Brainfreeze

This week I booked a few days off work. I had big ideas about what I was going to get done with my few days off work. they were a bit vague but they definately included making my house immculate, coming up with a solution to the chronic storage issue that means that most of the time our house looks like some sort of warehouse, possibly painting some rooms, getting the dog into top condition and writing something inspirational that will ensure I can give up work and live off the proceeds. What have I acheived? Bugger all.

The first day is, as everyone knows, a day of rest. You sit around doing doodly squit and wondering why none of your neighbours seem to have a job. The grumpy looking woman across the road was still in her dressing gown at 2pm, the lazy slut. And she spent ALL day on the phone. Maybe I'm being hasty in my assessment of her as an idle trollop who is too lazy to get a job and too indolent ot even get dressed before the sun sets. Perhaps she is running an adult chatline from her front room and the grubby grey dressing gown helps her to feel in character. I still can't think of an explanation for the bizaare and alarming series of bangs and crashes eminating from next door but they aren't just a daytime thing, that's permanent. I have taken to wandering around muttering "detached house, detached house" to myself like a mantra. Still, at least the little shits have stopped posting the gravel from our driveway through our letterbox because that was really beginning to get on my nerves. As was the smaller brat's habit of smacking the side of my car with a plastic fucking light sabre.

Then I got sucked into daytime TV, not because there's anything interesting on but because I was fascinated by how awful it is. The BBC is wall to wall house buying programmes. I'm not being funny but if you have a budget of £750 000 why the hell do you need the assistance of the smug faced tv presenter to find a house in the country? Most rural dwellers manage to find a house for less than a third of that all by themselves. And they always spend half the programme whining about how they don't like period features, they want exactly the same new built house they have in Essex but in the middle of a field. Unbearable. If you don't fancy that there's always The Jeremy Kyle Show. For anyone who hasn't seen it, it's like Jerry Springer but with the cream of British trailer trash. There's always some trashy 17 year old who is pregnant with her third child and can't work out which one of the three unemployable, buck toothed, half witted drug addicts she's onstage with is the father. I mean really, condom packets even have pictures on them, how fucking hard can it be to work out which bit of the anatomy you put it on? It's riveting and also rather depressing to think that week after week the producers of this show manage to find yet more human detritus to drag out onstage for the amusement and horror of the middle classes, a bit like in Victorian times when the rich people used to go to gawp at the lunatics in Bedlam or have a day trip to the slums of Whitechapel to marvel at the sorry state of the inhabitants. It's surprising how little society changes, the technology may be different but the people are the same.

By the time I realised I'd done nothing useful except clean the house and have a bloke round to quote me the GDP of Germany for fitting some wardrobes my days off had gone and I'm back at work tomorrow. I think it would be best if I never become a housewife, I suspect I wouldn't be very good at it.

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