I own three journals. Three. Okay, to some of you that might not be a lot, but to me, it's two more than I had last year and I'm hoping they keep me somewhat focused and on track with my life.
I guess we'll just have to wait and see.
I didn't come here today to talk about being organised, so I have no idea why I went off on that tangent. In fact, I came here to shame my husband.
If you've read any of my Shit My Husband Says posts,you'll be familiar with our arrangement. He provides the entertainment, I write it down and then he spends the rest of the day lurking in my comment section. You could almost say we were made for each other.
Now, as some of you may know, my husband is Scottish, which loosely translates to, 'he likes to drink!' Now, there's no shame here folks. I can neck a G&T like the best of them, although, I'd go as far as to say that my husband can drink me under the table... and then around the bar a few times. I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen him truly wasted, and when it happens, it's completely magical.
I've been sworn to secrecy over his dalliances with a Syrian bartender. One could say it was a true bromance.
His lying face down in the middle of a street in Finland, partially straddling a lamp post can only be presumed as him trying to, 'fit in' with the locals.
But, it was in fact, his performance on Boxing Day 2015 that became his defining moment.
At my parent's house, a bottle of Jack Daniels in and three sheets to the wind, his sitting position transitioned from vertical to horizontal. His speech became a mumbling of groans and demands for pizza and, being the dutiful wife that I so clearly am, I decided it was high time I dragged his sorry arse home.
After putting on his shoes and throwing him into the back of a taxi, we made the ten, short minutes home, with Scott's distress becoming increasingly apparent.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, face in palms, he began to sob. Long, deep, uncontrollable sobs.
What had happened? Was he hurt, had something terrible befallen this poor soul, what was the problem?
With the most feeble of whimpers, he uttered...
"I have a rash"
Note: Said 'rash' was in fact a particularly vibrant case of beer flush.
And I watched as a whole 6ft of my prime, Scottish husband, wrapped himself up in my duvet and cried himself to sleep.