What if...

I tend to use the time I'm in the car to think. It's a good a place as any. It's warm, it's comfortable and more often than not, I'm on my own. Just recently, I've noticed that the things I think about aren't exactly... normal.

I think about the best things that could happen, I think about the worst things that could happen. I think about myself and about other people. I have scenarios planned out. I have dialogue. Am I going mad?!

What would happen if I got sacked?
Where would I live?
Would N stay with me?
What would I do if we broke up?
How would it feel if my parents died?
Would I know who to turn to?
Would they know what to do?
Am I doing the right thing with my life?
Should I jack it all in, move and do something else?
Do my friends really like me?
Am I good at my job or do I just think I am?
When I look at someone on the street and think to myself, oh my god, I'm glad I'm not as fat as her... am I actually as fat as her and I just don't realise it?
How do other people see me?
Will I age gracefully?
Will I ever have the life I want?
What would my ideal house be like?
Can you imagine living with N for the rest of your life?
What would you do if you suddenly came into money?
What are you doing with your life?

I think I need to stop thinking and start doing!

Wanted: Mrs Mop

As I tip myself out of bed my foot connects with with something long and hard. And painful. Surely a hairbrush doesn't belong there?

I survey the room. A "clothes to be washed" pile. A "clothes to be put away" pile. A "clothes that belong in the dressing up box" pile. Walking through to the sitting room, a wine glass from last night stares accusingly at me from the table. A pile of mail which needs to be re-directed to wherever Ms Ida Green has moved on to.

I can't face the kitchen.

I am not slovenly by nature but I'm increasingly finding that I'm having less and less time to do the things that a good housewife (*ahem*) should. When I get home from work, the last thing I want to do is merrily don the marigolds and spend the next half hour underneath the loo, scrubbing away to my heart's content. I'm not some old scrubber y'know.

I've always seen myself as more of a sit-with-feet-up-watching-other-people-do-the-cleaning kind of a gal. So that's why I've come to the decision that I'm going to have to get myself a lady what does. I'm sufficiently right-wing in outlook not to have pangs of guilt about this, however, I do have a number of stipulations.

1. Mrs Mop must infact be a Mr Mop
2. Wearing a small pinny
3. Topless
4. Oh, and I'd have to vet him before he starts for "ease on the eye" credentials.

Apparently there's a market for this sort of thing...