enough of this!

Too much grumping from me the past few days - foulness particularly directed at the poor old Prof, but also shared around among other innocent victims. Much as I hate to admit it, there is just the tiniest possibility that there may be a hormonal cause behind some of my viler acts. But it's not the calendar, or the more obvious physical signs, that gave rise to this suspicion, oh no. Nor was it the annoyance with Chris yet again needing to do some semi-social work function on a mid-week night, even though it was taking away one of my rare chances for a fully social, long overdue catch up with a friend (Hi Jen, wish you were here). And no, it wasn't even realising that the last social occasion Chris and I had together that I did not have to organise was, um, gosh, maybe my birthday in about 1996. Oh no no noooo. No Gentle Reader, the real tip-off this month came when I couldn't fix the underwire that had come out of my new black bra. And why had it come out? BECAUSE CHRIS PUT IT IN THE FLIPPIN' CLOTHES DRYER. But even though he should know better by now, having lived with slowly drying bras slung over bathroom door hooks for a good ten years, and even though I say again it was a new bra and a very comfy one, and even though I was completely entitled to be pissed off... I have to admit that bursting into tears, sobbing loudly and inconsolably for a good 10 minutes as the aforementioned tears dripped onto the broken bra that refused to show any sign of an exit hole for the underwire, and then stomping over and throwing both bra and wire at Chris and yelling "Well YOU try fixing it now!"... Well, in hindsight the reaction doesn't seem quite to match up to the issue, does it? mtc bec