And I have just cracked the top off a bottle of delightful pinot grigio, cooled to a perfect temperature. I intend to drink a big glass of it very quickly. I want that spin feeling to hit me as fast as possible.
Wafting throughout the house are the delectable sounds of Miss Eight and her latest piano piece. It is gorgeous and she loves it so much that she has learnt it in record time.
I want to feel happy about this. I should be happy. I have everything thing I need and then some.
But today, I have the overwhelming urge to runaway.
Those of you that have hung out here for a while now (and you know who you are) will remember that this melancholy state hit me once or twice when we were living it up in Cairo. Usually, it is triggered by some random event that pushes my delicate psyche over the edge.
Frustration is the name of the game here. I have all the tools I need to make it work, but every time I get on top of my game, they change the rules.
Why are you not laughing? Am I not being funny enough? I swear, the woman at the Post Office today had magical powers - the ability to suck the ‘funny-ness’ right out of my bones. Is it really so difficult to be a little pleasant. Where in gods name is the humanity! They have ‘mis-placed’ one of my parcels. By my reckoning, it is either both mine, and Miss Eight’s new Australian passport (which means a whole lot of crap will now unfold). Or, it is the box of new clothes that I have ordered for Miss Eight, who is currently down to her last pair of respectable trousers - - what the hell is in the chicken here that makes her grow so fast, and why can’t they wear a school uniform!
Apparently it is my fault. First because I don’t have an Ausweis (a German Identity Card) – no I don’t. Why? Because I am an immigrant and wouldn’t be granted one until I have lived here continuously for eight years (like that is EVER going to happen) and/or I give up my Australian Passport – chances of that? Higher than Saddam Hussein winning the Nobel Peace Prize posthumously. So it is that I am without any real form of identification that the Post Office will accept. And boy, do they make me pay.
If you are still with me… and I will forgive you if you wandered off to get your own tipple… I will have you know that I really do try to play nice.
But they are making it hard.
I will try for funny tomorrow.
If I get my parcel.
Or I happen to catch ‘that woman’ from the Post Office shagging her boss at the end of the street – take photos – and publish them all on the internet.
Glass number one.. down.