Saturday night fuckery.



It’s Saturday night at 9pm and I’m sat on the sofa alone watching Brave for the 98th time (I’m not entirely sure why, but the fiery red head Princess resonates with me). After getting home from a trial run treasure hunt at around 6pm, having dinner and the husband immediately falling asleep after five pints and two halves (one of which was 8.3%), I’m sat mourning a wasted evening that we could have spent together had one of us not been so wankered we were in bed by 7pm. Ahem.

It’s hard to complain when this is something that, up until recently, I would have been doing too. Well, it’s not hard to complain at all. It’s actually really easy to be seething with rage when you’ve carried your other half home and minutes before you get there he walks through a tree and ends up with a branch sticking out of his fucking eye. Or he jumps up to hit a tree and punches you on the way down because he has no concept of distance, space or balance. Or he stands in the middle of the kitchen with a glass of water, looking at the floor while you’re trying to cook dinner and clean up. Or he kicks the table so many times during dinner that you want to stick it up his fucking arse. I’d go so far as to say that it’s surprisingly easy to be furious.

Inevitably, there is a part of me that feels like a sanctimonious prick. After all, it is only three weeks since I was doing the exact same thing. Instead of focusing on how annoyed I am that he was asleep by 7pm, I can focus on the fact that I have had the time and space to write, to meal plan for the next week, to watch Brave and to potter around doing little jobs I have put off for months. In the morning, I’ll be hangover free, up early for a run, achieving things on the to do list and mocking hubs for his hangover. As I’m such an amazing wife, I’ll even ensure that he has water and paracetamol on his bedside table to take the edge off my mockery.  

Today, I have spent the day with the people I love walking around Stamford’s most beautiful sights and actually paying attention to them. Even though at times I may have wanted to, I did not have a drink because I know I can’t. And whilst he might have pissed me off a tad this evening, I’m sure I’ve pissed him off enough being drunk and wankery over the last five years. Well, I KNOW I’ve pissed him off enough being drunk and wankery over the last five years! At the end of each day, he is the love of my life and no amount of Saturday night fuckery (or snoring) will change that.

Because tomorrow I will be 23 days sober.

In the words of Princess Merida herself, “Some say fate is beyond our command, but I know better. Our destiny is within us. You just have to be brave enough to see it.”

And Brave is my middle name.

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