Perimenopause not a detective but Jeans attempt to up the ante in the my illness is worse than yours stakes. We have had a scary week with worrying about her being ill. Then relief, now this. She is scary only to be approached with a chair and a packet of custard creams. Any chance of my hopes for a quiet life are I am afraid long since gone. Between and the angelic cherub has taken up residence in the back bedroom - frankly I have no chance.
My memory is clearly detiorating, and my irritability is fearsome. My real fear is that an argument will start in this tinderbox there will be a murder and the murderer wont remember where he or she left the body. Deep joy.
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