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Yesterday was a strange day, I realised in the shower that I’m about 2 cinnamon bagels and an ovarian cyst away from having to wash with a sponge on a stick.  This is of course a slight exaggeration, but you get the idea.
I’m feeling a bit crap overall, and not Crap in an ‘I’ve not done the housework and I’ve glued his shoes together’ kinda way- more just ‘a bit glum.’  Husband deserted me again this morning and went to work.  I did tell him that I may get dizzy from all the loneliness, fall down the stairs, impale myself on a golfing umbrella and die, but he left anyway.
I decide early on that keeping busy is the only way to stave off the boredom, so I set about ironing and planning for World Domination.  The ironing was actually easier than the plans for domination, which surpised me as I’m shit at doing shirts.  I also decide to clean out the understairs cupboard and am amazed to discover how much brown paper and parcel tape is lurking behind the coats- it’s left over from my attempt at becoming an eBay magnate, which like so many of my projects, never materialised.
Husband rings about midday to check how I am.
‘I’m fine thanks flower pots, I’m not dead which is good, because you would probably be charged with murder by neglect if I was.’
‘Going to work isn’t classed as neglect though really, is it?’
‘Yes. It is actually.  The judge would throw the book at you- leaving your defenceless wife home alone where anything could happen- there’s probably a paedophile looking for a little whipper snapper like me at this very moment.’
‘You’re mental.  You’re not really what they look for babe- they tend to go for smaller younger people.’ He says
‘I can’t believe you just said that- so I’m old and fat now am I? I’m only 28, I’m hardly Janice Dickinson and you know I’m sensitive about my weight!’
‘You know what I mean, shut up will you?’ back peddles Husband.
‘So I’m old, fat and you don’t want to talk to me, fine, I’m so glad you phoned.’
‘Don’t start, what do you want for dinner tonight, I’ll pick something up.’
‘I’m not eating, I’m too fat. I’m going now’
‘Babe….’
The boredom today is as thick as the dust my exercise bike and I am forced to take drastic action to prevent tedium induced insanity (this is a very real problem and I am shocked by the lack of public awareness.) Even the Xbox isn’t holding my interest, and I love my Xbox so much that if I had a disk shaped penis I’d bum it.
Thankfully, being ingenious, I hit upon a plan.  Unfortunately the plan involves venturing back to the Post Office.
I don’t know about you, but for me, the worse part of doing the laundry is putting it away- I’m not very good at carry things and walking on stairs without falling.  This is why I’m so pleased with my solution.
It’s amazing how many individual items of clothing a 30 year old man can accumulate over the years.  Because they’re usually spread between drawers, wardrobes and washing baskets, you never really get an idea of just how much there is.
It cost £61.85p to post all his clothes back to him, I held the Post Office tutters up for ten minutes before they eventually opened up another window for them.  I know this money could have been put to better use- especially considering that keeping the dog in fillet steak isn’t cheap. I think you’ll agree it’s worth it though- he did call me fat after all.
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