Sophie and Emma ( not their real names), are petsitters who don't have the Budda Belly of one who's inexplicably stopped petsitting to write a book. They're coming for coffee this afternoon, 2pm.
That leaves four hours to decontaminate the hovel. And bake a Battenberg. Or maybe not. Last time they came Sophie's Bodened baby found a long, black hair in her fairy cake. It wasn't the fairy's. Dear old Archie Bubbles Bum-Bum, my aged Jack Russell x Black Lab - someone lent his dad an orange crate - sheds enough hair to knit a sweater from. I might do that and sell it on Esty.
Then there's the loo. We won't go there - teenage sons you know. I'm hoping Sophie and Emma won't go there either. Maybe if I give them weeny, weeny cups of coffee, they won't need a wee wee and risk life long trauma?
'We've been worrying about you?' Sophie said on the phone last week, 'stuck in your funny little shed, scribbling away.'
I tried to explain that I am happy in my funny little shed and that at the moment I am wrestling with my protagonist's lurve interest whom the reader has to empathise with at first, then hate, then feel sorry for.
It needs my full attention see.
In return I got the tilted head and sympathtic smile.
'You have to get out and about and meet people.'
No I don't. I've spent the last fifty years getting out and meeting people and now I want to stay in and not meet people. I want to stay in my shed and make people up. People who don't want to come round and eat my cake which would last at least six hours with me at the bottom of the garden, in the funny little shed.
I said all this to my sister last night and she said I wasn't to flatter myself they were coming to see me, it was because of the baby. Apparently people with babies are always desperate to 'get out' even if it means going to visit hormonal old bags and eat hairy cakes.
I found the martial chart here. Tried to find an email address for the blogger (Even slatterns should have manners), but I couldn't so if it's you, forgive me and thank you.
Right pass me the body armour, I'm off to tackle the loo.
