It was that sort of day when:
All the music you listened to on the radio sounded as if it were being played by depressed dogs on violin.
You waited for your toast to toast in an unplugged toaster. You plug it in. And the toast is incinerated. Not quite to the point of flames, but sufficient for carbonised particals to drift in smoking testiment through out your house, hours after the event.
The cat decides that what your house lacks is a bad tempered Adder in the living room. An Adder, to those who need to know, is Britain’s (exclude Northern Ireland – St Patrick got rid of them apparently) only venomous snake.
Your 16 year old daughter wants to discuss “that after the prom sleep over” with Jack (new boyfriend) The same conversation you thought had been satisfactorily exhausted at least twice before. But apparently not.
The dog thanks you for leaving the chicken to defrost at the right height for a snatch grab and run exercise.
You loose your patience with Mr Heinz Ketchup, having not noticed that the ‘anti tamper’ membrane hasn’t been removed. Verbally venting your frustrations as you unsuccessfully tried to sqeeeeeze the f**king contents from its rediculous unecologically sound stupid plastic body. And equally, you never noticed that the window, you threw the still full and unyealding bottle out of, had blown shut. But, you did become very aware. Very very aware!
The day that the £45 unpuncturable tyre on your bike split, the inner tube previously pressurised at 120 psi exploding against your carbon forks with catastrophic results. A “personal best”, “elegant dismount” apparently, so the other guys said. Or tried to whilst unsuccessfully attempting to control their mirth.
Yes. It was one of those days.
A Fathers day of a day.