I used to wonder who ever phones the numbers on back of lorries that say stuff like, 'how's my driving?'
Turns out it's me.
Nancy's sleeping has taken a turn for the worse, with 5.30am being the new seven. And when I bring her into our bed, the only way she seems to ever get back to sleep is if she snuggles right into my neck.
Which is lovely.
And pinches the skin on my throat.
Which is not.
There comes a point in sleep deprivation, when you get past the soft focus, half dream like fug. And just turn into a short tempered, miserable old bastard.
Which is no fun for you, or anyone around you for that matter.
Luckily for them, there seems to be an unprecedented number of rubbish drivers on the road who ride around with their bosses numbers painted on the side, which seemed like a brilliant outlet for the ongoing grumpiness.
So far, I've complained about a bus driver, two lorry drivers and a taxi driver.
The complaining started with letters to companies when products had stopped working.
I imagine the customer services department think you'll give up after two emails. But on an average of four hours sleep, I could happily write everyday until the kettle/ straighteners/ coffee machine gets replaced.
And then I was pushing Nancy into town, and crossing a road on the green man. And a local bus took the corner far too quickly, didn't slow for me and Nancy, and as I raced to the pavement, and shouted that it was on green, he shrugged and shook his head.
It felt very unBritish the first time ringing up the company to tell them about it. And I was very apologetic. But I genuinely worried for other people. You also can't run that fast with a pram.
And he did do that head shaking thing, which is blood boilingly annoying.
When the lorry cut me and Nancy up on the pavement and then laughed when he caught my furious eye, I didn't think twice about ringing his boss.
And then I was on a roll. One lorry driver and a taxi later, I can't work out whether I'm on a road safety crusade. Or just venting at someone other than my long suffering boyfriend.
Either way. I've never felt more vulnerable than pushing Nancy around.
And I don't want to live in fear that every time we leave the front door there's going to be some kind of Final Destination 2 pile up cos people can't be bothered to use their mirrors to spot a mardy woman and baby waiting on the curb.
And if you're going to piss someone off, best not to choose someone whose hanging in there by a thread.
That, or drive a bit better if you're going to put your bloody number on your van.