Folks Are Dumb Where I Come From…

Luxury!  Time to do two blogs’ on the same day!

I left my very clean side of town and entered clean freak hell – which was a freaking mess and smelled like a tin of petrol and a match should be tossed inside; which would be the only way to eradicate the stench.

I am counting the hours... the minutes; until I don’t have to come to this house ever again.  It is horrible and I’m sure there is a visible slump to my shoulders and a bow to my head as I walk in.  I’ve never entered and been pleasantly surprised, that’s for sure.

Even worse, Boy 2 is supposed to move tomorrow.  The Harridan will drag her arse over here and I can (without guilt), get up, have breakfast and leave them to it.  Then spend an afternoon with a movie every so often pausing to grin at the thought of her over here cracking the whip.  However, this isn’t until tomorrow and we have to get through tonight first.

I bought a bottle of red with me, which I have already begun (at 4.27 pm).  I don’t consider this alcohol; it is an anaesthetic.  A mummy’s little helper.  A mind number so that I don’t have to remember I am here. 

Even worse, Boy 2 has a girlfriend.  Now why the hell couldn’t that wait until tomorrow?  The Squeeze emailed me yesterday to say it was an ideal time to move, because he got up and showered and as he went back down the hall, he heard Boy 2 groaning and for just a second, figured he was sick.  Of course he was having sex…

In fact, the comment I received was “that girl yelps”.  And he isn’t going to bang on the door, kick it open and overarm bowl a pair of sox in there, muttering ‘shove it in her mouth’ before slamming the door and going back to his room.  I do believe I could…

But first up, I was more worried to walk in to bedlam and discover that there was not a soul in sight.  You’d never know that they were moving.  Not one box.  Nothing packed.  Dishes.  The usual utter fricking mess.  Tomorrow is looking better and better by the moment.  Better that I am not here that is.  When I last moved, two weeks prior to moving out the spare room was fool of boxes; all wrapped and packed with a label on the box stating what room it was to go to and a basic break down of what was in it.  Yes, I'm a project manager but hey, tossing things into the back seat of your car to move isn't going to cut it for me.

I was going to get them marching to and fro when they finally turned up but Kid 3 was limping and had the worst infected ingrown toe nail I’d ever seen (we are talking gag worthy) – complete with a spotty rash climbing up his foot.  He had (surprise surprise) antibiotics on the table (usual hand written instructions of wipe nose and arse that the dumb bitch gives).  Although he had only started them the evening before.

Yeah, sure.  Leave it to us to find a doctor on the weekend because you’re too tight fisted to pay for it and too stupid to listen to advice the first time and give the kids drugs to combat it.

But the foot looks shocking, bad enough that I tell the squeeze he should call casualty and they will give him a 24 hour clinic to go to (if for no other reason than to stop him turning up at the hospital [I know, that is what we do at work]).  But I say to the kid, did the doctor suggest antibiotics on the previous visit, because no one could leave you to walk around with that for 3 weeks!’

You guessed it.  Of course they did, but that moron that is the harridan didn’t want him to have it – he’s already had some last year when she nearly killed him with the chest infection.

Call me mean, but I lectured him and told the truth.  This is so much worse than it should have been and getting it cut out hurts like a bitch.  Hell, he is nearly 14 – he is going to have to stand up to the bitch at some stage.  I don’t care who or what you are; that is down right neglect!

After all that, I haven’t even asked about the maintenance, but I suspect they didn’t get to discuss that.

Too busy giving instruction on what he has to buy this week.