The effort of blow drying my [unwashed for five days] hair this morning nearly made me puke from exhaustion so I fell back into bed and failed to phone in to work to say I definitely would not be there. Again.
Instead, I fired up the laptop so I could see how much I was being missed and since my inbox was full of free Google news alerts (because we’re too cheap to pay for REAL media monitoring) that all related to bizarre Nigerian school scandals and a request from reception to find the missing laminator, I figure the world of work is safe without Super-Me for just one more day. Maybe two.
Besides, I have a doctor’s certificate for today, and there’s nothing worse than wasting a perfectly good sanctioned sick day by going back to work sooner than your doctor thought you would.
Meantime, while I showered and blow-dried and logged-on and blogged, my poxy children have taken over the lounge room and kitchen and turned it into the Noo Or-lee-ans Super Dome.
They have spread the lounge cushions all over the floor as makeshift bedding; they’re using beach towels as blankets; the big ones are ganging up on the little one and someone just yelled “Who stole the bread?”
The president keeps promising me the National Guard, but until they get here I am staying in my bed with my laptop, my sultanas and my .22
The real tragedy is that this Third World devastation could all have been prevented if I’d only acted on my normal emergency plan and put the remote control somewhere they could reach it. As it is, all they are left with is the educational programs on ABC and they’ve been forced to employ their native ingenuity.
Oh, the humanity!