Sue Hepworth is a ratbag

I am a ratbag. It’s official. I chew people up on the phone. And I don’t mean people selling double glazing or trying to entice me back to BT, or someone from the subscription department of The Times, with a great, great offer.
I chew people up who I like. I chew them up when I’m stressed. I chew them up when I’m waiting impatiently for a particular call and the wrong person rings.
On Saturday morning a good friend got it. She was due to come over with her boys, and after speaking to me, she changed her mind. (Who could blame her? Even I didn’t like me much on Saturday.) The boys were looking forward to coming to see me, so she tried to bribe them to go paddling in Padley Gorge instead. They chose me.  She told them I was a ratbag. They still wanted to come. She told them she’d buy them an ice cream. But they wanted to see me more. I apologised profusely on the phone to her, and begged her to come. She relented, bless her. She forgave me.
So…I may not have a publisher for my novel, but it is a delicately nuanced novel.
I may be a ratbag, but my grandsons like me more than ice cream.
No-one is perfect. And I am especially not perfect, but the people who matter still love me. So everything is OK.
And here is an official apology to everyone I have ever chewed up. I’m really sorry.