I swear it was Christmas five minutes ago.
I was stuffing my face with pigs in blankets to the point I looked like one, loudly declaring “new year, new me” to absolutely anyone within earshot…
When in reality, me and my much better half were still demolishing picky bits five minutes after midnight on New Year’s Eve.
And now it’s March.
Which means if I want to stuff my face this month, I need to remortgage for a fifty-quid Easter egg.
(Okay, slight exaggeration… but I’m fairly sure even the Easter Bunny is side-eyeing these chocolate prices.)
Things can only get better, right?
Wrong.
World Book Day.
I’ve got two crotch goblins in primary school.
Which means:
Finding two books we can pretend we’ve actually read (instead of just watching the film).
Two costumes. Not shit ones.
And trying very hard not to remember the night before when I’m hot-gluing my sanity together at 10pm.
And then… Mother’s Day.
Woohoo.
The annual celebration of our never-ending hard work.
By which I mean: we organise the day ourselves and someone might make us a coffee if the stars align.
January lasted 47 years.
I’ve had shits longer than February.
And now?
Welcome to March, bitches.
Parents. Sorry.
Another month of being poor.
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