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Abstinence is futile

“There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge.” I said to him indoors casually.

“Yes I know. It’s left over from Saturday night.” We are SUCH grown ups we actually had friends over for a proper dinner, with pudding and everything. I stayed up till at least 11pm. I’m so rock ‘n roll.

“Right. Do you suppose it’s terribly special?”

“It’s a Sancerre isn’t it? Is it screw top or cork?”

“Erm cork I think, so best open it tonight don’t you think? White wine doesn’t really keep does it.” All those vintages are just bollocks, everyone knows it doesn’t keep right?

“No it will. It’s fine to leave it.” He seriously misses the point some times.  He should just KNOW that I am trying to abstain but that I want him to play my little game with me and tell me that I ought to open it.  Jesus this is just the thin edge of the wedge.

You see lately I am spending much more time at home for reasons that will soon become clear (doesn’t actually take Doris Stokes to figure that one out) and whilst I am working very hard (I am actually, really hard) the fridge is a constant source of temptation.  I’d like to add at this point that I’m not turning into a lush as my friend from work said, I am not even snacking. And you know why? Because our fridge is so badly stocked. It’s useless. Since when did my fridge become so lacking in goodies? Since we had kids who can open it, that’s when. Gone are the treats, replaced by carrots and humous. No more chocolate, not even a babybel in sight (Eliza devours them like a locust when they hit the fridge). There’s nothing really of any note at all. A few olives and some ham. Crap fridge.

If you’ve actually read this far then I salute you. I might put this down as one of the most dull, pointless blog posts I’ve written – and let’s face it there’s some competition there.

Life is good though. Life is absolutely bloody cracking right now actually. I feel like a new woman.

I’m getting my act together to tell you all about it because it’s exciting.

But for now I’ll leave you with the knowledge that I am drinking a gorgeously cold glass of Sancerre whilst about to serve up my lovingly prepared chicken-y dish (if it’s any good I’ll share tomorrow). I am now, you see, a domestic goddess.  Just got to find some suitably yummy mummy clothes and maybe get a hair cut and I’ll be the perfect housewife. Sort of. I’m still rubbish at ironing. And I have a feeling my new ‘thing’ will keep me busier than my “terribly important” job ever did…


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