I am having a stressful week.
07.30, in my dressing gown, rooting around under the sink for a new washing up liquid. Lose my temper, decide the cupboard is too messy and needs tidying (it really did), so I pull everything out onto the kitchen floor.
The door goes. Simultaneously, the cat is sick on the oiled wood floor, which marks very easily, meaning that vom in its vicinity constitutes a domestic emergency.
I open the door, hair all over the place, to find a bloke standing there in a high vis jacket. 'I'm Paul', he says. I look at him blankly. 'I'm doing your patio?' he says. The question mark is not tentative. It is an an 'Oh my God, she's mental and I should speak slowly' kind of question mark.
'That's supposed to be TOMORROW' I wail.
He shrugs.
'I suppose you need to come into the back garden?' I say.
I then discover that the gate to the back garden is locked and the only key is in DH's pocket. DH has left for work and is already in a meeting.
'You'd better come through the house' I say. He does so, with a politely concealed raised eyebrow at the puddle of cat vom and a kitchen floor covered with about seventy bottles of almost-used cleaning stuff.
I decide that I need to use a hacksaw to remove the padlock on the gate. I decide that the situation needs to be rectified immediately, and there is no time to change. I march down to the shed, resplendent in my dressing gown, trying to look queenly and unconcerned. I march back up the garden with a hacksaw. I begin to attack the padlock with gusto. I am making good progress and I am showing that I can cope in spite of it all.
Eventually, after what seems like an age, the padlock is off. 'TADA!' I say, while spinning around in triumph. At this moment, my dressing gown somehow moves faster than I do and flaps wide open. And I am wearing nothing but a pair of granny knickers.
Oh God. It is not my day.