It’s respite night again

The fortnight has drifted round again to respite night, but who wants to keep hearing about the same thing all the time? I figure that when I get to the, “I’m boring myself now”, stage it’s already too late for everyone else.

Also, Himself and Myself are not the best of friends right at the moment. I won’t bore you. I’ll probably get over it. I don’t want to get over it, I’m really annoyed, but I probably will. Actually, I think being in the I-don’t-want-to-get-over-it portion of the cycle probably means I’m almost done with the wanting-to-wring-his-neck portion.

Almost.

And now I can hear my Mother telling me I shouldn’t say things like that because what if something happened and that was the last thing I’d said. So I’m leaving it there but my internal monologue provided by my Mother who lives hundreds of miles from me has guilted me in to getting over my gripes.

I hate that.

Because I hate it I’m sticking with using “Himself” instead of “Hub”, because Himself doesn’t like it.

Also, is it as crowded in your head as it is in mine?

Which brings me to why I started this post in the first place – potatoes. (They didn’t drag this Ulster woman far from the field, ‘eh?)

Do you remember Tuesday when I thought my kids had been switched with happy kids and 16 was tormenting me by saying “potato”, every now and then in a high-pitched phoney Irish voice? Well, my good friend Janet sent me a link to a recording of Cheryl Wheeler singing a whole song in praise of potatoes, to the tune of The Mexican Hat Dance. I’ve been meaning to post it ever since.

Yes, I’m that quick at getting round to doing things.

So, for your delectation and delight this Friday, I give you Cheryl Wheeler and The Potato Song, enjoy. No, really, watch and enjoy, it’s fun. It’s also earworm material so consider me NOT liable for that.