6.30am- Bastarding alarm goes off. Hit snooze button.
6.47am- Finally give in and accept I have to get up and stop pressing snooze. Glare hard at the Terror who disagrees with the concept of getting up and wishes to stay cosy and warm in my bed.
6.48am- Bang on Saffy's door, and receive assurances she is up.
6.49am- Physically drag the bastarding dog from my bed.
6.55am- Kick unwilling and protesting dog out for a piss.
7am- Bang on Saffy's door and demand to know what the fuckety fucking fuck she is doing. Receive assurances she is up. Suspect assurances are but hollow and meaningless.
7.05am- Let dog in and feed it.
7.06am- Notice suspicious smell.
7.10am- Track suspicious smell to sodding dog, who has stood in his own shit, tracked it across the kitchen, up the hall and onto the sofa. Vociferously blame Saff for not de-pooping the garden when asked.
7.12am- Have existential crisis.
7.13am- Start scrubbing dog shit, while screaming at Saff to get fucking ready and brush her teeth before she straightens her sodding hair.
7.24am- Finally chivvy children into car. Drive to school bus like a maniac, whilst berating children for never helping round the house unless I nag like a naggy thing. Wonder if perhaps it is my fault children do not help, as I have turned them into pampered middleclass brats. Decide it is not my fault as I am a saintly and helpful person*, and they have clearly inherited all their lazy and selfish genes from the DC and TQ.
7.34am- Shove some unattractive porridge at the Beast. Insist he eats it all, mainly out of general malice.
7.40am- Have tea and marmite toast. Remember after eating the toast that I decided after the third bag of crisps last night that today would be carb free.
7.50am- Read Daily Mail online. Feel smug and judgemental. Take comfort that at least I haven't sold my children's souls, like Shona Sibary.
8am- Attempt to tidy up a bit. Wonder if there's any point in putting away the gin.
8.30am- Remember I haven't made the Beast's packed lunch. Open his lunchbox to find the interior smeared in yesterday's yoghurt, which has now dried on. Confiscate the iPad in a fit of pique.
8.45am- Finally bother to read the note that Scottish Water shoved through the door two days ago. Realise it says they are turning off the water at 9am. Panic fill kettles and pots and turn on the bath.
8.50am- Blizzard starts. Wave son off to school in it. Grit my teeth and resolve to tackle de-crapping the garden. Pick up shit in the blizzard, muttering darkly to myself.
9am- Remember bath is still running, and water has not yet gone off. Run inside and find bath overflowing.
9.05am- Water goes off, as I attempt to mop up the flood in the bathroom. Realise I have not actually managed to get washed, and the bath is full of ice water, that I am keeping for an unspecified 'emergency'. Think about gin and search the sky for albatrosses.
9.30am- Give in to the Terror's demands for a walk. Meet fellow posh Border Terrier lady in the woods. Spend a blissful fifteen minutes conversing with someone who understands. Till the dogs fall out over a rabbit they are both attempting to kill and we must go our separate ways. Cross torrential river with dog, lose balance and fall over. Successfully save iPhone from the raging currents, but not my dignity nor poise. Emerge dripping, to find dog has taken advantage of my distraction and scarpered. Meet the nice retired vet neighbours, as I am standing like a drowned rat bellowing "YOU FUCKING DOG, WHERE ARE YOU?" Confirming my suspicions that the little sod never goes far when he bolts, but just hides to annoy me, the Terror chooses this moment to appear, looking like butter wouldn't melt. Recross the raging currents, hoping the wretched dog gets swept away.
10.30am- Return home, to find the Twat Bags neighbours have parked across the road from my drive again, inhibiting the Mighty Honda's passage. Call police. Speak to nice lady who agrees they are indeed twats** Realise I have turned into the sort of person who calls the police about parking disputes, but my existential crisis is already so severe I cannot bring myself to care. Consider not reading the Daily Mail so much, but discard this foolish notion, because otherwise how would I know what will give me cancer, then cure it; or who Katie Price is married to; or whether Suri Cruise is All Grown Up yet?
10.42am- The glow of the Fires of Righteous Indignation fade, leaving me sodden, cold, grubby and still waterless. With people coming for lunch at 12. Mercy dash to M&S, where I squelch round and spend an unfeasible amount of money on quiche and salad.
11.14am- Stop off at the overpriced pretentious gym I pay £69 a month not to go to. Spend too long in the shower, trying to get my £69's worth. Try not to think about all the other months I've paid for and the true cost of this shower. Think about existential crisis instead, and albatrosses.
12pm- Watch Other People's Children trash my house. Lose the plot when one hits my Most Precious Dog, all thoughts of my wish to drown him forgotten. Find existential crisis greatly eased by chocolate eclairs.
3pm- Survey the carnage, wonder why the police haven't come round yet.
4pm- Collect my ghastly children; dick around on Facebook instead of listening to them wittering. Feel aggrieved that the forecast Snowmageddon is the only topic on the local FB pages, with people demanding to know the state of the roads, instead of having poorly spelt public spats about where they should leave their bins, and how dare farmers put cows in fields they might want to walk through.
5pm- Think about gin. Wonder if it would be unseemly to be shitfaced if the police come. Consider setting timer for six o'clock and legitimate gin.
5.13pm- Realise setting timer for gin was a pointless exercise.
6pm- Look! S'an albatrosh. Oh no, shorry offisher, I mishtook you for an albatrosh. Would you like to hear my tale? Here, have shome ginny gin gin.
*Nosy do-gooder
**Possibly not in so many words
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