1. The fire extinguisher repair man came round today (the only thing my landlords have done here, to my knowledge, in my year of residence), and I airily waved him in the direction of the landing, pleased I even knew where the extinguisher was, and went back to work. Five minutes later a crystal clear mental image appeared fully formed in my mind, making me gasp, of the pile of dirty washing I had dumped in precisely the spot occupied by the fire extinguisher. Not just boys t-shirts, mind. "Delicates". A pile of my knickers, basically, maybe the odd greying bra for variety. It was too late to go and retrieve them. I pretended to be the dogsitter, unconvincingly. I felt judged, and rightly so.
2. I arrived at school after a fraught day of being a fucking moron, to find my first born embroiled in some sort of Situation, involving him having possibly called someone "une grosse conne" (VERY rude). The words "he must have learnt that at home" were bandied about, with the cat's arse face of judgment. I had many esprit d'escalier type thoughts about this after the event, most of them exceptionally rude. I don't think he said it, myself. He could very easily have learned how to say "fucking hell", I concede, but I wouldn't say "grosse conne" (nor would his father, who as we know limits himself to a manly "shackass", possibly rising to "oh bordel" if he's doing DIY). Unfair. He was weeping and indignant at the injustice of it all, which meant I didn't even shout at him for losing his glove, new that morning. Swings, roundabouts.
3. I fell into a pothole filled with water on the way home, it was raining apocalyptically for the 73rd consecutive hour, one child was weeping with injustice in my arms, and the other was telling me a long, involved story about words beginning with "S".
"Not that one either"
(Brightly, with just an edge of mania) "Shall we do this when we get home, darling?"
Then suddenly I was calf deep in rain water, my cherished, ancient Chloé shoe buggered. You win, Tuesday.
Thankfully, M has cheered me up by mocking me and my phone phobia, which was particularly bad today.
M: You can get over it. With some laser focus!
E: You reckon?
M: Come on. Focus. FOCUUUUUSSSSS.
E: I can't. My head hurts.
M: FOCUUUUSUSSSSS. Did you just blow up a paper clip with your laser eye beams?
E: Maybe a little.
M: Oh shit, I just blew up a co-worker.
E: Ooh, I should turn my gaze on the dog then.
M: Start with a warning shot. Blow up something near his paw.
E: If this were slightly earlier in the day, that would be the 500 gramme pack of butter he liberated from the kitchen and ate on the doormat.
I await Wednesday with interest, and a degree of terror.