Sisyphus of Meldrum

Poor Philip, it doesn't matter how much he irons it just keeps reappearing in the basket. I'd offer to do it for him but apparently I'm shite at ironing. (Ha, I learnt that trick quick, if you're crap at something long enough in our house there's a fair chance that Philip will give up trying to teach you the Michie anally retentive passive aggresive perfectionist correct way of doing it and just do it himself.

So far I've knocked ironing and filling the dishwasher off my list.

I'm feeling a bit agitated tonight, does it read like that in my blip? I think it might. I've joined an exercise class and because I'm paying my direct debit I now feel compelled to go. I nearly spewed at it tonight, which I'm putting down to having had a big lunch and being too hot rather than my being pathologically unfit. And now I'm being forced to watch a crappy documentary about folk trekking in some snow. I'm sure it's all very noble and all that, but I'd quite fancy watching an episode of Dexter and now that Philip's ironing he gets ruler of the remote control status.

U.N.F.A.I.R. M.U.C.H?

I now sound like a truculent teenager. Time for bed methinks.