Flat pack chat

And so my Saturday just gone was pretty similar to the one that went before, although slightly less evil I might admit.

I trekked down the motorway (AGAIN) with the mother of all hangovers (AGAIN) and dragged my feet into the hell that is that bastard Ikea (AGAIN) on a Saturday.
Due to my vegetative remedial state the Saturday before, I had bought the wrong bed slats. Arse.

I did manage to find some junk food to follow the fucker of a mission however, which mildly eased my situation. Then promptly and predictably made me feel sick. Standard.

The weekend camping was very good indeed although there was a mistral blowing at night which increased in severity last night. The smug mother and smug sister were all wrapped up in the gently rocking caravan with a fan on to circulate the stifling air temperature.

Myself and my friend on the other hand, were battling it out in the awning whilst lines snapped, tent pegs flew out, poles buckled and the brown dust stuck to our sweaty foreheads.
A pretty terrible nights sleep by all accounts.

I had not expected such discomfort and extreme elements of a July weekend in the south of France. I shall be retiring early this evening. In a bed. In a flat. With a fan.

Thanx

And then the boss just came over and congratulated me for the prickly pear handling and the smarting eases.

I just hope he doesn't know about the wobbly voice incident....

Smarting

Tears have pricked the eyes twice in the last twelve hours. I have felt hurt, shocked and angry on both occasions.
The world can be so evil at times, or perhaps I have a touch of PMT.

When the ex texted the words 'You'll never change' last night, he did not mean this is a good way. Although he may well be right, which isn't necessarily a bad thing, to hear it from him was infuriating.
My eyes started to sting as I teetered on the edge of eye leakage. Of course it hurt, but it was also the humiliation that he could still have that effect.

When an irate client called this morning for a good old rant, I was expecting the torrent of abuse and untruths from this prickly pear. I was calm but firm yet his inability to let me have a word in edge ways was incredibly frustrating.
My opinion was not to be heard and when it was, he was up for a fight on every word.

As I put the phone down, my voice wobbled and I had to disappear to the toilets for some deep breaths, a quick snivel and a harsh word with myself.

The feeling of having been stung on the inside and the out seemingly lasts for hours.
I am sure it will subside by home time.

Sogging

I woke up at 5.30am this morning to the sound of water. I silently congratulated myself on the 5 1/2 hours of solid sleep I had had and then snuggled down (not strictly true as the temperature is so hot at the moment that one only needs a sheet and I'm sure snuggling is strictly reserved for winter and duvets...) to try and get some more.
After several minutes I realised that was a very long wee my guest seemed to be having, and eventually got up to see if she was setting some kind of world record I should be aware of.

Except the running water wasn't coming from her but the ceiling.

I knocked on my neighbours door above to no avail but heard the sound of running water.
I eventually roused my next door neighbour with the spare keys and we entered the soggy apartment, which was swimming under a good inch of water. Over 70 square metres, that is a significant amount of wet.

When he started to bail the water into a bucket with a dustpan I, as any good neighbour would, trudged downstairs to get similar equipment.

An hour later, the worst of it was up and we opened up the apartment to let the rest dry out. The owners have a 1000 mile drive to cut their holiday short today.

I, on the other hand, will need to replace all my shoes which were underneath the leak. It is never a chore to replace one's shoes.....I'm not so sure they'll feel the same about their Persian rugs.

Weak end

What a shocker. Friday night was reasonably drunken. Three crying girls at various points of the evening, one ranting Irish girl, a sobbing Welsh one and a lurking Mum to be entertained to boot.
The night ended well with the current fave chap joining me in the pub. We chatted lots, laughed a bit, I took the piss out of him a great deal and then we walked home together around 4.30am.

Dearest Mother woke me at 8am the following morning, talking at the top of her voice into her mobile phone....as only mothers can. She was on the phone to my sister, who happened to be in northern France, and it was like she was talking loud enough so that my sister might hear.
Being virtually talentless at sleeping I knew that was it. I was up. I was fuming.

I could barely look at her let alone talk to her and stormed out the flat with my head pounding and my mum knowing better than to ask questions.

I had the day from hell ahead.

After driving 2 hours down the coast and battling with a Saturday Ikea with a hangover, I can honestly say the will to live was weak. Child killing was high on my mental checklist.
Another half an hours drive and I found mum calmly sipping a cold lemonade at the campsite. Although my foul mood had subsided, I can honestly say that I would rather have poked myself repeatedly in the eye than spend the next two hours setting up mum's caravan awning in 30 degree heat.

Much much later, normal balance was restored following my weekend standard fare of salad, chips and a lot of wine.

Told off...

So my mum is here for a month. It is day 2. I love her muchly and on Saturday, she is going down the coast for 3 weeks. I shall be joining her at weekends but it means the week will be mum-free.

We are very similar you see. Too similar in fact.

I was having a few drinks last night with the green-eyed-cheeky-chappy-ski-instructor-with-dimples. I texted mum at 8pm to say dinner would be late and then phoned at 9 to say I wouldn't be long.

She was cross. She said 'You could have let me know' in an upset mum voice. But 'I did', I replied in whiny child tones.

So that was me, age 30, reprimanded for being late for dinner. Not good.

I blame her mostly for saying on my 30th birthday that I should do whatever I want in life. She obviously didn't mean it.
And although she is not yet whinging about her lack of grandchildren (I need a boyfriend first), she has to understand that in order for this to ever happen, I must be late for dinner due to sitting drinking with green-eyed-cheeky-chappy-ski-instructors-with-dimples. And the like.

Grrrrr

I am tired, bored and grumpy. Boo.

Bored of going out, too bored to stay in, bored at work.

Tired despite two good nights sleep after 10 of very little. If you can't catch up on lost sleep, then why am I still tired?

Grumpy just because. Probably Tuesday blues...probably tiredness...probably boredom.

Whinge, whinge, whinge.

Grrr.