I am not a morning person.
When I have to get up and go to work, I'm fine but, on weekends, and during the Dog Days of unemployment, just leave me in bed till 8:30.
Fluffy Bear is away, however, so I had to get up early to feed Puppy Dog and, in spite of trying hard to stay comatose, my brain woke up, so going back to bed wasn't an option.
So I plonked my irritable self on the sofa.
Then I heard a car horn. It blasted. Then it blasted some more. Then it just kept going.
Was someone beeping for a friend outside their house and was too damn lazy to go and ring the doorbell?
Was someone having a major road rage incident?
Whatever it was, I wasn't impressed.
I opened my front door, and let my feelings be known. As you know, I can project my voice.
"SHOOSH!" I boomed.
2 seconds after my yell, the horn beeped again. Then again. And again.
Were they mocking me?
Oh, HELL no!
I stomped across to the bedroom, slapped a baseball cap over my bed hair, pulled a tracksuit top over my PJs, snapped the locks on the front door and barrelled outside to find the culprit and blurt the rude speech I'd been practising in my head.
And then I saw them.
Two guys in overalls bending over a very familiar looking car.
Our old clunker died yesterday. They had come down from the garage to fix it.
My inner voice - never one to let me off easy - said:
"Good morning, Stoopid."