There is a certain supermarket that I really dislike. Recently, I profess to dislike them about 200 times more. They have managed to dupe Stuart into buying 200 plastic balls for a fiver. Nothing wrong with that. Unless you are heavily pregnant and last saw your feet 5 months ago. Every step I take is a voyage of discovery underfoot, especially when Cam decided to empty out all the balls around the ground floor. Yesterday, the fear factor for my feet rose as I kept on stepping on plastic ball after ball. Poor household reverberated with the sounds of my mild swearing followed by a thud as I scraped ball off foot and threw it at the nearest wall. I think that by the time we actually inflate the ball pit (the mecca which all of these dammed balls are destined for) there wont be any left in tact. Same goes for my sanity.
The 200 balls would not have been a problem, if, the boy had decided not to test my agility by empyting all his toys onto the living room floor. And then sitting at the far end of the “toy massacre” wailing to be picked up. Who needs acupressure sandals when you can walk on oddly shaped coloured bricks, wicker baskets, fluffy sheep (ah that was comfy!), plastic knives and forks, a train set and a lot of other misshapen plastic toys?
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1 comment:
Its for your own good. Secretly he is testing your endurance to see if you can join the seceret service.
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