Dear Gods of Phlegm and Bogies,
Mr V has raging man flu which is worse than any man flu that has ever gone before. I know this is true because on Tuesday I appointed him Head of Snogging to cheer him up and now I have a mild cold. Anyway, the higher the snot level the lower the tolerance for shenanigans, so I spent the week being told off. Here are all the things which were not allowed:
Mentioning willy helicopters in a post.
Claiming that a big lady put the gin in my trolley and ran away.
Loudly proclaiming myself “Mrs V. Effing genius!” (apparently there is a time and a place to do a victory dance and it isn’t the middle of Starbucks 🤷♀️).
Borrowing the key to the Sacred Garage (apparently the word borrowing does not mean “and bloody forgetting where you bloody put it” 🤷♀️).
Depositing unwanted things in the Sacred Garage (apparently it is “not a bloody tardis” 🤷♀️ ).
Eating Brussels sprouts ever again.
Putting a shortcut in granny’s phone so that every time she typed ‘sorry’ it autocorrected to ‘sorry not sorry’. It was, I am told, definitely not funny when granny cancelled plans with a friend and sympathised with someone whose budgie had died.
Finding the loophole and mentioning willy helicopters in a list of things that aren’t allowed.
The depths of Mr V’s curmudgeon are unfathomable. In the interests of me once more being allowed to spend money on shiny things and eat Jaffa Cakes for breakfast, please restore my husband to his former glory.
Keeper of Cuddles