In Which Things go from Fact to Fiction.
And so. I got up early on Monday and had a shower, then I went into town to buy bread from a recently opened pound shop. I'd bought some rolls the previous week and was deeply impressed with their soft texture. However, the rolls I purchased this particular morning were clearly a couple of days old, obviously leftovers from Saturday, and I was shattered by how dry they were when I sliced them open on my return home. I wailed my anguish to my BB (bald boyfriend) when he got in from work.
Tuesday's ambience was ruined by the bin men emptying the green recycling bins. The earth-shattering clatter, when the empty lager tins from my bin hit the lorry's interior, drowned out Martin Roberts' commentary on Homes Under the Hammer. I was denied knowing the final bid for a two-up, two-down in Scunthorpe. Humph!
On Wednesday I made corned beef hash.
Thursday dawned bright and sunny. I was immediately depressed as I suffer from hayfever. And I'm scared of wasps.
Friday evening was quite lively, as myself and my BB had a blazing row about an unpaid bill he'd hidden from me. I was exhausted after ranting for almost an hour, so took to my Argos bed, leaving him sulking on my Ikea sofa.
Trying to get back into my good books on Saturday morning, the BB suggested a trip to Pricepounders. O-kaaay. I eventually relented as their packs of Marks and Spencer T-shirts, seconds, with the labels cut off, was too good an offer to pass up at three for a fiver.
On Sunday, though, everything hit the fan. My eleven rescued thoroughbred unicorns all came down with dandruff and my dogs, Malcolm and Maureen, developed a severe case of hard pad. Not only that, an electrical fault in my palatial walk-in wardrobe had triggered a small fire that totally wiped out my entire Dior collection. And if that wasn't enough, the wife of my world-renowned, fabulously wealthy and devastatingly handsome plastic surgeon lover found out about our three-year affair and has gone to the papers.
And then I woke up.