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On Saturday our mates came over. I got shit-faced.
Husband was up in the garage looking for more beer when my friend informed me she’d had a message saying I’d won the award for Top Blogger on  I am absolutely landed- these are the people running a Welsh festival in L.A, on Hollywood Boulevard no less.  My Award West Coast Eistedfodd 2011
Husband comes back in just as I’m telling my friend to open another bottle for us to celebrate.

‘Celebrate what?’ He asks.

I don’t know what came over me at this moment, what was going through my mind, what piss taking little funster possessed me to say it, but I heard myself telling him…

‘It was going to be a surprise, but I got a job.’

Ah for fuck’s sakes. Why didn’t I just say I was pregnant or something? I of course haven’t got a job.
Before you get all Jeremy Kyle, I don’t sit here and claim benefits while drinking coffee and writing about gluing my Husband’s shoes together; I pay council tax and I’m not on the dole.  I just don’t have a job.  It’s not like I’m not applying though, I’m even following a recruitment agency on Twitter:

Cloudninerec steve ward
Senior social media strategist £55-65k, Londonhttp:#############

crapwife crap wife
@cloudninerec Is it worth applying with a couple of GCSEs and a certificate in food hygiene that I bought off a Harvester grill chef?

Cloudninerec steve ward
@crapwife Sadly probably not, and oh – you wasted your money on the food & hygiene certificate… 😉

crapwife crap wife
@cloudninerec Hi Steve- just to let you know I’ve swapped my food hygiene for a City and Guilds in reflexology- does this change anything?

He said no, there’s just nothing out there for me at the moment.
I was very ill on Sunday.  It would seem that sometime during the course of the evening I contracted MRSA.  My first clue about this came when I woke to find my tongue had been stuck to my pillow. This is not, as Husband suggested, red wine dehydration.  It seems that pillowcases with an above 600 thread count act as a Velcro when in contact with the tongue.  I tell Husband to find me the phone number for Egypt’s cotton Minister so that I can complain.
Being Mother’s Day we go visiting.  My Grandparents have just returned from Amsterdam and they have bought me presents. I am very pleased with the Delft ashtray and 100 fags, less so with the ball of garlic cheese that spent 18 hours in Nanny’s handbag on the return journey.
Having a fag with my Grandparents is one of life’s little pleasures, never before on the planet have two people managed to tangle so much randomness into a ball and call it conversation.  They are possibly the funniest people I know. They make me feel like a kid- even at 28 my Nanna tries to dress me and do my hair.
Though careful not to mention it in front of the Husband, they are avidly following the blog.  I don’t know what my Nanna thinks blog means, but it’s her new favourite word. She phoned me last week to ask me to ‘blog’ her over a photo of the garden, and then told me she was going to have a ‘blog’ on the online bingo before dinner.
My Grandfather has said that I’m not allowed to quote anything they say without paying them royalties, but I’m hoping they’ll be too busy trying to buy a ‘blog’ Argos to read this.
Also following the blog are my parents, who arrive shortly after we do.  Unfortunately, I have to distance myself from my mother today as once again as she looks stunning and next to her I look like a Kosovan Refugee who ate a 4×4. My mother was born in 1961 which is the same year as the Berlin wall was built.  She stopped aging in 1989, which is coincidentally when it came down.  I don’t mind being seen next to my Dad, (or Silver Fox as we call him) next to him my grey hairs are barely noticeable .
After discovering that my Uncle (who lives opposite) is out shopping and moulding the builder’s sand on his driveway into a large penis, we head home.
Now I think about it, this was definitely a mistake. The Uncle in question is a nightmare- this is a man who once used a forklift truck to put someone’s mini in a skip because they stuck a key to his Diahatsu and called it a Noddy car.  Compared to him I’m an amateur.  He’s vowed to get me back and I spent the rest of my day drawing up a battle plan just in case he does.
The night-time challenges resumed last night.

‘If you want to get into bed you have to eat the whole ball of garlic cheese.’

We like garlic and we like cheese(we’ve even been known to like the two together) but this cheese is like nothing I’ve encountered- if I’d have had the foresight to post it to Edward Cullen, there wouldn’t have been a Twilight series.
Husband hasn’t gone to work this morning and I feel a little bit guilty.  He was up all night throwing up after eating the cheese and he looks like shit today.
He finally managed to sleep around 4am, shattered and feeling very sorry for himself.  This is why is hasn’t spoken to me since 7.15am, which is when the Postman woke him up to delivery his clothes.


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