I woke up this morning, and it was a toss up between wishing I hadn't at all, and wishing I had woken up in a far off magical land where there may or may not be flying monkeys and little orange people and a yellow brick road. Because let me tell you, I would far prefer to put up with a few wicked witches than what I faced through bleary eyes when I took a look around my apartment.
Actually, I may well already be in Oz. Because quite honestly? It looks as though a farmhouse has fallen on my living room. Either that or a mess bomb has gone off very quietly.
I don't like mess. At all. But at the moment? It would take a whole party of explorers to hack their way with machetes through the wilderness that is Katetopia. It's a jungle in here.
I would love nothing more than to stick my head back under the covers, block my ears with the doona and not do a triage assessment of the site, but if I have any hope of sitting on my sofa in the next 24 hours then a clean up is going to have to happen.
Maybe one of the Oompa Loompas sabotaged me. I don't know. But somehow, between my return from swashbuckling with the Dread P and today, my usually neat and tidy abode has become a post-nuclear apocalyptic awfulness, and it just won't do.
So to the lifeboats!
Or at least the vacuum cleaner and Mr Sheen.
Is there a reward for cleaning your place up instead of doing fun stuff? Aside from not contracting bubonic plague that is.
Maybe (she says brightening) there could be some new shoes at the end of this grubby rainbow!
Suddenly things don't seem quite so grim...