I woke up a couple of Sundays ago having metamorphosed into the lyrics of a Beautiful South song. My skin was like a Llama's doormat, my eyes were like a rhino's ashtray and my face was like a crab's bus ticket. We'd been doing the hard yards at work to get a big job out which was tiring, and Mrs A's heavily pregnant state hadn't been doing either of our sleeping patterns any favours. So going out with the boys on Saturday whilst 20 odd women performed the secret wimmins business of the baby shower was not a well constructed plan.
Freedom from work and responsibility for an afternoon ran straight to my head as did the alcohol. By the time I awoke on Sunday morning, Mrs A. having gone to work, I was in no fit state to do anything that might have required a fit state to be done in. And how in the name of the Holy Hungry Hippo 20 women can trash a house with such attention to detail beggars the imagination.
Well done and thanks to Sacha and Maria for their hard work and success in feeding and entertaining them all for the afternoon. And well done and thanks to Stuart and Mario for getting me home from the pub in one obnoxious piece.
Less than two weeks till baby time unless Mrs A's timer pings early. Exciting stuff.