Everything was fine until I broke the coffee grinder.
After I broke the coffee grinder I gathered together in my head all the things that had previously caused some mild irritation and aggregated them so that they formed a great, painful mass. Here they are:
The eggs Florentine I ate last Friday that caused my bowel to shut down.
Joan Bakewell in The Times on Monday. She was saying how women shouldn’t be ‘professional mothers’ and how she sees these ‘yummy mummies’ in cafes where she lives in Primrose Hill with two beautiful children each and thinks to herself ‘shouldn’t you be doing something?’. She then says that the danger with being a ‘professional mother’ is that your kids could easily grow up to be drug addicts or move to the other side of the world and what then? I agree with her but I don’t like the way she has an opinion and feels free to express it. What if one decides to become a professional mother because one is absolutely hopeless at everything else? We can’t all write novels, Joan, or have affairs with Harold Pinter.
The baby’s inexplicable facial eczema.
My saggy jowls. I should never have smoked and I should never have had those sun beds when I was going out with the Danish supermodel. He is long gone but the wrinkles are here forever.
Parents’ Association miscellany.
I WhatsApped Mr Bovary at around 5:30pm to tell him to bring some coffee back on the way home from work because I had broken the grinder. He brought home some good coffee from Hack & Veldt on Turnham Green Terrace. After that I forgot about the other stuff.