This is a Tight Ship

No a shite tip. I love mornings, no really - I love to wake up to the sound of my children arguing when the meet each other in the hallway. I love that not sure feeling of "has the dog peed all over the kitchen floor during the night?" I love the endless battle of trying to get my kids to eat something for breakfast that isn't freaking nutella based.

I've got to be in the big smoke tomorrow for 8.45am - in the a.m? Like a bloody commuter, a slave to the man forcing my way through the corporate masses for a blooming physiotherapy appointment. 8.45 - on my day off? Eh, hullo? I think I ordered the not having to get up at shit-the-bed o'clock and be in to the town for the crack of a sparrow's fart day off...someone must have missed that memo.

I set the breakfast table. Our kitchen looks like a particularly low budget B&B - aye, just help yerselves tae cereal, there's nae breid fur toast and the sausages are aff. Coffee? Ye waant coffee? Ye can waant oan. (I'm using my best Ayrshire accent there for my mum - hi, mum! or awwwright mawww!)

And so to bed. Or perhaps I should just set off on my commute now? I tell you what, they better no be running late at this clinic tomorrow or they'll be hearing me that's for bloody sure.*

*Anger management classes seem to be doing the trick, eh?!