Thirsty Thursday: Bras and Broligarchies...
Sarah McCarthy’s Thirsty Thursday column is brought to you each week thanks to Invercargill-based law firm Mee & Henry Law.
Sarah McCarthy’s Thirsty Thursday column is brought to you each week thanks to Invercargill-based law firm Mee & Henry Law
THIRSTY THURSDAY 40
The boys are back at school! And while I did enjoy the school holidays, especially not having to leap out of bed every morning to make school lunches, it is nice to have the house to myself during the day again, and to be able to sit down and open my laptop without the sound of me clacking away triggering a flurry of urgent requests for kai and caterwauling and leaping and blaming and shrieking and barking.
It was getting exhausting standing around, which I did most of the time because every time I put my arse in a chair, I would have to get straight back up again to attend to some minor fire or explosion or pleas for a sandwich.
And now I don’t have any excuse to not do work, which is disgusting, and also with the lack of constant motion in the house the drifts of dog hair and bits of stick have settled corners like grim drifts of snow, and I have spent a lot of time over the last couple of days being frustrated that I can neither sweep nor lux without the dog going insane and so my house is, frankly, a filth hole pig pit of vile.
But at least it’s quiet. I can hear the birds singing and the creaks of the house as it warms and cools and God the fridge is loud. And I hadn’t realised the clock makes such a loud ticking noise. And I think I have tinnitus, probably from listening to very loud rain on a tin roof podcasts when my brain and bladder conspire to wake me in the middle of the night so I can get mad about Toad Man/Former Chief Executive Christopher Luxon/Tech Broligarchies/learning lines/parenting failures/crumbs in the bed/where is my black bra/I should get those shoes fixed or I’ll never wear them but will I ever wear them even if they are fixed because heels.
At least we get a delicious day off this week for Waitangi Day, even though I have to go to rehearsal now, which broke my heart a bit because it is at 10.30am when I should rightfully be lying in bed, drinking coffee and leisurely scrolling my way through the economic collapse and baiting Hobson’s Pledge loonies on the RNZ Facebook page.
We had a costume fitting this week, not as traumatic as I had feared, and because I was warned that I might like to wear a proper bra I looked for and could not find the aforementioned black one, who has seen me through so much leaving-the-house of late. I had to dig through my knicker drawer and found Old Blue, who is a good friend, but now I have found gentian violet and purple marks all up the underside of my arm from where my tender tuck shop-lady fadoobadoobas were bruised by the underwire I am unused to wearing.
When did I start bruising like an elderly woman? And when did I start banging my knuckles and it immediately starts bleeding? And have my heels always looked like that?
And how about being in the sun for a few days and it simultaneously making me a bit brown on my jaw and the many, many once-hidden hairs lurking there turn white blonde - or is that grey?
They say having children keeps you young, which is a massive stupid lie, but maybe, just maybe, it keeps you too busy to notice the decline of your own, personal western civilisation.
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Hobson Pledge loonies rock!