My first job was sorting the Easter card spinner, because apparently people are

a)  too blind and

b)  too stupid to put the cards back into their correct slots.

And, of course, the whole time I was trying to sort them, people were spinning the spinner round and round, taking out cards, and putting those back incorrectly, too.

I was literally like: Please ask for assistance if this is beyond you.

Afterwards I had a lesson in how to use the steamer, which is basically a massive industrial-strength iron. It boils water like a kettle, and then blows it out through a nozzle that you use to run over the clothes to take the creases out. Sadly, it doesn’t make anything smell better, but Emma was just like: “For tough jobs, there’s this,” and she spritzed Febreze. “Fragrant floral freshness.”

I was just like: “Now it smells of public toilet,” and Emma went: “Hmmmmmm, delicious,” and smelled the crusty armpit of the shirt we were steaming, and we laughed.

Pat didn’t speak all morning, and she seemed genuinely inconvenienced Emma and I were having a nice time. When she finally snapped out of it, she was like: “Phoebe, I hear your mother is in Syria at the moment.”

Me: Yes.

Pat: Kate says she’s helping to build a hospital?

Me (thinking: Why are you asking me this when you already know the answer?): Yes.

Pat: She’s ever so brave.

Me:…

Pat: And your father was ever so brave, too. You must miss him.

Me: Not really.

Pat (jaw literally hitting the table):…

I’m sorry, but I really hate it when people say shit like that. It’s like saying: Oh, it must be so difficult living without that third arm you never had.

I’m really annoyed that Kate can tell the whole world about my life, but when I ask one thing about Emma, she’s all like: Oh, sorry, I can’t possibly open my big Scottish mouth.

Maybe I should tell Kate I don’t want to work for her after all.

You know what they say: Don’t shit where you eat.

Still no posts from Emma I could like. A post I chose not to like was Polly’s: “Lazy Sunday with the boy,” and a picture of their feet sticking out from under a fluffy blanket. I can’t even.

I spent an hour trying to WhatsApp Mum, but the connection was so bad we had to give up.

Kate was like: “I’m sorry, Phoebe,” but I was like: “It’s not your fault. Plus, I don’t actually care.”

Kate looked at me, and she was like: “You do care, Phoebe. Amelia’s your mum.”

I really don’t, though. Mum only calls because she loves to hear the sound of her own voice. I get it, the whole ticking-boxes-at-work thing, but ticking boxes at home? Forcing conversation with people just because you’re related? I don’t think so.

Teacher training day tomorrow, so I’m going to the thrift shop.

Monday, March 5 #Revelations