Tag Archives: nighttime worrying

The Not Waving But Ironing Nighttime Worrying Index

At last, the gods have smiled on the Not Waving family – Mr Not Waving has landed a job! A permanent one, where you get to take home actual money every month! Anyway, given this exciting news, I have been able to adjust the Not Waving But Ironing Nighttime Worrying Index. ‘Money’ has been knocked off the top spot that it’s held for the last year and a half, and straight in at number one with a bullet, is… ‘Son’s speech and language impairment leading to educational failure and downward spiral in life’, while holding on to the number two position is golden oldie ‘Does everyone think I’m a twat?’. Here’s the top 10 run-down in full.

1. Son’s speech and language impairment leading to educational failure and downward spiral in life
2. Does everyone think I’m a twat?
3. Cellulite
4. Possibility of death in car crash: husband’s, children’s, mine, extended family’s, friends’, neighbours’, etc
5. Breast droop
6. Developing a horrible illness: husband, children, me, etc (see 4, above, for full listing)
7. Husband leaving me for vivacious younger model with upward-pointy breasts
8. Why are there cruel and evil people in the world? Why?
9. Money
10. Random attack by knife-wielding loon

Now don’t worry, readers – Mr NW may have found work, but I remain staunchly unemployable. A couple of commissioning editors I worked for fairly regularly last year are now not even replying to my emails. And the final blow to my confidence came on Friday, in the form of this note in my son’s book bag:
‘Thank you for volunteering to accompany class 2R on our trip to Leeds Castle on Tuesday. However, we have all the parent-helpers we need for this particular outing, so we will not be taking up your kind offer this time.’

And this morning I found this under my pillow:
‘Dear Not Waving But Ironing
Thank you for your efforts to date, but I have decided to take care of wiping myself from now on. As such, I will no longer be requiring your services.
Yours sincerely
Your Arse’

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