Seen better days

Yesterday was what you might colloquially describe as a cluster faaaaark.

Ir kicked off with me mourning the conclusion of another season of daylight savings by waking at 5am.

I walked the dogs to the coffee shop in the never-ending drizzle. I dropped the youngest to the gym and decided to drive to work, where I paid $25 for early bird parking.

The rain was torrential when I exited the carpark, so I dashed to a corner store and spent the balance of my life savings on a golf umbrella.

Work was a 10-hour frenzy of newsletter building, media release writing, event brief compilation, LinkedIn posting and frustrating Microsoft Teams meetings where I did Marcel Marceau impressions when the microphone on my laptop refused to work.

To complicate matters even further, the youngest joined an AFL team this week, despite never even watching a game.

She’s keen to kick things and tackle people, two desires that are not being fulfilled by skipping, though she will continue doing that too.

My ex signed her up and then dumped the to-do list in my lap, which included picking her kit up from a rain-drenched oval before 7pm last night.

I dashed out of the office and arrived at said oval, only to be informed there had been a miscommunication and the kit wouldn’t be ready until Sunday.

I was very, very annoyed with my ex and cursed him extensively as I drove to collect the youngest from work.

The youngest usually exits Baker’s Delight on the dot of 7pm, but it was just my luck that the till was $50 short last night. So I got to spend a cheery half hour parked out the front twiddling my thumbs as I watched her turn the store upside down in the desperate hope of finding the missing money.

I abandoned my plans to make a chicken noodle stir-fry and decided to grab takeaway instead.

I’d been sent a buy-two-get-one-free offer by my local pizza place, so I ordered up big and hit the road.

A lovely bloke greeted me at the door of the restaurant, delightedly calling my name like I was an old friend. He turned out to be the owner, who bought my marital home from me eight years ago. He invited me inside for a glass of pinot while my pizzas baked in the oven.