Two Thousand and Eight was a pretty shite year. The fact that it followed on from another pretty shite year wasn’t particularly … well … pretty.
I didn’t learn anything in Two Thousand and Eight; I just realised many things.
I realised that my MiL would always assume the worst, that I’m spectacularly good at my job and that Bad Things have a wonderful knack of happening to Good People. I realised that being special warrants no more than a card with an impersonal message, that I can paint walls and that sometimes it’s just best to let Blokey do what his heart desires and get that new car, and all the expensive gadgets that go with it …
Bite my tongue? I realised that I can.
I wouldn’t have scraped through Two Thousand and Eight if it weren’t for my Mumsy, either. I want to be just like her when I is all grow’d up. Except I’d like to able to take better photographs.
I was hoping that Two Thousand and Nine would be the year when Things started looking Up. Then I woke up yesterday morning and discovered that Tabatha-Cat’s New Year celebrations must have been far more exciting than mine (I don’t actually ‘do’ New Year) for she had obviously had a poorly belly, which made her poo everywhere. Or in at least six places, anyways.
Yes, I spent the first morning of the New Year on my hands and knees, scrubbing.
It can only get better … (surely)
Happy Two Thousand and Nine!
please God, bless this year and make it nice xxx Elsabeth