At work, tired and I think possibly a bit hung over. Although I only had 4 (or at the very most) 5 glasses of white wine. Hardly a rip-snorting rock 'n' roll lifestyle bender really.
Mind you, I don't usually drink at all during the week, so maybe I'm just not used to feeling a bit fragile at work.
Woke up at 6 this morning to discover the lovely Mr WithaY missing from his half of the marital bed. When questioned later, he told me I had almost shoved him out onto the floor in the middle of the night. Well, makes a change from waking him up by screaming in my sleep.
"Why didn't you shove me back over my side?" I asked him.
"You were fast asleep so I went to the spare room to let you sleep" he said. What a nice bloke, eh?
His realisation that I needed to sleep might have had something to do with my incessant whining all evening about the horribly early start I'd had to the day. I had to be in London for 9.30 am, which meant catching the 6:45 train. Which meant leaving home by 6:20. Gah.
Coming home in the evening, there was the (by now) traditional rail-related fuckwittery. Got the train out of Waterloo in good time. Looking at connections and so on I thought I'd manage to get home by about half six. Not too bad at all, really.
All went well until Salisbury, where I have to change trains.
Hopped off the train, wandered to the wall of a thousand screens to see when my train would get in....nothing. No train till the one at quarter to seven. In an hour and a half. The one in the meantime, just missing. No explanation or anything. Just a gap where a train should be.
Rather than wait, fuming, at the station for an hour and a half I rang Mr WithaY. He very kindly came and fetched me from the station on his way home from work, dropping me back at the local station so I could pick my car up. By the time we got home, it was gone 7.
Hence the decision to go to the pub for dinner, hence the unplanned outbreak of hilarity and drinking. A good end to a rather shit day.
One of our neighbours was talking about Facebook.
"Did you know there's a Facebook for dogs?" he asked us.
"Is there really?" said another neighbour, not a Facebook user, obviously. "How do dogs operate the keyboard?"
He mimed a dog trying to type. Try it, it's very, very funny. Or maybe that was just the wine. There was a long thoughtful silence as we digested his question.
"Well" said Mr WithaY, "My computer has a paws button."