Grockles.

OK so I'm going to have a bit of a rant now. Bloody, bloody holidaymakers! We run a small business looking after holiday cottages. It's stressful and hard work, but flexible and only needs two or three days work a week, in theory. At least that's what we thought when we started it five years ago. It was fun then, it's not anymore. Richard runs it you see, or he did. When he had his heart attack I was forced to take over. Now I know it's how we earn our living, and I know the show must still go on and all that. But when you've been working your whatsits off, are worried sick about your husband who's in hospital, trying to run a business that you usually don't have much to do with and have a disabled child still on school holiday, the last thing you need is someone calling you on a Sunday afternoon to moan that they have been given the wrong colour towels!! I kid you not. The complaint wasn't that the towels were dirty, smelly, tatty, nothing wrong with them at all, they were just the wrong colour. Apparently they should have been blue and I had put white ones in. I really think some people have too much time on their hands. And why is it that as soon as someone books a holiday they loose the ability to read. When you book a holiday cottage you're told what time you can get in and what time you should leave by. It says it in big letters on the sheet you get back. So why does no one take any notice of it??! Please, please respect the in and out times if you book a holiday. They are there for a reason. Mind you I'm sure there are those who think they are the only ones in the whole country who ever go on holiday. Likewise there are cottage owners who are convinced they are the only people with a holiday cottage that needs looking after.
On a brighter note Richard is home and doing remarkably well considering. In fact to look at him you wouldn't know there was anything wrong with him. I'm veering between wanting to hit something and wanting to burst into tears. Jamie starts school full time next week and I'm worried about him. He copes so well with anything that's thrown his way, or seems to. But that's the problem. I sometimes worry that he's too like me. I cope with everything thrown my way until I reach a certain point. Once I reach that point it all goes tits up and I end up in a gibbering heap, on the happy pills and sobbing on the councilors shoulder. And the day after Jamie's first day at school we have to take him to Plymouth (60ish miles) to see his neurosurgeon. I have seventy odd sets of bed linen to wash, dry and iron before Friday, and the tax return to get started on. Oh bloody hell!
So rant over, thank you for listening. I feel a bit better now.
(Grockles is the Cornish for holidaymaker.)