Once a month I turn into the housekeeper from hell. There’s just no talking to me. Mostly because I don’t want to talk to you.
I just want to eat cake. For breakfast. For elevenses. For dinner and supper and everytime I have to stop at goddamn traffic lights or nauny three year olds mistake me for their lady in waiting.
Nothing fits. I’m bursting out my bra and Balamory is bursting my eardrums.
Spill milk and I will cry. Spill anything else and I will send you straight to the "thinking about what you have done" mat. Tell me I live in a world of my own and it won’t take more than a hop, skip and a jump to send me hurtling back to the cosy cuggle that is my bed.
So I’ve been thinking. If it is necessary for us to endure this monthly hell, I see no reason why we should not be allowed to declare ourselves out of order for the day and indulge our urge for chocolate orange pudding eaten in our oldest vest and ratty period knickers. On a tray. Under the
Imagine that. A whole new Brocante ritual! Imagine if we really did begin to look forward to the worst few days of the month! If we kind of made them the most scrumptious days of the month if only because we declared a strike and let ourselves be ever so slightly outrageous in the supermarket: buying gateaux and shouting at dithery old fools who can’t reach things on the top shelves.
I get trolley rage. And buy fresh pasta. I buy spices I don’t need and choose wine and chocolate over necessities like dishwasher tablets. I smirk at people I don’t like and occasionally ignore the phone. I make Finley give me more snuggles than it is cool for a babba to give. I get kind of needy and whingy and make no sense. I am in short, a cow.
Because I can. Becasue pmt is torture and there has to be some compensation in this life…
Bleep! There goes the microwave. Another chocolate pudding down the hatch.
Promise I’ll be nice tomorrow.