wtf?

Hattie has joined the ranks of people accused of being related to me (we now all have English accents, which is at least an excuse, although hers is from Brighton, mine’s from Suffolk and Bec’s is pure Yorkshire. Tim’s, on the other hand, was Canadian in origin and both Gav and Claire were Scottish. And still, they were accused. And we’ll quietly gloss over the time that the window cleaner asked me if Becs was my daughter…)

She rolls her eyes, ignores everything I say and picks on me mercilessly in a sharply honed and viciously acerbic fashion.

She fits right in.

She has also won the WTF? question competition of the month.

HATTIE: Good afternoon, madam. What can I get for you today?

WOMAN: Is this a computer shop?

 

It’s official. I give up.

gesundheit

One thing you never see in those How To guides on running your own business is a section titled Debilitating Illnesses and Why You Must Not Indulge. Lack of time, basically.

To outrageously misquote Gerald Durrell, the British Isles host a continual flu-ridden dance for their inhabitants (culminating annually in one gigantic sneeze), but for nearly three years I haven’t had time to be ill so I’ve factored in four days at the beginning of my enforced time off to catch a cold and lie on the sofa, whinging about catching a cold and lying on the sofa. I should be fine by Friday, but only time will tell.

Given the crap weather, it’s astounding that I haven’t developed something revolting as a result of regularly loitering under the sparse cover offered by various lintels: I can’t smoke in the shop and I can’t smoke in the flat - I may have to set my shoes on fire to keep my feet warm when I’m indulging in my absolutely neccessary sole remaining vice.

(I’m also convinced I’m exhibiting the initial symptoms of trench foot, so Man Flu should be a breeze…)