Before returning to work on Monday (just two thousand two hundred and eighty minutes away), I must -
- plan and resource all the lessons I will be teaching next week
- tidy and clean the whole house so I don't have to return home from work to it's mankyness
- wrap Dave's Father's Day presents and write his card
- wrap my Dad's Father's Day present and write his card
- update Boo's baby book, which has been left achievement/photograph-less for about five months
- write out the Christening thank you cards that have only needed doing since the fifteenth of April
- clean out my horrendously untidy car (I cannot face all those old crisp packets when I have to get in it at stupid-o'clock on Monday morning)
- mow both lawns before I loose The Poop to a particularly determined and stealthy lasso of clover
- practise my "you are such a deserving winner" face in the mirror prior to next Friday's Brilliance in Blogging awards.
IT IS THAT BAD.
THIS. IS. PROPER. DEAD. R-U-B-B-I-S-H.
And because it is so rubbish, all my stress has manifested itself on that one susceptible spot which has remained happy and blemish free all of the last nine months.
And as an added bonus of magicalness, that spot is right in the middle of my face.
|The early rustles of a cold sore.|