My word of the week this week is:
It is terrible because of one terrible day. Wednesday.
They say bad luck comes in threes but it was four for me on Wednesday.
Rosie, my beloved, love of my life dog was spayed. Not a big deal to most people but pregnancy hormones along with my irrational love of this small, furry, animal made me anxious and icky all day.
This is Minty but I thought he could depict sheep in this instance, although he would come to a bucket of food unlike our other sheep.
Hubster was rounding up sheep and came back for lunch limping. He had narrowly missed impailing himself on a metal fence chasing the bleating blighters and had suffered a cut and bruised chest, groin, hand, knee and ankle. Hormones kicked in again and I pictured Boo, the new baby and I with no daddy or husband.
Then, the ultimate bad thing happened. Ask yourself what is the worst thing you could do to your husband (apart from cheating).
That’s right. I reversed into his new (had it about a month) pride and joy car.
Oh yes I did.
He went mad, obviously.
I was going picking Boo up from nursery and, living on a farm,might never look behind me when I’m reversing because no one usually parks behind me. Oops.
I planned on not returning home for the rest of the afternoon as I was having my roots done at my mum’s house and thought it would give Hubster time to calm down about the car.
However, as I was leaving nursery, I realised I hadn’t switched the oven on (I had lovingly prepared a stew).
So I nipped back turned the oven on an and ran back to the car to avoid any more ‘you stupid woman’ type of insults being hurled at me.
Off I went, had my roots done, picked a sore but alive Rosie up from the vets and skulked back home.
The cooling off period had worked and we were more worried about Hubster’s injuries than the car which, in the end, was just a bit of chipped paint.
As soon as I walked into the kitchen I could smell the burnt smell of what was our dinner.
Yes the should-have-been slow cooked stew had cooked on high for four hours. Even the farm dogs turned their noses up at it.
So that was Wednesday. A sore dog, sore husband, sore car and sore farmer’s wife for getting so many things spectacularly wrong.
I have made myself a sticker for my car but I don’t think Hubster will make the mistake of parking near me ever again.
Maybe it will be funny in years to come. For now, I am keeping my head down.