Today has just been one of those days where I wanted to crawl back under the bed covers and stay there.
Not because the boredom I’m supposed to be suffering for not having a job has finally set it, or because I could do with a really good nap (although I do love a really good nap). And not even because I’m in some kind of mental collapse where I don’t want to do anything.
I just got fed up of everything going wrong.
Firstly, I cut myself while shaving. Nothing exciting there. It’s not an unusual occurrence. It happens. A ritualistic blood letting to satisfy the stubble gods and to make your towel look like you’ve killed someone is par for the male grooming course.
Not when you, somehow, catch a part of your ear a razor has no business being near, though. Then it’s just some kind of sign that the day isn’t going to go as you’d hoped.
Secondly, I kicked a cup of coffee across the floor. It wasn’t full, but it wasn’t empty either. It was cold. And it was wet. And despite a lot of scrubbing, it’s still evident. So tomorrow I shall tackle it again. Spilling coffee on a carpet – or kicking it across the carpet, in this case – lets you feel first-hand what it must have been like for Lady Macbeth with her “out damn spot” malarky.
Thirdly, I made a yorkshire pudding that would not leave its tin except in pieces.
Fourthly, I poured water – from a soaking baking tray – all over the kitchen floor.
And then I burnt myself on the oven door.
Today can do one.
If tomorrow’s no better, I’m off to find me a gypsy woman selling heather…