But how to get her on the train first.
My sense of humour has deserted me.
My head hurts in pre-stroke mode.
I have chest pains although that could be the unaccustomed bra wearing.
I have either gastric reflux or an ulcer or drinking beer too fast.
I have reasons.
After two months of "I want my Christmas lights, it's the only pleasure I have left!" type whinging, the Brick Outhouse started doing this on Sunday. She drove him so crazy he ran away from home, for the day. By the time I got there Monday, the house could have doubled for an earthquake movie. 16 bloody Christmas dolls, 2 iron stands and 30 sets of fairy lights covered the loungeroom floor with the old bat trying to use a walker through the mess. She then has the cheek to tell me that if he'd asked, she'd have told him not to bother because she was too tired to do the window. Today is Tuesday and I am forgetting how to be nice again. I will not go and put the dolls up. If I have to fix the lights, I am taking a pair of scissors to them and they will end up in teenytiny strips. I would tell her this but I'm not speaking to her. Believe me, she'll now fall over just to spite me.
I hate Christmas lights.
I hate Christmas.
I like Christmas presents. Someone please give me train tickets, short journey should do it.