I can’t sleep. One o’clock in the morning and I’m still awake. This is a very rare event for me, and leads me into a sombre, introspective mood where I ponder upon how tired I will be tomorrow, how I will regret not sleeping (as if I have a choice) and how much chocolate and caffeine it will take to get me through until a reasonable early bedtime of 9pm.
And so, seeing as I can’t sleep, I decided to distract myself from thoughts of great doom by telling you all about how I’m losing my mind. Bless me.
Prime example no.1 – it just occurred to me that, although I blogged earlier on about the yarn I received from Annat2 (including taking the time to photograph the yarn and upload the picture) I’d completely forgotten all about e-mailing her to let her know that the parcel arrived safely. Numpty.
But the actual example I planned to use to illustrate my point was this: Earlier today, when I took my Ebay parcels to post, I decided that as it was raining, I might as well chuck the kids in the car and head up to Asda, as we needed more toilet rolls (down to the last one again so it was practically an emergency, given that Cheeky can use almost a whole roll when he goes for a number 2) and Asda also have a post office in store. So, off we went, at 11.30am, which meant that we should have ample time to get there and back before lunchtime (generally 12.30-1pm). So, imagine my dismay on standing in the Post Office queue to notice the clock on the wall of the shop which displayed the time to be 12.46. Now, either we had managed to drive through a space-time wormhole somewhere in the country lanes between St Mellons and Asda (my preferred explanation), I became unconscious for an hour before leaving home (I’d like to think that my children might have noticed that and made me aware of it on my regaining consciousness) or I had, temporarily, become unable to tell the time. Sadly, I think the last one is probably the nearest the truth. However, moving on…
After standing in the queue for some time, during which the lady behind me told me that I have wonderful sons (isn’t it nice when random people do that? Even if said sons were plotting in whispers and then beaming angelically innocent smiles up at me in between times) I finally reached the counter. As I wanted proof of posting certificates and as each parcel had to be separately weighed, the process took some time. I chatted with the lady behind the counter, she complimented me on how close my guesses as to the price of postage had been, and the time passed pleasantly. As she stuck the last parcel sticker on and turned to place the parcel in the post bag, I called a cheery goodbye and left, feeling happy at this pleasant interlude with the nice Post Office lady. As I turned to walk away, she called after me, “Uh, that’ll be £19.56 please!”. Yup, I had indeed forgotten all about the necessity of paying for postage. Oops! Of course, I made light of it, chatted some more while the machine thingy processed my debit card, and then made a dignified but hasty exit from the area.
Ten minutes more saw me out of Asda, heading back to the car with my few bits and pieces of grocery shopping. Fifteen minutes after that saw me home, unpacking bags, making lunch and then realising, with a jolt, that I’d managed to go all the way there, suffer humiliation in the post office, walk all round the shop and then drive all the way back without my main raison d’etre for the journey.
We were still without toilet roll.