The off button

It's that time of month where I just want to crawl under the duvet and have cups of coffee and magazines brought to me. Where someone will hand me tissues as I bawl my eyes out at how unfair and unkind the world is. Where I can go to sleep and wake up in a few days' time and everything is alright again.

I want to knit. I want to sew. I want to have all the time in the world and not worry about having to have supper on the table on time and getting the kids to bed on time, and then to have time to sit down and watch telly in a tidy and above all clean front room.

Instead, I've got to sort out a pile of financial papers for the final hearing of the divorce. Which should be the last of the divorce but I've said that so many times that I don't believe it myself anymore. Especially as this one is with a different judge *again* and J's financial information is totally out of date, so there's no telling if the judge will decide to give him a chance to update that information.
Instead I've got a mountain of work and a deadline on Wednesday and no chance of relaxing much until then. And at the moment it looks like the next job will be ready and waiting by then.
Instead I've got to fill in my tax return form before the 31 January and I haven't filled in a single box yet and I can't see it happening until after my deadline next Wednesday.
Instead I've got to clean a guinea pig cage, give I. some undivided attention (fortunately she's doing much, much better), return books to the library, find clean clothes for the kids to wear to school, o and at some point maybe I could finish redecorating N's room as he's spent the last 3 months in my room, bringing all his toys and books with him?

And if all that wasn't enough, mum's at the hospital this afternoon for an unscheduled check-up. Probably nothing wrong, nobody seems worried, but at the back of my mind will always be a niggling worry.

I want 4 hours extra every day. Most of all I want someone to make me a coffee and say 'now sit down and I'll wash up'.
Shame that men don't know instinctively that that is what you need until you tell them. The only thing he instinctively knows not to say is 'is it that time of month?'