Mr.Q returned from a short business trip to New York last night [doesn’t seem quite right to mention to my untold masses that he’s away, while he’s away…not that you’re all creepy, or anything]. He came home bearing gifts: a new bib and jumper for the Magpie and lots o’ chocolate for me! Toblerone and an assortment of dark chocolate bars from the dear old duty free. Yes, there was quite a bit but, hey, it’s good for you.
But, because there was quite a bit, he felt compelled to ask if I would want it all, or should he take some into work?
That’s right: he wanted to know if I didn’t want chocolate. While I may not be PMSing at this exact moment, and am [thankfully] months beyond the baby blues, how stupid do you think I am – no, how crazy is he – to think that I’m going to voluntarily say ‘Yeah, I don’t need all this good quality, premium dark chocolate or nougaty Swiss triangles. Sure! Feed your co-workers instead of your wife who carried your gigantobaby for 9 months and looked after her and the dog and the cat all by herself for the last four days. That’s one hell of an idea!‘.
Oh. Maybe I am PMSing. No, wait, it’s a full moon. Oh, that’s okay then.
Needless to say, I kept all the chocolate. I even have some of it left.