Sunday morning The Beast (for those that don’t know, the beast is me when I’ve been unceremoniously woken up) was awoken: firstly at 5.30 by a debate over whether a cycling event was going to take place in the god awful weather. Several text messages that I heard through lovely tap tapping of haptic feedback and a couple of phone calls later it was established that the event was cancelled: could you not have simply gone and stood outside for a minute my love, that would have told you all you needed to know surely (gale force winds and torrential rain do tend to be a bit of a giveaway)?
Woken again at 8.20. What kind of idiot would wake me twice in one morning: answers on a postcard please. Was I woken the safest way known to man: with a kiss and a cup of tea? No, no I wasn’t. I was, in fact, woken by the dulcet tones of football pundits talking over a match he had already watched, in full, LAST NIGHT:
“HE SHOOTS! HE SCORES! WHAT A BEAUTIFUL GOAL!”
He even, despair with me here readers, he even started drumming the Match Of The Day tune on.the.mattress. That’s right, Drumming It. I eventually open my eyes, slowly turning to face him to give him one of my menacing stares: eyes glued to screen. Sigh. In a rage I wrap myself in all of the duvet. That’s right: all of it. Which he tries to take some back of. But I am Queen of the duvet covers. All of it is mine and mine alone.
“I’m a little bit hot now under all these covers”
“Good, I hope you combust”
Now, my love, the rule is if you are going to insist on waking me up very early (for me) on a Sunday morning (my last day off and lie in for the foreseeable future) please remember that if your arm has a cup of tea at the end of it you are much less likely to wake the beast and you could probably even get away with putting the football on without me snarling and growling at you.
Tea first. Always. Tea.First