I had a dream ...

My husband and I are having a standoff over the cooker. Not literally, obviously, because there is so much grease on that thing we’d both slide right off it. 

I told him the cooker was still not working and needed to be fixed. He asked me what did I want him to do about it?

Well, my darling, my soul, my light, my occasional bout of indigestion, here it is.

 

I want you to get a ridiculously overpaid job, say as a professional footballer where you get five million squillion dineros per minute to do something that has no tangible benefit to humanity so that every time something broke down, like the cooker or the toaster or the car I could just go and buy a new one. And then when the house got so messy that I couldn’t stand it anymore I could just move.

And then I could plug the cracks in my face with so much botox and filler that my child wouldn’t recognise me. And I could totter around in two storey high platform high heels and skinny jeans until I am one hundred and three carrying a handbag over my arm which was large enough to contain all my earthly possessions but which actually contained a small beaver (dogs are so last year) whose intestines had been removed so that it did not shit in my handbag.

Am I asking too much? I don’t think so.