Younger Son didn't get the job.
As a wannabe writer I'm used to rejection. It always hurts but I can treat it with resignation, expectation even. It's like being out in the rain wearing a plastic mac: there's a black cloud over you and you feel damp but the worst of the downpour just runs off your mac.
It's different when it's your child being rejected.
I want to rant and shout at the idiots who didn't give him the job. How dare they? He was well-qualified and enthusiastic: he wanted this job and he'd have been good at it. I'd like to slap them and tell them how stupid they're being.
Or go along and argue with them and explain why they should offer him the job, and point out what a big mistake they're making. Mutter, mutter.
But I won't do anything. Except cuddle my big monster, and buy him chocolate Hobnobs, and try not to nag.
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Husband has confirmed my diagnosis: the washing-machine's bottom has fallen out. Unfortunately there's no known cure. WM was described as DOA.
We've been out to look at replacements this morning. You wouldn't believe how many buttons and knobs some of them have. Or different wash cycles. There's a Sports Wash, a Baby Wash, a Starch Wash. (Starch? Who uses starch these days?) For goodness' sake, I've given up trying to use the video recorder (if there's something on that I want to see and I'm going to be out, well then, I'll just miss it) but I can't not wash clothes. It's got to be simple; I don't have a child of six to hand.
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Shane Williams, one of Wales's sparkling wings, says, after last night's 61-26 victory over Canada, that Wales can beat the All Blacks. You have to admire his confidence. Some of us would say, 'Not if they play like they played yesterday.'
Still if you're playing the All Blacks, probably the best team in the world at the moment, and you don't have that confidence, you might as well stay in bed.