I have a secret loathing.
In fact if I am true to myself it is verging on pure hatred, an emotion that I don’t often feel.
The object of my despising probably doesn’t deserve it, but I am ashamed to confess that I have made no secret of how I feel in their presence.
It is just they turn up uninvited into my home and spill their contents onto the floor, into my drawers and it seems they are held under a mysterious spell because I can never be rid of the crap they leave behind.
Last night I actually physically grabbed one of them and vented my rage at them, afterwards I felt ashamed, I had shook them, spilled bits of them onto the floor and the dog had eyed them greedily.
I loathe them and yet still to not disappoint the two five almost six year olds in my home I add to their existence.
But whilst I stuff them with tat, I feel I can hide no longer and I must declare my true feelings.
“My name is Jane, I hate party bags, but yet I still do them.”
Now I must go finish stuffing them with more tat as means of apology…