Sleepyhead...

It was an interesting day yesterday.

Having scaled the Mount Everest of bravery on Sunday with my cortisone injection, after the obligatory sofa time (on the husband's instructions - I do love him in that blue dress and red cape) we headed off to our local pub for a pub quiz.  Now those of you who have been with me for some time will know that I have a habit of going to these quizzes with The Mother, Mrs Jangles and Miss R.  We normally get what I call a 'podium', ie, top three, so it was with an optimistic mood that we headed off to the pub.

For some reason, I was really thirsty (all that dry mouth fear I expect) so I necked down two Diet Cokes rather quickly before gathering my team around me (the husband, Miss R, Mrs Jangles, son number one (there was food, of course he was there) and Mrs S (she who can and does roll out of this pub on many occasions).

Now I thought we had a damn fine mix of ages and interests with this team - surely it was in the bag?  Well it turned out that the sport questions which were directed to the males in the team, were about the wrong kind of sport (croquet and the Tour de France are not real sports apparently).  When the horse racing questions cropped up (please excuse that terrible pun) Mrs Jangles, who goes racing every week, failed to get a single answer right, claiming that she knew nothing about Cheltenham or races with jumps.  

So we came last.  

But it didn't really matter - we had a great time and it finished in time for Poldark, so all was well in my world.

Falling into bed at 10.30, I shut my eyes in anticipation of a full seven hours snoozies.  My brain had other ideas though, and as I shut my eyes, my Coke-fuelled brain switched everything on and I was like a rabbit in the headlights. I gave it a good attempt at getting to sleep, eventually giving up at midnight, and then again at 3.00am, finally managing to drop off at around 4.20, thus achieving the grand total of seventy minutes sleep.

I hadn't really minded being awake overnight, as I got all the washing done.  Is that weird? I also made my packed lunch and cleared through the downstairs rooms. Unfortunately, my achievements in the domestic goddess department counted for diddly squat at around 11.00am, when my mouth started working independently of my brain. Tanked up on black coffee, I headed off to the hairdressers for my routine trim.  As the handsome Joe combed my hair, I told him about Sunday night, and how I had considered borrowing a cone of shame from the vets so that I could have a snooze while he cut my hair.

By 4.00pm, my nocturnal rabbit in the headlights had turned into something quite different.

Roadkill...