After failing at saving Dutch’s life with CPR, and the following stresses of getting her finances, husband, kids and grandkids in line (or whatever you’d call that), I’m apparently outwardly bitchy.
I can say even I noticed it in:
When I first got to the house at my gulag, I spent a lot of time telling men to pull up their trousers.
I see this and topless men all.day.long.
Except their drawers are white and thin and their trousers are grey scrubs. Or khaki long shorts.
It irritates me always but lately, if somebody has their trous just 2 inches down their hips (I fully grant this could be from sprung elastic), I snap like brand new, I say, I say!
So that? I was aware.
I had a group of clients on the walk yesterday ask why I was in a bad mood. I was just walking, to me.
Also, clients will say anything to get a response. They’re like paparazzi who take mental snaps and may or may not whip it out right in front of you. That’s called a 15.2.
-are the new readers gone yet?
By 11:30, a parole officer tended a gate for me and asked if he could speak to me. He proceeded with a very dog-faced apology for whatever he didn’t know that he had done to offend or make me angry.
I was flat confused.
He kept rambling a bit even after I told told him no. Then I realised. I reminded him that The Duchess had dropped and I suppose that I wasn’t myself.
He still didn’t believe me, you could tell.
I must be scary as fuck.
Me mean little lady to big, strong men!