Ohhhh my head. I am never going to drink again. Lots of wine cured my PMS yesterday. It was great. Whatever self-help books and the Internet say about not drinking alcohol when you have PMS is utter bollocks. Of course it helps. And then the hangover masks the PMS and you don't know which is making you feel worse. But the mojitos at the end of last night were a little stronger than usual and are probably responsible for the hammer pounding the rim of my skull from the inside.
I staggered out of bed, lurching from side to side.
"Lard, I need lard. Now."
Oh joy, I found a packet of bacon in the fridge. Without contact lenses or glasses, finding the frying pan was a little more challenging. I stuck my head all the way to the back of the kitchen cupboard and Henry came up behind me and shouted, "Boo".
I smacked my head hard and swore profusely.
Soon the bacon was sizzling sexily. Of course I forgot to put the fan on. The kitchen filled with black smoke and fat was splattering merrily all over the glass cook top.
I stirred it a bit and then saw what looked like bits of pepper in the pan. But I had not added pepper. The grim realization that there must be mouse sh*t in the pan slowly dawned on me. There was no more bacon in the fridge and I contemplated washing the already blackened offerings. But even I could not bring myself to be that gross. Whilst lifting the pan and sticking my face almost in it to get a closer look, the greasy handle somehow escaped my grip and the pan smashed down onto the already cracked cook top. A few shards of black glass amassed in the pool of grease.
"Jimmy will kill me."
Having a hangover is a bit like being pregnant. I feel nauseous most of the time and have strange cravings. This morning it was for meat. Maybe I have a bit of German in me after all, although it wasn't substantial enough to feel.
At the back of the fridge I found a lamb chop with a shiny green tinge to it. Or was it silver? The smell as I took it out of the bag was sickening. Lamb does last a long time but maybe this was slightly past its sell by date. Well, I was prepared to give it a try. I put it under the broiler, turned it on high and closed the oven door.
I fancied an egg with it but the frying pan was full of burnt bacon and mouse excrement so I decided to do a hard-boiled egg. Not wanting to risk another saucepan of mouse poo, I decided to cook an egg in the microwave. Never, ever, ever try to put an egg in its shell in a microwave! Ever!
Emily needed her bottom wiping so I left the kitchen to help her. But the stench in the bathroom was so great that I had to chunder in the sink. Bits blocked the drain which has a very sad inflammation of the U-bend anyway.
I got back to the kitchen which now contained even more particles wearing black. Jimmy stood coughing, glaring into the oven which contained a small but significant fire. The odd flame lashed out at him. Henry was watching the microwave, luckily from a distance, just in time to witness the big "BANG". The door blew off. The decimated egg came flying out, shell embedding itself all over the kitchen, yellow and white globs flying angrily through the air to the other side of the living room. The eggy microwave door had landed on top of the brand new laptop which sits on the kitchen surface.
"Cool!" screeched Henry in response to his favorite concept in abundant display - mass destruction.
"Holy f*ck!" screamed Jimmy as he tried to see through the thick black smoke that now filled the whole house.
"Why did we just buy a five hundred dollar gas barbecue?" he yelled. "It was to stop you setting the two thousand dollar oven on fire AGAIN!"
After putting the incinerated bacon and lamb chop in the bin, I hunted around in the back of the freezer for an alternative meat source. Luckily, the light in the freezer allowed me to see a little better. There were a few gnarly sausages that had virtually disintegrated over time and had layers of discolored frost on them. There was my placenta from Henry, but that would have to be defrosted and the microwave door was missing. Something black and furry appeared. Oh, it was the missing slipper! I had thrown my other slipper away last year. Peculiar indeed.
"Fish finger sandwich - mmmm - my favourite." I hurried out to the barbecue as that was the only operable cooking device.
"I'll have you lovelies in a delicious sandwich in no time." I told them. I wandered back into the house in search of bread and ketchup.
But Jimmy had cordoned off the whole kitchen with "Crime Scene Do Not Cross" tape.
Suddenly a yellow jacket (called a wasp in all other English-speaking countries) started buzzing around in the dining room. I was horrified that the religious fly (see Sunday Morning Worship) had morphed into a more severe and deadly nun. Which reminded me that I had received an invitation to a breakfast from the pastor at the non-denominational church. I had not been there for nearly a year and I would have missed most of the service. But the lack of breakfast in the house meant that I was hungry for something, even if not spiritual arousal.
I got the kids in the car under great duress. They are not keen on going to church but I told them that there would be yummy food in a smoke-free environment. I guess swearing at your kids on the way to church is not high on the list of good religious etiquette. But I did not use the "c" word today.
As I left in the van I saw Jimmy out on the deck waving his fist at me. I remembered the fish fingers, which would now be nicely cremated on the barbecue. I also remembered that I was still not wearing my contact lenses.
We arrived near the end of the service and made the mistake of trying to creep quietly into the back of the church. What was I thinking?
Creep and quietly are not words that should ever be used in conjunction with two children under six.
There were two guest speakers answering questions about their experiences of spreading the word. I could not see that far. I could just hear their droning voices.
"There are those Jehovah guys that you showed your not so private parts to Mummy." shouted Henry at Mach 10 decibel level. The whole church turned its pious head towards us and even though I had blurred vision, I felt the intensity of the sanctimonious eyes upon me.
"What a strange coincidence," said the one Jehovah.
"There is the sinner we mentioned in our question and answer session," added the other.
My hunger subsided and I felt the urge to puke again so I dragged the protesting kids out of the church and back to the car. I think it may be another year before I visit the lord again. And next time I feel like lard, I will just go to a restaurant for breakfast like normal people.