I had to kill my husband today.
We've all been sick, with gastro of course, and the toilet blocks up.
Brave and fearless he marches out, before work, armed with five metres of poly-pipe and a grim expression.
And as he stands there, sweating, covered in...well, he stands there and he looks at me and says 'we should have got a builder's report before we bought the house'.
So I killed him and buried him in the pit of poo.
I'm going to find the former owner too, and possibly the real estate agent - it'll be a three-git pit then.
However, I did restrain from saying ‘I told you so’.
Next time he assures me that ‘everything will be ok, don't worry, that's not necessary’, I'll remember this moment.
Until then, I'll just continue humping my sick four-year-old and five-year-old on my back through the frost to the outback dunny with a single candle.
Oh, the joys of country living.
