Friday, August 12
deferred successPart of the Mummies* Charter, when I get around to writing it, will be that you will always be running twenty minutes late, and that this is PERFECTLY FINE.** And that you will get maybe 60% of the way down your Things To Do list on any given day and that this is ALSO PERFECTLY FINE. And afternoon tea will not merely be encouraged, it will be mandated.
Going to a Prom on Sunday - one more tick for the Things To Do Before Leaving Blighty (TTDBLB) list. Mozart and Mahler, woo hoo!
*No, I haven't forgotten the apostrophe - it doesn't need one.
**I used to operate on the twenty-five minute rule - when fixing appointments/playdates &c, estimate how long you think it will take you to leave the house, and add twenty-five minutes. But I guess in the last few months I have become a lean, keen Mummy machine and have pared off a whole five mins.
Thursday, August 11
so has my shoelaceAs anyone who has ever had the misfortune to share a breakfast table with me will tell, I am NOT what you might call a morning person. I require the entire contents of an eight-cup percolator before I can prise my quivering eyelids far apart enough to a jam a contact lens in. However, one thing I've discovered since Rebecca showed up, however, is that if you are rubbish in the morning, you are rubbish at ANY hour of the morning, for about the same duration of time. Ergo: you might as well be rubbish at 7.00 am as 10.00, as at least this way you get a jump on the day (and the feeling of smug superiority over your child-free friends that all parents crave but which we so rarely attain). Not that we get much choice these long summer days, when Her Royal Stroppiness decides that 6.30 am is plenty enough lie-in for her weary subjects.
Tuesday, August 9
expletive deletedI have buggered my neck again, although Lord knows how - woke yesterday at 4.00 am in intense pain, staggered to bathroom to be sick (standard reaction to intense pain: am not a fainter) then woke J and demanded attention, drugs. Not even as if I buggered it doing something stupid, so am most narked. Since inability to turn head, drive, lift heavy objects places me at something of a disadvantage as fulltime toddler wrangler, readily acquiesced to my pill-pushing GP's recommendation that I treat problems with shedloads of Valium in combination with any other over-the-counter pain meds I can lay my hands on. So don't expect anything coherent out of me for the next few days. In the meantime, thank heavens for CBeebies.
In other news: lovely w'end in Bristol with Nik and Andy, and the contract for the sale of the house plunked fatly onto the doormat this morning just as I was growing comfortably resigned to real-estate limbo. Given aforementioned drugged-up state am going to let J deal with it.
Monday, August 1
forty-twoRebecca appears to believe that a day you don't go into your bath covered in contusions and encrusted with grime has been a day wasted. It's a philosophy I have some sympathy with.
More of everything over the weekend - including so many new words that I have begun to lose count. However as I'm about to go Swinging With The Chickens (it's a folk group, I hasten to add, not anything more, um, suburban) I don't have time to write, so more later...
