Check mate?! Hmm, bollocks to this!

I cannot quite put into words how utterly, gobsmackingly enraged I am that we are, yet again, in the thralls of some evil, poxy, bastard disease that has rendered one of us utterly useless. But I'll try. The reason I am especially indignant at the affrontery of this particular, randomly malicious viral bleurghch is that the afflicted one and I are meant to be going to L'Ortolan next Friday to make up for all the times over the last fifteen months that we've been unable to celebrate all the things that we've felt were celebration worthy: a happy conclusion to my horrid, horrid pregnancy and my ghastly, ghastly childbirth; the advent of my 30th Birthday a year ago; Rob's no longer having that piffling, bothersome gall bladder, and me trying to feel good about having to finish breastfeeding earlier than I'd wanted by putting a positive spin on the whole affair (the return to some semblance of freedom, no more hideous maternity bras, my boobs belonging to me again rather than a tiny little ravenous goblin). The last straw came when a big deal was being made about his work Christmas do, for which I had bought a lovely, expensive (for me - no H&M here, I tell you!) dress and an arsenal of Estee Lauder products to ensure I made a fabulous post-baby, post-breastfeeding debut. I even had a really proper fascist skincare regime leading up to it that included Eve Lom masks and preparations for my hands and nails. This was a big deal. Are you getting that? Good. So you will begin to understand the impending sense of injustice I have at the threatened cancellation of YET ANOTHER big night out and a chance for us to simply enjoy each other's company and feel like a couple again who...errr...like spending time together in a grownuppy way and that. Yes, I know I'm a giant middle class whingy pants but I'm afraid I simply am not of the school of you-can't-have-had-it-that-bad-because-you've-never-been-stuck-in-a-desert-with-fifteen-children-no-limbs-and-a-pack-of-hyenas-awaiting-your-demise-with-only-a-pipecleaner-to-defend-yourself. Having a big fat whinge is everyone's constitutional right (probably) and I feel that it's rather cathartic after the catalogue of bollocks we've ploughed our way through recently. Get pissed off, rail at the gods or hamsters or beetles or whoever's running the show these days, get over it, move on. Bourgeois Petulance, over and out. For now.