Cinderella *may* go to the ball, after all!

Mr G arrived home little after 9 this morning, discharged.  With a determination that this weekend's plans remain unchanged.   The Doctor thinks it may be muscular... and with a promise (again) of a follow up appointment with Mr Abdullah (won't hold breath), the absence of the stomach pain that sent him in clinching his release.  I'm not convinced. I think he's lying.  I have four children, I can smell bullshit at twenty paces.  I made him swear on lives but, he may have had something crossed.  

The house is wrecked.  Hangers hang from door frames, with dresses and shirts.  Every available space has crap on, from deodorants to Eccles cakes.  Oh and this abomination...

...will be perched on my napper.  No crows were harmed in the making of this fascinator.  What a stupid name.  Fascinator.   What the hell is that all about?

I have a list.  Stuff to pack.   Should be relatively simple.  But.  Instead, I am sat outside in sweltering temperatures, drinking a Miller beer.  From the bottle.  Like a lady should.   Because it's 5 o'clock in the world somewhere.  While Mr G roasts on a duck feather duvet #sticky   

It's going to be a shambles.  Look out Oswestry and Wrexham.  We're coming... 

M x