Well, this conversation could have gone better.
Bert went out last night - I wasn't invited as it was an all-male 'business' dinner. Hmm. Hmmmm.
I was up the garden pottering (we have a very long garden) and Bert yells to me at top volume so the whole neighbourhood can hear, "I can't find my smart trousers anywhere and I'm going to miss the food!" Anyone who knows Bert understands that he really cares about food.
Rather than treat the neighbours to "F*ck off" delivered at the same volume, I stomp down and into the house. Now, explain to me why I then find myself ironing said trousers and sticky-rolling the cat hairs off? Realising my own feebleness did nothing to improve my mood.
I stomped back downstairs and said, "There's your trousers you cheeky f*ck, and is there anything else you'd like the little woman to do before you go out for your man-meal?"
Oh dear. Talk about light the touch paper and retire.
My counsellor is helping me get in touch with my anger. It may be working.
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