Back to the future

Oh God. I have turned into a 1950s' housewife.

"How can this happen, Laura?" I hear you cry. "For you have always championed the cause of feminism. You work in a male-dominated industry, you tackled the extremely sexist world of stand-up comedy and have always been brought up to believe gender stereotypes are wrong! There is less chance of you becoming a 1950s' housewife than getting invited to Annabelle's wedding. (Which will obviously be better than anyone else's wedding. Ever.)"

I understand what you're saying. I feel your grief.

But last night whilst TheBloke (TM) did manful things with putting together a wardrobe, manfully, I:

a) cooked dinner
b) washed up
c) made a cup of tea and brought him chocolate
d) ironed his shirt
e) may have uttered the phrase, "Can I get you anything?"

Balls.

It reminds me of that bloody awful Burt Bacharach song:

Hey, little girl,
Comb your hair,
fix your make-up.
Soon he will open the door.

Don't think because
There's a ring on your finger,
You needn't try any more
For wives should always be lovers, too.
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you.
I'm warning you.

Day after day,
There are girls at the office,
And men will always be men.
Don't send him off
With your hair still in curlers.
You may not see him again.
For wives should always be lovers, too.
Run to his arms the moment he comes home to you.

He's almost here.
Hey, little girl
Better wear something pretty... etc. etc.

That song genuinely makes me feel a little bit sick.

Still, at least there's fuck all chance of having my hair in curlers. Me and my extremely straight hair gave up that quest a long time ago. Other than that, I shall be spending the rest of the day finding something pretty to wear and worrying about the girls in the office. Not. And the last time I ran anywhere... actually, I can't really remember the last time I ran anywhere.

Right. Off to make stock from scratch whilst I darn some socks, lovingly.

Christ, I think too much annual leave has sent me a bit mental.