Have you ever looked at your life and wondered, if you are the unwitting character in The Truman Show?
Surely these things can’t really be happening to me can they?
The passed few days have been a comedy of errors.
It all started when I decided that I was having an off day. I had the can’t-be-bothered and convinced Hubbster that we should drive to the next town and buy chinese takeaway. It was justifiable to close the kitchen I told myself, I deserved a night off cooking occasionally.
As we drove home, I cradled the warm takeaway cartons in my lap and let the feelings of smug satisfaction creep over me – No dishes to wash either.
But no sooner had the thought formed in my mind than a huge cattle truck passed us on the other side of the road, and the entire drivers side of my car, including the window and the wing mirror were splattered with projectile, liquid cow shit.
That’ll teach me I thought, mentally planning the next weeks meals.
And all of this came just an hour after realising that my best (and by best I clearly mean naughtiest) lingerie had somehow, with the help of the blustery wind, removed itself from the washing line, and was now hanging from a very large, very high tree, in my neighbours back yard.
(If you missed that particular incident you can read about it here)
At this point you can’t help but take furtive looks around to see if there is any sign of a camera somewhere. Why do these things always seem to happen to me?
Well, this morning, much to my horror, the lingerie seems to have disappeared. I even dragged the children outside and insisted that they bounce on the trampoline with me, so that I could get enough height to see over into the neighbours backyard, and I’ll be honest, I was half-prepared to dangle one of them over the fence by their ankles if I had to.
Nothing, just disinterested chickens pecking at the ground, totally oblivious to my plight.
So where could it be?
Will my neighbours appear on my doorstep wielding their find?
Will I see a note in the window of the local newsagency?
FOUND: One item of red lingerie, size 12C.
Or am I destined to see snowy the cat from number 3, slinking down the court in a red crotchless number?
I have no idea, but I think I may spend the rest of the day looking for the end of the stage set.
So, incase I don’t see you, good afternoon, good evening, and good night.
Let’s imagine for a moment that you are the scriptwriter. Tell me, where is the underwear, and what is going to happen next?