I spent an hour yesterday putting all the dark coloured wool to the bottom of the basket so I wouldn't keep saying hello to it.
Deep mourning is still being observed and I feel I should be putting on a black veil and breaking out the jet jewellery.
How bad is he? He hasn't cared that the beloved Ute is still parked in the street during school holidays and possums are peeing on it from the paperbark tree.
At least he's inherited the maternal genes, the paternal side would have taken her out for a .22 picnic. He never had the farming genes. If they said roast for Sunday, he'd go and let the chooks out.
I think it's my fault that I raised two SNAGS. Now if I could just get him married off to a girl who loves him as much as that cat did.