I’m married to a saint… and sometimes I want to kill him

So I don’t know if I mentioned it, but last month I got a lovely new car. It’s beautiful. Air con, power steering, great sound system, doesn’t have the tendency for sporadic epileptic fits as soon as I hit 100km/hr, doesn’t require a broom handle to hold the boot open. All in all, by my standards pretty darn luxurious. Driving it makes me feel happy. It makes me WANT to run random errands.

Ok, so now you know, I love the new car.

Unfortunately I have pretty much forgotten what it looks like. Why? Because my darling, wonderful, generous husband, ever so kindly lent it to his boss’s wife for 3 weeks while he had to use their vehicle for work purposes.

Where does that leave me? Well it leaves me driving a cranky piece of ... rubbish which has absolutely no heating system whatsoever. As a result I have been coughing up lungs for the last month.

“Last month?” You ask. “But I thought it was a 3 week loan.” You and me both!

You see the 3 weeks ended on Saturday, but now the car he has been driving needs a service and new parts and stuff, so in the meantime I continue driving the … crud car.
Which is fine… What’s a little hypothermia between friends….

Except that for the past two mornings it has BROKEN DOWN ON MY WAY TO WORK!!
(I am so calm… I am SO FRIKKEN CALM…. I AM SO BLUDDY FRIKKEN CALM!!!!!!)

This morning I had a staff of petrol attendants pushing the pile of cr… crud. Until FINALLY, EVENTUALLY it came to life again.

Anyway, being married to a saint is sometimes not all that heavenly