Breathe, breathe, breathe

I had the most wretched day yesterday. Am I the girl who cried gloom? Probably. But this one was properly, properly, epoch-definingly bad. I Can't Talk About It bad. It was the kind of day where coming home to nothing more than the exploded innards of a soft toy (though on reflection, these are actually the best kind of exploded innards to find) is enough to send you burrowing under the duvet cover with a paper bag on your head for all eternity. But look, weepette is looking after me.

He's like the Littlest Hobo*, but sleeker.

Look at that beady Pharaonic eye peering out.

And now I am going to try and unearth my evil nemesis, the hoover, and spend the morning in a mindless, symbolic, cleaning frenzy. First I will hoover up Nemo's innards. Then I will change the no-longer-white Ektorp covers. Then I will wash every item of clothing I can find. After that, all bets are off. Kitchen cupboards? Maybe something involving a hammer? Cutting the lawn with nail clippers? Anything is possible. Whenever an intrusive thought crosses my mind, I will sniff more cleaning product. That sounds like a plan, no?

(* I wanted to link to the Littlest Hobo for those of you not familiar with it and then got distracted by the episode synopses on Wikipedia. They are GRITTY. I particularly liked:

"a farmer and his mail order bride seem incompatible"

"Hobo mans a disco panel and helps the victim of an underworld frame up"

"parachuted into a fog bound town with an antidote for a child who has swallowed poison"

"Hobo befriends a three year old girl believed to have drowned in a sparsely populated area"

"Hobo stalks an ominous carnival patron"

"Bootleggers threaten a migrant who could expose them".

Also, there is one involving the theft of a champion whippet. I feel compelled to hunt it down and watch).