Chicken Cottaging.

Ahhh, the climax of the footballing season. Thousands and thousands of eager, nervy men flock to pubs everywhere and drank gratuitously celebrating the pink tickets that only a big final can guarantee.

Of course this man free-ness is a huge giant enormous and every other word which means ‘big’ excuse for ladies everywhere to flock together and talk about the crucial matters….the things that really keep us awake at night. How often we all get laid. Of course, loudly in a small restaurant. Always! Over a litre of cheap house wine….yes, of course. I excelled myself by eating my own dinner and then most of Sams.

Arrived home, squiffy, tired and happy. A rerun of Eastenders, The Apprentice and then some light hearted documentary about childhood anorexia later I snoozed off. In the early hours I was awoken by my unruly boyfriend phoning me and telling me he was in a cab. Some time later I became aware of some rumbling and commotion in the bedroom and then stillness. I woke up to the potent whiff of greasy chicken and chips wafting around the bedroom and no sign of boyfriend. Brilliant. I felt like the owner of some mangy cat who had proudly caught me a magpie and deposited it in the kitchen, only slightly less proud. Several hours later I discovered Steve passed out on the sofa in his pants, looking very drunk and very erm, well, dishelleved. Men!!!! This morning I discovered the offending ‘Chicken Cottage’ in the bedroom. Tonight is date night….cue arguments, bickering and recrimination. Tra la la. I’ll try not to, honest!