MC and I are now officially living in sin. The big move involved seven car journeys between our respective abodes and the new pad (round of applause to my little Peugeot 206 for being positively tardis-like with the backseats folded down).
The flat is currently in a state of carnage. The only possible explanation is that The Packing Monster shamelessly broke into my old place and replaced all my treasured, beautiful belongings with a pile of useless old tat. Do I really need fairy-shaped biscuit cutters? And why did I bring that old throw which I know has never been the same since my best friend, bless her, accidentally dropped her dinner on it five years ago?
Unfortunately for all concerned the real icing on the cake about the upheaval was that it coincided with the worst bout of PMT I have ever had. I rarely get it, if at all. But Sunday afternoon was a real tantrums and tiaras affair – especially when MC tentatively reminded me that I’d promised we would go to the cinema that evening to see the new Indiana Jones film (hint: don’t bother). Poor MC must have wondered what on earth he’d let himself in for. So I made amends at bedtime by, and I quote, giving him the ‘best’ bj he’s ever had.