Twiggy left for work early this morning and when I woke to the sounds of a screaming toddler and two   very demanding little people standing next to my bed holding cereal boxes, I found evidence of him getting ready EVERYWHERE.

Jocks on the floor, clothes thrown on top of the dirty clothes bin and his breakfast dishes not put in the dishwasher. It’s not rocket science. It’s not hard. And before I hear his cries of not wanting to wake me up, I call bullshit. Dude, I keep telling you: “The amount of sex you get is directly proportional to amount of simple household tasks you complete, depending on whether it’s an odd or even day, during a heatwave or towards the end of financial year. You get my drift. Just clean up after yourself”.

I miss you this morning, but I don’t miss your mess (which I cleaned up AGAIN, by the way).

Do ever feel like a slave in your own home?

bigwords x