I came into work on Friday and told New Girl all about my dissatisfaction with my morning so far.
I had been standing in the kitchen, moodily munching on a piece of toast while Grumpy did his ironing when he said, "Do you want to come for a run down to Bunbury tomorrow?"
"Well, not really, I've already made plans with Scarab."
"It might not be tomorrow, could be Sunday."
"I'm taking Bay Leaf and Machiavelli to the movies on Sunday."
"Christ Almighty, you're so bloody inflexible!"
There then ensued what is known in the Grumpyberry household as a frank exchange of views. This was followed by a refreshing air of tension and discord.
After relating the story to New Girl (who was in stitches; I don't know why) I added, "Flexibility! He wants flexibility. I'll bloody well give him flexibility - see how flexible he is about having to cook his own meals in the evening." This was followed up by a great deal of hmph-ing and tsk-ing which I managed to sustain for the most of the day until I got home and Grumpy told me he wouldn't be going to Bunbury after all, at which point my sunny disposition miraculously returned and I whipped up a delicious batch of lamb cutlets.
When I saw New Girl on Monday morning she showed me a card she'd bought on the weekend that reminded her of me. On the front was a picture of a beaming 1950s housewife holding a bountiful platter of food. Over the top of the picture were the words: "The secret ingredient is resentment."