Stinky Sundays

It's Sunday and as expected the Mothership is shouting at someone. *sigh*

Having just spent a moment with my ear outside the door, I have identified that she is having a go at the Kid, who has opened a packet of biscuits into the desperate-for-a-clean biscuit container. When will he learn? When will he switch his brain on? However, the damage is done. She will remain in a shitty mood all day, wishing for death (and I hate it when she does that) then maybe arguing with Father Bear when he comes back from B&Q. Today has just gone tits up.

The Kid, upon questioning, told me to "get off my fucking high horse", so I am no longer on speaking terms with him until an apology is forthcoming. Twat. I don't know why he thinks he is so special that he can get away without contributing to the household. If I were my parents, I'd take money off him as its the only thing he really cares about. However, if I suggested it, I would be forcibly reminded that they didn't take money off me until I was 19/20, naturally forgetting that I have always contributed to the chores without audible protestations while my brother, when asked to empty the dishwasher, whines in disgust as if the task were too low for him and then leaves it for days, until someone else does it out of frustration. Once again, twat.

I shouldn't really be sat here. I should be tidying the bombsite that is my bed at present, then once that is done I need to pull out the books for an hour. Today is going to be so much fun.