Karma and Punishment


So, last night I went out for the first time in AGES, just to a friends house for a girls’ night in. Takeaway and wine and a good old gosss . . . . fantabulous. So we did all that good stuff and twittered away, until suddenly we noticed that it was creeping up towards 1 AM and we all remembered that we had children who would be up, jumping on our heads (figuratively if not literally) at the crack of dawn. We were all also pretty shocked when the body-count of empty wine bottles revealed we’d each had 1 bottle+ . . . that’s never a good sign.

So we all had water and waited for the cab . . . and whilst we were waiting, the onset of the inevitable headache inextricably linked to cheap semillon-chardonnay started to take hold. I was glad to collapse into bed . . . a pint of water pretty much seemed to sort out the headache and sweaty shivers. Would I get away scot free?

Not on your nelly!

I’d just about sunk to the bottom of a deep sleep, when this appalling noise dragged me back to awake. It took a while to register . . . but, of course, Minni decided that tonight was the night that she would not sleep through (though she has slept through EVERY night for the last 3 months) and that 2:30 was the BEST time to wake her mother, after said mother had been out partying. Marvellous.

So I stumbled downstairs, made the bottle, stumbled back upstairs, and managed a semi-comatose snooze in our comfy-chair whilst she was feeding . . . that lasted 45 minutes or so until another appalling noise shattered the stillness of our night.

The smoke alarm.

Not going off fully, but giving a little chirp, then stopping, then waiting a couple of minutes and giving another little chirp. And so on and so on. After about 10 minutes, each chirp was like someone firing a staplegun into my temple, and of course it meant Minni wasn’t going back to sleep. There was always, of course, the remote possibility that the house might be on fire. Not good, not good, not good.

In the end I put Minni back to bed, and thankfully she didn’t scream the house down . . . but then the smoke alarm. I stumble around the house, check everywhere, and I’m reasonably certain that nothing’s on fire. No smoke, no flames, no suspicious orange glows. (I don’t count the streetlight haze as a suspicious orange glow). Well, at least that’s OK. But then, I can’t reach the ceiling and the smoke alarm is still chirping. It’s now 3:45 AM and I am DESPERATE for sleep. So, I get Missie’s dressing-table stool out of her room and climb up on it. Bad, bad idea – I’m really not in any condition to be balancing on a stool at the top of the stairs, and definitely not if I have to look upwards to open the smoke alarm. But I manage it, and eventually get the battery out.

Finally, I can sleep!!!!!!

But not for long! Because at 6:30 AM Rumpus is up and about and demanding that I help him get into his thunderbirds costume . . . and he wants to teach me a new song (to the tune of 10 fat sausages):

10 fat pigeons, sitting in a line,

10 fat pigeons, sitting in a line

And if 1 went pop and another went bang . . .

Hangover or no hangover, I am crying with laughter because I have this mental image of exploding pigeons . . .

When I come downstairs, though, I realise the song had a source and a reason: the (demon evil) cat has caught a pigeon (thankfully not one of next-door’s racing pigeons this time) and has snacked mightily on it – there is a wing and lots of feathers and legs and some unidentifiable i-don’t-know-what (and I don’t want to think about it, either) in the middle of the floor. A pigeon has indeed, gone pop, or bang, in the middle of our living room. This is not fair.

But my hangover has a couple of extra tricks up its sleeve.

Minni produces the stinkiest, sloppiest, most disgusting nappy I have seen for some time.

My rotten husband decides boiled eggs make a good breakfast.

I give up and retire to bed, and decide, while I shake and sweat for a bit longer, that I am NEVER going to drink THAT MUCH again. I think I’ve been suitably punished for my foolishness, and I’m hoping I’ve learned my lesson.


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