stop throwing those bloody rocket propelled grenades at me

Son has just told me that my watch must be wrong: it can't possibly be bedtime as it's still light outside. I blinded him with my superior knowledge about the tilt of the earth and the northern hemisphere etc. and we  have decided that bedtime can be whenever Star Trek finishes, which is good, as it gives me time to write to you.
Kids are wildly excited this evening because tomorrow they are going for a sleepover with their cousins. They have been counting down the days. I have also been counting down the days, because I know that as soon as we get to my sister's house, my kids will be whisked off, and I can sit with a cup of coffee and (hopefully) a nice open tin of biscuits and not feel like I ought to be doing colouring in or taking people for healthy walks in the fresh air. I do like a bit of colouring in, and also nice walks in the fresh air (although I have to say that it's a bit too blooming fresh here - will somebody tell the weather that it's August, for goodness sakes? I did bring a pashmina with me, as a precautionary measure against the vagaries of the British Summer, and it's been so nippy that I've been wearing it to bed), but, you know, there are still weeks of the holidays left to go and I wouldn't mind a bit of down time.
I weighed myself again on my parents' scary digital scales the other day, and got excited because I thought I'd lost half a pound - turns out it was just because I weighed myself first thing in the morning (probably just after a poo), as I was back to lardiness later on. Boo.
Hubby has gone up to Nottingham today. He's got a week of learning to be a soldier again, after three years off. He said, hopefully, that he thinks he can still tell one end of a gun from the other, before he zoomed off in his hire car. I hope so too, because if the army's cuts keep coming as thick and fast as they have been, there'll only be him and a couple of others left, and Camp Bastion will end up like a re-run of Rorke's Drift ('Stop throwing those bloody rocket propelled grenades at me!' - to be said in Michael Caine-type voice).
Star Trek over. Have promised to have a thumb war before lights out. Must go xxx