Chippie still not great, although the fever has gone.
It has been replaced with a disgustingly snotty nose and the dry cough substituted for a disgusting mucousy one. Nice.
Step mother offered the washing machine for our dirty laundry. What the heck? I’m no holidays. And despite having packed enough (ok, more than enough, but it’s a disorder, I can’t help it) for our trip, I do some anyway, and drag in the “washing” suitcase that we’d intended to leave in the car.
Now well and truly into holiday mode, ie Grumpy happy to explore or sit doing very little, and I’m busting to go shopping, I talk Monkey Boy into coming for a walk with me for a latte and to check out the local book shop. I convinced him by saying that I wanted to spend time with him which I haven’t done since before Godzilla was born.
The book shop had none of the books he liked or wanted, and his open-to-trying-new-things demeanour meant he flat our refused all suggestions for similarly themed books about bums and underpants. So we left.
By passed several cafes until we settled on one that looked like it was run from the old people’s home or the elderly ladies auxillary, perhaps. Served up old lady version of a latte and iced chocolate, whilst Monkey Boy complained about lack of kids and that everyone in the town either had “bits of grey in their hair, had no hair at all or their hair is all grey all over”. He had a point. At least there was a primary school in the are. There was no one my age!
Popped into the supermarket to grab some provisions for lunch before heading home, when, standing amongst elderly men, Monkey Boy, bored stupid – it’s the only reason I can think of why he then said what he did; that he was stupid! – says “are you pregnant?”
“No!” I replied, horrified.
“You are! You’re pregnant!”
“I’m not pregnant.”
He puts a hand on my belly, and one on my back, and bounces around excitedly and yells “You are pregnant! Yes you are you are!”
“I’m not bloody pregnant ok! I’m just really FAT!” and was only thwarted in my attempts to stomp off in a sulk by slow old men and zimmer frames in my way.
Monkey Boy then proceeded to alleviate his boredom by pinching bits of flesh around my abdomen and saying “squish squish” then following me around the supermarket doing same to my bum.
Vow to never have children again as long as I have lives.
Make it home, have lunch (despite, or because of, my now depressed state) and Monkey Boy talks Grumpy into heading back to the bookshop to purchase some books.
I bet he didn’t “squished” or loudly accused of being pregnant. And he looks it! Humph.
I want to go on holiday with a nice family!