After a truly horrible morning, confronted with my own ageing process (it being quite bad) which brings forth depressing thoughts about my impending 40th b day, that parole blokes seem to be more cheerful than allegedly free me, and that in Ireland, ten days means whatever the hell we like cause we’re the passport office, I decided to once again treat myself to a scone from the supermarket.
This was all fine until I spotted the hag from the post office, the invader of my personal space, breathing all over the scone display!!!!!
She shuffled off, probably to spread her misery vibes even further, and I made sure to take one from the bottom, and the back.
Luckily myself and Lilsister have decided that today is fat day, and are meeting to inhale burgers and chips later. Our fitness routine (that meaning, the one time we went for a walk and Lilsister refused to run) has been interrupted because Lilsister has no trainers to, em, train in. They will be purchased this week, we will eat burgers, and then next week we are boxercising. It begins.
Breathe on that, biddy.