My first full time job in over six years and I ring in sick in my third week - or is it my fourth?
Twelve sleepless hours later and it's still too awful to contemplate writing about what happened yesterday. I am stupid and moronic and idiotic. I'm not sure I'll ever be able to leave the house again.
I'm going back to bed, to bury myself under Aunt Dee's homemade quilt and try, yet again, to forget about what happened.
Ohhhhhh the shame.
At least I know nothing's wrong with Dómhnall. And I know why his father was acting so strangely. And why the red-haired lady shouted at me.
It wasn't bagel-masher - or ladlebasher she was shouting. It was . . . . . no. I can't write it. How she could have thought that I . . that he . . then again I should have known - of course I should have known. I'm a grown woman . . . .
I can't think about it anymore. Otherwise I might explode with embarassment.