You’ve had marmite on your face for a week. You’ve known about it since day 2.
You got waaaaay too excited about the launch of CBeebies Land.
It’s 4pm. You’re drinking #secretangrywine out of a Hello Kitty Cup and eating a Terry’s Chocolate Orange like an apple. An apple of rage. This is a ‘good’ day.
The browsing history on your iPhone consists of a topical selection of 30 minute Peppa Pig specials, a recipe for hidden-vegetable-lasagne and several articles about how to get some f@*king sleep.
You haven’t sat on the sofa before 7pm since 2012.
You smell a bit funky and your mind has gone a bit wonky… Like the raisins that have been abandoned in time behind the radiators of life…
Most days your hair makes you look like a homeless person. You quite like it.
Uggs or flip-flops. These are the only real choices left in your life now… the toddler decides everything else… EVERYTHING. ELSE.
F@*k knows what day of the week it is, but you can recall every word to every nursery rhyme KNOWN TO MAN in seconds…. even the lesser known verses of The Wheels on the Bus. *high five* #proud
It’s not that you’ve forgotten what it’s like to go out for the night… It’s that you don’t even want to anymore. This is far worse.
Nothing says I’ve completely forgotten that I used to be an actual professional person responsible for real stuff, like a Pirate-Fairy-Onesie-Dress-Up Day. But you shitting love it.