CJ came home today laden with books from school.
"These have to be covered Mum," he says.
"Covered??" I squeak weakly.
"Yep - in contact," he replies.
"Groan," is my response. I hate contacting books, hate it, hate it, hate it. In fact I think I am the WORST contacter of books in the southern hemisphere. Definite "Fail" plastered all over my achievements - wrinkles, bubbles, holes - you name it, I can come up with it.
"Tonight?" I ask tentatively glancing at the front door wondering if I can make a quick getaway without anyone noticing.
"Uh - huh," he tells me.
I do two - they look like crud. So bad - I try the third, it's worse than the others. I pull the contact off. Cut another bit, realise I misjudged size and it's too narrow. Throw that away. Cut another piece, try to get that on - it wrinkles up and as I'm pulling it off for another try it attaches itself to the other adhesive section and I can't get it apart. I ball the whole thing up and chuck that too. Things aren't looking good at the kitchen table - I'm using words that shouldn't be used in my own company and I'm eyeing off the pile of books still sitting there wondering who I can rope into doing them at 9pm at night.
Enter hubby who realises that a meltdown of monumental proportion is about to happen and takes over - bless his wonderful little cotton socks. I knew there was a reason I married him. His contact covering is in the C+ category but is one heck of an improvement on mine.