of rant I mean, the ones that go hand in hand in hand with red mist, middle aged hormones and a fast approaching menopause! The sort that you really don’t want anyone else to over hear.
But my day got progressively worse, as rather than say something erudite and wise to an important potential client who’s business I was hoping to win, I opened my mouth and out came one of the worst ISIS jokes I could have possibly come up with as my colleague looked on in abject horror! And then I compounded the bad impression I’d created by waffling on about the mental health of my middle age, transsexual guinea pig. It surely was one of my worst networking efforts since I slammed the phone down on one client in order to pursue a dog and threw coffee on another. Dignified and smooth I am not.
And then the shopping arrived and I was left wondering what part of me had ever thought I had a need for 6 cabbages and one very small potatoe. And people wonder why I feed my children pig’s trotters.
Ps. I couldn’t resist sending one more picture of my booby tree!