"Stop scratching your balls!"

This morning Son woke me up at six thirty to helpfully let me know that Dog had left diarhoea all over the kitchen floor. Not the best start to the day. Then Twin 1 refused to get dressed and I shouted at her. Hmmm. We resolved it, and I apologised, etc. but then today she came home with a note from school explaining that she's getting a good behaviour award in assembly this week. So maybe she's only huffy at home? Or maybe I really am an evil witch.
After the kids went to school I went to Hair by Pam. The eponymous Pam wasn't there, but I'm hearing tantalising details about her. Apparently she has been known to run out into the street and tell random passers by to "Stop scratching your balls!" and to tell youths glancing in through the salon window to F-off. Given that the average age of the Hair by Pam customer is eighty-odd (I am not kidding, you should have seen the look I got when I asked if they had any serum), there is something unsettling about Pam getting salon rage with hapless Beeston youths. One day I shall have to make an appointment on a day other than Tuesday and meet the legend in person. Or maybe not. It might be a bit scary.
Yawned my way through uni this afternoon. I told my tutor that the main reason was that I was up very early cleaning dog poo off the kitchen floor. I'm not sure writer's lives are supposed to be like this. Shouldn't I be having angst-ridden-drug-addled nightmares in an attic somewhere? Surely real writers don't clean up dog poo and have their hair cut at Hair by Pam?
Right, it's twenty to eleven now. How did that happen? I have to go to bed, just in case there's another early morning spot of scrubbing to attend to.
Goodnight x