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You know, the real bitch kind of day that I seem to have a lot of, when the proverbial shit hits the fan so hard and fast you haven’t even had time to rub the fairy shit out of your eyes, let alone imbibe your first coffee before your phone rings. At 6.30am, no less, and after a horrible night of zero sleep due to the selfishness of one of our entitled teenagers who still believes he has the right to wake his parents up in the middle of a work night because he has the brain capabilities of a fly and missed the last bus home.

 

And yes, I did answer my phone, because no matter how much I hated him at that moment, I am his mum. But do you know how hard it is to speak at 1.30am when you have to ignore the condemnatory ‘you’re a pushover’ accusations from your husband at the same time as trying to persuade a very nice cab driver to bring the drunken, prodigal son home and that yes, you promise again and again, you will pay for it?

 

A conversation that is followed quickly by a heated argument in bed of the bitterest parental proportions about what your partner calls a ‘sickness’ ie. a ‘mother’s love’ for over-enabling our son, because he thought I should make him spend the night in George St with the homeless as a lesson in taking responsibility – Did you know that we were still living in the Victorian era? Me neither – and so disgusted was I by his attitude, it was impossible to sleep with such a heartless, callous pig afterwards and I ended up on the sofa.

 

Why do I always end up on the sofa?

 

Then I faced further withering looks of accusation hurtled expertly my way via NC somewhere around 7.30am for all the noise I’d made through the night after I’d already spent an hour loudly appeasing my client on the phone about an issue that I hadn’t been able to warn him about the previous night because he was on a night flight, with, (it turns out), a child who chucked up for most of the journey

 

The acoustics are pretty spectacular in our little semi, in fact almost on a par with the Opera House. The boards echo and vibrate in unison as we’ve discovered many a time via Kurt’s music, which even at the heavily fought for/agreed volume is unbearable most of the time, added to which my voice tends to go up at least an octave when I’m stressed.

 

And breathe…

 

And I’d sent the old man to Coventry at around 2am, somewhere between him refusing to pay the taxi on some archaic parenting principle – or because he is perfect – and then because he proceeded to toss and turn in the bed for the next hour when he couldn’t get back to sleep, which meant I was forced to retreat the sofa.

 

We really must find a location for another bed in this house because what with my snoring and the old man’s tics when he can’t sleep, we obviously have no future in the same bed, and the leather sofa really does become rather sticky when you’re a stressed, menopausal very sweaty female.

Which is how I was reminded of the best five therapies for a really shite day:

1. This enormous brownie at Harvey Norman helped.

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2. And then this little someone who genuinely loves me unconditionally was waiting excitedly to pounce on me and smother me in dog saliva when I came home.

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3. Then I pounded the local pavements to this  – the main reason I have to answer client calls at 6.30am to help pay for such an inflated rent for the noisiest, coldest house in Australia.

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4. Had one of these somewhere in between, and even remembered this time that the floor is a health and safety hazard when wet.

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5. And finally this, my trusty companion that never lets me down in a crisis or when everyone else is out to get me.

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