Last week I was sat at a bus stop, fuming, when I got a call from my Mum.
Now I was fuming for three reasons:
1) The bus was late, again. Which meant that not only was I late to meet my mate L. for her birthday tea, but I was going to arrive with wet, flat hair that looked like I’d sprayed it on from a can. And as my lovely mate @ScouseBirdProbs tweeted the other day, “It’s better to arrive late than arrive ugly.” It’s sly when someone arrives both though.
2) I’d realised at half 5 that I’d forgotten to get a gift bag for L.‘s pressies, so I’d had to trek up what seemed like a never-ending flight of stairs in six inch heels to the 99p shop to buy one. When I got there it turned out you could only buy them in a pack of four – and as I stood there trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to do an extra three gift bags, I managed to lash half a cup of tea over myself that I’d just bought from Cafe Nero’s in anticipation for a ‘nice relaxing bus journey’.
and 3) I was sat at a bus stop in the rain. Which is about as far away from my happy place as you can get.
So I’m sat there, fuming, and my Mum rings – and I could tell from the minute she started speaking that she wanted something. Now I learnt from a very young age that when my Mum asks for a favour it’s invariably going to be something I don’t want to do. I also learnt from a young age that failure to comply with said favour is going to result in a swift, but agonising, poke in the ribs and a right earful while while the favour proceeds to go ahead anyway.
“…so what are you doing at Thursday at two? I need a favour…” and before I could rack my brain for literally anything that was happening at 2pm on Thursday, she’d carried on, “there’s a photographer coming round to take some pictures of the hedgehogs and they want a pic of me and you with them.”
I should probably explain this a bit more.
Some of you will probably already know that my little Ma had adopted a disabled hedgehog from the rescue – well, about a week ago she adopted another called Mr. Prickleless because, well, he hasn’t got any prickles.
Anyway, somehow – and I’m still not completely sure of the details – she ended up getting interviewed by a features writer about her new baldy friend.
I’m also still not completely sure how I managed to get caught up in the whole shebarcle, but long story short, last week I was in many, many national papers grinning like a sociopath and holding a Mr. Prickleless – and if you want, you can read his story here.
Until next time… x