No use crying over spilt milk...

...except I did. And here is why:
- the milk was on my bed (not ours in this situation) and spilt all over the lovely crisp and clean bedding
- it soaked through my jeans (clean on today) onto my knickers (obviously clean on today) and onto my cardi (yep, you guessed it - clean on today)
- my husband told me to calm down
- that sentence makes me anything but calm
- and then he said 'It's no big deal' and that's because he put the beaker FULL OF MILK on the uneven bed in the first place
- plus he isn't the one who has to change the bed for the second time in two days. Who likes changing beds? Apart from nurses in the 1950s...
- he doesn't have to wash and iron the bedding, or the jeans, ditto the top and cardi
- he has a lot to answer for when it comes to the reason I was so grouchy in the first place. I was hungry. He never wants dinner when he gets in from work and prefers to eat later, at about 8.30pm. This means I go to bed full up on food and burping like a frog. That's not nice. For anyone. It annoys me. Daily.
- Add into this mix tiredness because baby girl woke up at 6.20am which is an unsociable hour for anyone but the milkman. Especially when you go to bed after midnight.
- Put a dash of annoying girl next door who had asked me to take her shopping for her mum's birthday present (I did) then invited herself for tea after spotting the homemade lasagne, then asked to have one of the cards from my birthday card stash to give to her mum (sorry, but I can be a bit tight when it comes to stuff like that) then she didn't leave until I practically forced her from the house. At bath time. I felt like I'd been bullied by a nine year old with skin thicker than a rhino.

Stir all these ingredients up and the result? Mummy crying over spilt milk.