I think it's safe for everyone to come out now.
I don't hate everyone anymore. Just a few choice creatures who warrant my wrath.
That's one thing you can rely on hormones for: their inconsistency. You won't feel like the arss-end of a donkey for days and days; they'll just pick and choose a day to make you the world's biggest bitch and then leave again.
Anyway, the end point is a-coming. In just over a week I leave work. And just on time too. The commute is fast becoming the bane of my existence, and is certainly the worst part of my day.
Walking any sort of distance is starting to become a task of marathonic proportions.
But there is light at the end of the tunnel. The of next week should see the final curtain of the house renovations, with the finale being our kitchen. Which evidently, I'm told, will be "practically slotted into place."
So, all building and dust should come to its final resting place at the apex of when I finish work and start maternity leave.
Our floors have been beautifully sanded and glazed. Where before they had been stained quite dark, and years of wear and tear meant they'd been chipped and scuffed - we finally came home after two days of sanding and dust to this:
The problem is, because we've moved so much stuff around the house, from one room to the next, and everything is bundled in a big ball of dust - I can't seem to find my maternity records or passport.