I sit here, on a Friday night, like everything is normal. Shit day at work – thought I was doing the right thing trying to make sales, but apparently “it’s not worth it”. Like if I only get a sale for the company to the value of £700.00, it’s not worth it. So I went home.
Anyway, that’s work and I’m not discussing it. I’m at home, in my lovely little terrace, cat on the footstool (ok, it’s a politically incorrect poufe) with cat, glass of cheap red (very nice, Sainsbury’s own brand Shiraz at a mere 3.99 I think), and Zero 7 on the You Tube playlist thingy….. chillax as those youngsters do say I believe. Just got out of the bath – bliss, half a Lush bath ball (remember: economise), glass of wine, laptop on the toilet. I almost forgot the bathroom was pink and brown.
Still no news on the sodding legal aid – this could be down to one of two things (a) or should that be (1) the solicitor has WRITTEN to us via the “postal system” – remember that, it comes several days after you post a piece of paper in a startling red box, brought to you by a jolly guy who turns up after you have gone to work and sometimes makes the random decision that it won’t fit in your letter box. or (2) it hasn’t, willn’t, won’t be granted to us, not us, him. Either way we have nought.
I wrote to someone t’other day who is also facing a court case and impending prison sentence (you know who you are if you decide to read this) and it’s good to take strength from someone else in this position, although I must remind myself that it is actually not ME in this position, but husband. But heck, we are so close, it might as well be me.
Whilst in the chillax’d mood, I’ll provide a bit of history again until husband gets out of the bath…….. read on.