(Try and guess my mood!)
Another reason why I am not a very nice person: When my husband gets sick, although I feign sympathy, really I'm mad.
Two things I'm tired of: foodie kids and rocker kids. Or maybe I'm just tired of their braggy (M's word) parents. And no, I'm not interested in delving into the autophobic implications of those statements coming from the mouth (keyboard) of the mother of a foodie kid and two rocker kids.
I'm not sure which of these principles the other people in my household operate on: wherever you put something, there it should stay, OR things put themselves away, so I don't need to worry about it.
Were we to meet in real life, I'm quite certain that Hugh Grant would find me at best uninteresting, at worst appalling. I probably wouldn't like him much either. But the allure of the fantasized persona is nevertheless powerful. [This should link to the Vogue profile of Hugh Grant, but the Vogue website is absolutely incomprehensible, so it doesn't.]