There’s an old saying, it’s quite famous and you’ve probably heard it before.  You know the one that goes:

“there’s no point crying over spilled milk”

But I think there is a point, like when it makes your car smell like vomit even after spending an hour vigorously scrubbing the floor and mats and all around the gear stick and handbrake…

Thanks Alex.  Thanks a bunch.

This is just one more reason I don’t drink milk but now I’m seriously tempted to go vegan; there’s little as disgusting as the smell of putrid three-day-old gone-off milk.

It happened as Alex drove home from his market on Wednesday, apparently most of a litre of the white liquid pouring out of a bottle and all over the car.

He said he’d cleaned it but I should have known better than to leave it at that.  After all:

1. he’s a boy
2. he’s Alex

But I thought he knew how bad it would smell if it wasn’t cleaned up properly.  Apparently not.  The rancid, gut-churning stench this morning as he opened the car was quite the shocker for him.

I can’t moan on and on about sour milk or you’ll never read my scribbles again so let’s move on.

In other news, I got a million different jobs done today including jewellery photography, visiting my aunt in the nursing home, hoovering and cleaning the house, laundry (washed and dried), dropping/collecting Alex to/from his market, a quick walk with the dogs, a little light retail therapy (including returning a few pieces I recently bought which made me feel like I wasn’t actually spending money on the new pieces I picked up today – score!) and of course the aforementioned car-scrubbing which now feels like it was a waste of time.

As a result of all that, I’m currently gulping down a rather steeeeerong G&T and getting ready to become comatose for the rest of the evening in front of the tv.

Ah yes, another wild Saturday night.

Ciao darlings!

Lizzie xxxx