in bed, sleeping, at 6.50am this morning, and the LAST tradie arrives to acid-wash/cure the fence. No problems.
Then he rings the doorbell, oh, about 8 times - DINGDONG, DINGDONG, DINGDONG ... and another 5. I look terrific with bedhair, floral jammie pants and an old shirt. The firstborn awakes and comes to see what all the commotion is about.
So he just wants to know if we're painting the render later on ( yes, but like, we've only told a million tradies already, who the hell is your boss, and thanks for getting me up for this, old man )
I go back inside and notice he has parked his ute on my new driveway. The 'police tape' has been broken and he is parked ON THE DRIVEWAY.
I run back out 'Excuse me, is this your car ? ... you can't park here, we've been told not to use the driveway until Monday"
"It is Monday. It won't hurt it" ( ok, so i'm half-asleep and disorientated )
"Monday NIGHT. You'll have to move"
What a f'n cheek - it's not up to him, whoever he is, to tell ME he can park in my drive anyway. No other tradie has parked in our driveway to date, the old OR the new, and I don't want his shitty ute to be the first to LEAK OIL and crap all over my MILLION-DOLLAR* driveway.
So he moved it, but sullenly.
Meanwhile, the front door slammed shut and i'm outside in jammies. MC tells me he can't reach the door, and i'm yelling at the door for him to 'go get a chair' and let me in. This takes a while as MC really doesn't see why he should have to assist ( little brat ).
What a fabulous morning.
* Not really, but it's new, and cost money. It's like when you buy a new pair of shoes or whatever. Do you let your girlfriend with the crusty callouses borrow them before you get a chance to wear them first ?
No, of course you don't...