Today, half mangled by lack of sleep, I've walked into doors, tripped up stairs, fallen over dogs - I'm black and blue and am sure that Marjorie Stewart (collecting for Help the Aged "have you got anything old you don't want any more dear?" - I was half tempted to say "my mother in law") is convinced I'm a battered wife. "That looks sore dear" she said as she appraised by already-turning-yellow bruise on my upper arm. I sensed she was about to call for Frank (retired policeman just itching to uncover a crime on The Avenue - more about the neighbourhood watch in another post) so I hastened inside the house and flopped onto the stairs, neatly catching my left elbow on the bannister rail. My expletives woke the dogs up. I'm at that tired stage where tears are always hovering close by. Mac refused to eat his shepherd's pie this evening (all will become clear later) and instead of negotiating calmly and sensibly as I would normally do I had to call David in to deal with "his son" while I snivelled and crashed around the kitchen feeling unloved and melancholy.
But now that I've got that lot off my chest, I'm off to bed. David promised me, as I logged on ten minutes agoe, that he had a sure fire way to help me fall asleep. This was accompanied by a lewd wink and a suggestive hip waggle. As I can hear him snoring from down here I'm guessing I shall be wrestling with my night demons alone again.