Today, a rather unusual thing happened to me.
This thing has not happened since…since…I cannot remember since when. Maybe since I was pregnant over two years ago.
I fell asleep in the afternoon.
Now a lot of you know that I am like the energiser bunny in a lot of ways; I am fluffy, pink and quite animated. But what you do not know is that I tend to have a mistrust of people who sleep in the afternoons – certain European countries for a start, then anyone who is not a child, pregnant, old, infirm or on holiday. Or anyone called Adam who has a surname.
And so it was that when I awakened from my unexpected slumber, the first thing I did was run my hands around my body in a panic, knowing God’s penchant for nicking ribs and creating whole adults out of them. The latter part of this caused me to be especially distressed; everything has its season and it is not mine to be in bloom.
I went off on a tangent at this point as my brain pondered whether such a progeny would come into being with all faculties intact – you know, in that weird space between sleeping and waking in which you believe you’re some sort of genius. But as my brain began to hurt, I came to my senses. The cause of my deep sleep was not down to godly pilfering. It was because of fufu.
You see, I made too much food for Hubs and Tot and even though what was left was barely a fistful, it was still enough – with the sun so high in the sky – to knock me out for at least forty minutes. And now I have woken up to an email from an editor whose italicised words have told me exactly what he thinks of me missing meetings. OMC!
Fufu has no place in the modern world, seriously.