I want to get off

Right. That’s it. I avoided going to the cinema with people specifically so I could have an evening off this evening. This week Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday, and next week Sunday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday were all booked. So tonight, I decided, we’d both have time to breathe.

Then unfortunately the prospect of having to sign house contracts before the weekend reared its ugly head. That’s OK, I thought. We had the evening off, and we’d be able to spend some of it sorting out the contracts. Then we realised that K’s co-worker and her beau would be staying over tomorrow evening, and we wouldn’t have any time before going out to her leaving do to sort out the spare room. So the evening off looked like it was going to be an evening of mundane householdy tasks. But that’s OK: it would be quiet, stress-free home-time. We’d get things done and get an early night.

Then, at eight p.m, just as we’re discussing the convoluted method for filling out and posting the contract on Saturday with one of us playing Mein Host and the other jetting off to look at wedding venues, we’re telephoned and asked to go out to the pub.

I don’t know if there’s a font big enough to type this in, but: stop inviting me—us—to things. Stop. And doubly stop inviting us at eight p.m. to go to the pub at eight fifteen p.m. Trust me, we won’t appreciate it. We’re miserable, unappreciative buggers without the biological capacity of appreciation. We’re tired and overbooked and everyone wants a piece of us. We’re trying to plan a wedding and we’re trying to move house within the next month and a half. So we don’t want to go out. It’s nothing personal: we don’t want to go out with you as much as we don’t want to go out with every. body. else. Go away. Please.

… Hello? Wait. Come back. I didn’t mean it. I was only kidding. Look, let me buy you a drink….

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