Monday, April 23, 2012

A whinge

I've already prepared the dog food of meat, bones and rice - it's lingering in the dented African cooking pan on the stove.  And now the dullness of contemplating what to cook for my own dinner is anything but thrilling.  Will I eat before 9:30pm?  Eugh. The aroma in the kitchen is awful, the washing up stands in piles and I just can't be bothered.  Chris is in Murchison and the mobile network's crap, or to put it another way neither of his phones are working and it's one of the most frustrating things to deal with.  Like any thoughtful man he's too-pig-stubborn-busy to use someone else's to ring to see how we are.  Just sometimes I want that life of 9-5.  Of having central heating, of having a washing machine, of having a fitted shower room, of having a delicious cafe that I can push Leo in his buggy to, of having girlfriends who will chat on contract phones long into the night, of having a monthly pay cheque, of having a husband who walks through the door and takes you in his arms and holds you tight.  Of having that same husband whisper into your hair, 'everything's ok.' 

FUCKING HELL. 

I'll have a beer and a packet of soft Indian snacks instead then.

3 comments:

FrankandMary said...

Would you like that martini with or without an olive?
Should I send a morphine pump as well? ~Mary

ps the retired psychiatrist who helps me quite a bit is married to a zoologist. They spent half a year in Rwanda once while she did fieldwork with gorillas. He said he kept walking around muttering: I wish my wife was a fucking librarian.

Amelia said...

I can NOT imagine. I don't even camp.
Sending love and everything is ok thoughts.

Ggirl said...

I've spent the whole evening laughing about the librarian quote. Pure Classic!! Sending love back and all is ok, apart from the Indian snacks were rank ;)