As we all know, it’s sales time.
Unfortunately it’s also that danged time of the year when the dreaded Tax Undertaker comes sniffing around with his rheumy breath and bony fingers, rattling his musty old change purse, asking for money he claims is rightfully his. Curse his cadaverish frame, unfashionably draped in early 80s goth cloth.
The only two things La wants to be spending los spondies on right now are these:
Yup, NAVY sunnies. And these:
But, no. Not for La. Even on sale!
Despite my constant and sometimes feverish updating of the famiglia financial spreadsheets, La failed to see old jangly purse coming and sticking his claw out for cash*. So no sale shopping for me.
Which is a shame on so many levels, not least of all because la famiglia Trivialista-Seriousimo recently moved los family chattels to beneath some new and slightly less dusty rafters. And I have the best closet of my life, with added room for hiding clandestine purchases not meant for Seriousimo’s eyes.
I spy with my little eye…a secret under-the-eaves cupboard just the right size for shopping bags that need to serve an appropriate custodial sentence until I can sport their contents and truthfully say to Seriousimo, “What? This old thing? Had it for ages…”
Sadly, my secret little cupboard is currently home to nowt but dead fans and heaters, and a couple of wheel-less suitcases.
Speaking of suitcases, here’s the female Junior Cost Centre toting her sparkly one to hospital recently, where they relieved her of her tonsils and adenoids.
She’s doing well, thanks. Let’s hope the removals of the obstructions allows the child finally to SLEEP THROUGH THE NIGHT.
To add to the poor tot’s misery, though, today I dispatched her here:
Yup, we don’t mess around beneath our dusty rafters — we head straight to the professionals.
Ah, the glamour.
*Sadly not the first time La’ve made this mistake! Really must start listening to that accountant…