It’s the only way to describe my mood. I hate the word. It’s the one thing in life I have tried to avoid – and yet, here I am. Bored. No housework to do – nothing. The bloody housekeeper has been here since seven a.m. and I am seriously thinking about firing her. Although Harold would probably hit the roof as he has always thought she was more competent than me. Even his name sounds boring today. Harold. Old fashioned, stuffy and oh so proper! My husband even looks like a Harold, although admittedly a very good looking one. He’s tall with blonde wavy hair, the kind that would look good on a ‘Gone With The Wind’ character or something. In a way he looks similar too – fit and athletic – although not the kind of man that in any way possesses bulky muscles. He is a classic. His British ancestry stipulates his breeding, and in turn shapes him to resemble those men who spend countless days at country clubs playing tennis or golf. From the first day we met he was charming.
