Feel like I'm reliving my childhood here. Im sat in the living room with my Mum & Dad and so far we've watched: Dad's Army, Morecombe & Wise, Open All Hours and Porridge. Santa has already eaten his mince pie and Rudolph has eaten the carrot and the small tree is already looking decidedly droopy. I'm only on my third mulled wine...
How's your festive thing going so far? Hope Santa brings everyone everything their heart desires (although if he does, I'm likely to wake up with Melanie Sykes and both Minogue sisters in between me & Hubby in bed tomorrow - which might be a teensy bit of a squash). Have a great one xxx

I am now going to make you feel a whole lot better about your life.

No, I'm not going to tell you to meditate/give to charity/finally let go of the resentment you feel towards your ex. I'm simply going to tell you what I did today, and your own life will seem filled with excitement by comparison.

Okay, so here goes: first I went to Tesco to buy two pillows (to replace the ones the rogue rat ate at the weekend); next I went home and did my tax return, filled a DLA form for my daughter, registered as self-employed and filled in a form about class 2 NI contributions (I didn't break for lunch, just had a bowl of ravioli on the job - DLA forms are quite lengthy); then I went for a quick run, and there was just time to mop the kitchen floor before picking up kids from school; I picked up Son from an after school club and cooked supper; after supper I went through the family finances and finished off the online xmas shop; I washed the Twins' hair, played cards with Son, and then after they'd all gone to bed came downstairs and did the washing up and bunged all the stuff in the breadmaker so the kids can have toast for breakfast. It's now 9.30pm.

Living the dream or what?

Hubby just phoned (he's been away in some far flung location, natch) and when I listed the tedium of my day he just said: "Well, that's what it's like being a grown up."

So, do you feel any better about your life now.....? ;)

Just had a very nice weekend in London, for my third turkey dinner so far this year (and the best yet, thanks to the culinary skills of my sister-in-law's boyfriend). The drive was fine this time: I have swapped 'bossy Steve' for my nice man on google maps (I haven't decided what to call him yet, but he has an English accent and takes me in the right direction, so he's a vast improvement on Steve). Turns out that one of the rats also took a little weekend break - to the sofa bed (Son didn't shut the cage properly - again). So that'll be another two new pillows to buy....I am contemplating fining Son some pocket money this time - much as I did last week, when I found the pile of his lovingly ironed (by me) clothes in a crumpled heap, stuffed randomly into an already overstuffed drawer. I told him that the first iron is free, but any subsequent ironing needed on the same clean items will  be charged (only twenty pence, I'm not that much of a dragon).
So, now we're into the last week of school before the hols, and the excitement is really mounting. Twins have managed to win themselves a trip to the cinema with their deputy head teacher on account of their good behaviour (woo hoo - the lovely Ms J clearly doesn't know what they're like first thing in the morning) and they're also singing with the school choir in Tesco on Wednesday (I'm hoping Tesco will pay for their bit of festive child exploitation, with free mulled wine for parents at the very least). Right, I have another stack of lovingly-ironed clothes to take upstairs now, so I'd better go. Take care xxx

I graduated today. (I'm contemplating re-ordering the cheque book so that I can have MA after my name). So this time round I wasn't hung over, and I didn't vomit en route to the awards ceremony - what a difference twenty years makes. I've decided that I like this academic thing so much that I want to do a PhD as well - there's just the small matter of finishing my book and then getting it published first...
Unfortunately we couldn't take advantage of the posh buffet after the ceremony because I had to do a flit to get the kids to the carol service (or, rather, 'Christingle Rock Concert' - blimey o' riley!). The Twins did some super singing along to 'Away in a Manger' as well as other less-well known festive tunes called things like: Calypso Jesus, Christingle Rock, etc. At least, I'm assuming they did super singing. I was sat quite near the back and all I could really see was the bit of holly poking off Twin 1's hairband. And because I missed the graduation buffet, I was also having my supper of Maltesers and Ribena, so I probably wasn't quite as engaged with the Christingle message and the story of Baby Jesus as I really should have been. So now I'm back home again, and I certainly feel more intellectual, as I think about mopping the kitchen floor (or not), and whether or not a celebratory whisky & ginger is in order (it is). Right, better go and do some erudite laundry and some esoteric washing up (or not - maybe I will just cut straight to the booze...). Yours intelligently xxx

Hiya, yes, I am still here, surrounded by ill children and animals. I've just been doing my Christmas shopping online: stilton, ginger wine, parsnips...nom, nom, all the things we couldn't get in Nepal. Twin 1 has been muttering grumpily about why our house doesn't have lots of lights outside like the others - Hubby told her it's because we have taste (which isn't true, it's because I'm lazy, and I'd also rather spend the money on ginger wine and stilton, thank you very much).
So, exciting week - I graduate on Wednesday (woo-hoo) and then it's the Twins' xmas carol service at the local church later on. Twin 2 is going to be a ribbon dancer (she has promised me she won't fall off the stage). What a day, can't wait!
The other excitement is that Son has invented a new sport. It's called Commando Karate. Oh, alright, he just forgot to put on his pants last time he went to Karate club. Still, sounds good, no? I think it could take off, much in the same way that beach volleyball did...maybe for the Rio Olympics?
Hmmm, what else? I have packed up all my lovely homemade chutney into xmas gift bags ready for my thrifty-yet-thoughtful teacher presents. This Christmas, I'm not just spreading the love, I'm spreading the pickle, too ;)

I'm sorry, I know, it's been ages again. My excuses include vague viral-ness and an excess of irritating housework, as usual. Anyway, I've decided not to do the downstairs bathroom or wash the bed linen today (gasp, oh the horror of grime that now awaits my family) because I'm feeling ill. Again...

It's that time of year. The three Cs: colds, Christmas and something else beginning with C (chocolate? mmm, don't mind if I do, thanks). Talking of Christmas (yes, it's finally December, so we can), the Twins have been writing letters to Santa. This was not prompted by me, but the school, who gave it as literacy homework, bless them. Twin 1 says she wants a bookmark with her name on it with a garden scene in the background and some flowers (I happen to know a crafty elf called Kirsty, who may be able to help with this one). Twin 2, however, came bouncing out of school after homework club and announced that she'd just asked Santa for a DS Lite, an iPod and a pink television for her bedroom. I told her that it was fantastic that she had a healthy sense of entitlement, but that Santa might not bring things that Daddy wouldn't want her to have just yet (I didn't mention that Mummy wasn't quite ready to sell a kidney in order to fulfill her xmas wish list or that Santa was highly unlikely to bring anything that wasn't included in the Hawkin Bazarr pre-filled xmas stocking currently on top of the wardrobe in her bedroom).

What I want for Christmas is to stop getting ill. Can I put that on my list for Santa? xxx

ps - Son has remained suspiciously quiet about the whole Santa thing this year. I think that, following the whole Tooth Fairy revelation, he may suspect the truth, but is worried that if he says anything then the stocking will be empty. It's tough being ten.

Hello. How are you? We went to London this weekend to visit Hubby's work flat. The sat nav (aka Bossy Steve) told me that it would take less than two hours to get from here to Hubby's flat in North London. But he lied. Bossy Steve was probably chuckling like a little electronic Mutley when we finally arrived, a mere three and a half hours after we set off. Kids were distinctly underwhelmed by Buckingham Palace in the rain, but quite impressed by the free lollipops they got when they asked for the bill in a greasy spoon cafe on Camden High Street. And even more impressed by the fact that at Hubby's flat they have a television in their room, and they were allowed to watch it as much as they want (well, I needed a break after the M1 traffic jam experience). I think we'll go back though, despite Bossy Steve's lies, and the rain and the Queen very rudely not inviting us all in for a cuppa.

Twin 1 went to school upset this morning. It was because of Edward the worm. She made friends with Edward as she scootered in. She told me that he was a fat worm who liked reading (a bookworm, perhaps). She said she was just getting to know him but because he was next to the zebra crossing and a car was waiting for her that she had to leave him behind before the car hooted at her. It was a most distressing incident. I promised to say hello to Edward the worm on the way back up the hill again after dropping them off. I did, but Edward was quite aloof and didn’t even so much as raise an eyebrow in acknowledgement. Then when I got home I had to report the broken toilet seat that apparently broke all by itself because nobody – no, honestly, nobody – stood on it and pretended to be an alien/dragon/wizard. And now I’m waiting for the return of Wayne the boiler man.

I’ve just finished typing up my final scene. It’s not bad, but does need to be a bit more heart rending, I think. Maybe I’ll print it out and have a plate of kippers in front of Ruth and Eamon and get back to it later (did I ever tell you my celebrity link to This Morning’s Ruth Langsford? I house sat for her and her boyfriend once (before Eamon) and I also went out to dinner with her (and about eight other people, not just me and her), so every time I see her on this morning I think, ah, it’s lovely Ruth – whereas I’m quite sure she has absolutely no recollection of me whatsoever). Anyway, better go xxx

Ps. Just realised, it’s Thursday, so it’ll be Phil and Holly, boo, no celebrity link there at all…

I had a bit of a moment this morning when I wrote my main character's final scene (no, I can't tell you because it would give it away). I think Wayne who came to fix the boiler (again) thought I was a bit unhinged. Anyway, now I'm having marmite on toast in front of the tail end of This Morning in order to fully recover from the emotional trauma (not sure if Chekhov ever did this and I'm quite sure Vladimir Nobokov - the pompous old fart - never did). Right then, better get back into it I suppose, tissues at the ready...xx
ps. not going to tell you about how the training day went for my student volunteers yesterday because I'm still too upset about the disappointing turnout. Bloody students!

I just had a look at the stats for this blog, because for some reason there's been a blip in the hit rate and I can't think that I've written anything that exciting. Anyway, it turns out that my blog comes up under a keyword search for 'wife naked dancing'. How disappointed must that poor, poor man have been when he found my domestic blatherings instead of footage of some foxy minx doing the rumba (no, I don't really know what a rumba is, either)?
Today, as well as chanelling my inner eighty-nine year old, I hashed out a plot for the rest of the novel, and put it all in a colour-coded spreadsheet. I also put coloured dividers into my manuscript, dividing it up into acts one, two and three (yes, half of two and all of three are empty). It might not seem like much, but it took hours (so long, in fact, that I didn't get round to having a run, and I was almost late for school - luckily one of the other mums passing by in her car took pity on me and let me hitch, which was a good job as I would never have made it in time otherwise), and now I feel a lot less panicky about writing the remaining fifty thousand words...

I'm only procrastinating a bit, honest. I've already spent an hour and a half asking my main character about how she really feels. This is because I can't get on with the rest of the book until I know here a bit  better. She's been fairly forthcoming. It turns out that she's blanked out a lot of what happened to her (on page one, you'll have to read it one day!), so she's left with survivor's guilt, but not much else until much later in her life. So I think I need to spend a bit more time with her as an old lady, to get to the heart of it. I'm planning on taking her out for coffee all morning tomorrow as I have a day off from the voluntary work, so if you see me sitting in the cafe next to Lidl, apparently talking to myself like a crazy, please be reassured that I'm just channelling an eighty-something year old version of my main character (I know, any excuse to get out of the house for a latte and check out what's on offer in the Lidl bargain baskets). Cheerio xx
ps. after many visits from many workmen of various types - sometimes quite late at night - I seem to have recovered from my house-maintenance Munchausen syndrome. Also, it looks like we're not going to have to suddenly get posted to London, yay.

Ps. I must tell you about my Munchhausen syndrome equivalent (in a facilities management context), and also about the prospect of us being booted out of our lovely quarter in a leafy corner of camp and down to scary London (where in my mind the schools are all full of drugs and knives). But right now I need to finish my wine and watch Corrie, and wait for the man to come and fix the boiler. Night xxx

I've decided a large glass of wine is in order. Just got my results: a distinction in my masters. Now there's just the small matter of writing the other fifty thousand words and getting the novel published. I'm happy, don't get me wrong, but I realise that this is just the start. It's fab to have some external validation that I can write, but now is when the work really begins, when I'm doing it on my own, without workshops, critiques, feedback, etc. It often occurs to me that the sensible thing would be to give up, because really, what are the chances of getting a publishing deal and being the next Joanna Trollope? But I think I'm a teensy bit addicted now, so I think I'll just keep plugging away, sitting amidst the debris of unwashed breakfast dishes at the kitchen table, huddled in cashmere (on account of the heating bills) and imagining what it was like to be a teenage girl soldier in 1942.
It'll all come good eventually, won't it?

Hello! How the devil are you? I have a sore throat and a craving for bonfire toffee (shame it's all gone already). I also have a very nice new lip-and-cheek stain. (Sometimes a new purchase more than makes up for a lingering viral infection, I find). Anyway, how was your bonfire night? Here on camp the pyrotechnics were as splendid as ever and, surprisingly,  I didn't see anyone ducking for cover. It really was an impressively long display, so long, in fact, that Son got bored and went off to buy some toffee half way through. So that's the last of the exciting and sugar-filled manic nights over with, until Christmas, at least. Christmas! I know, it's far too soon to think about it, but that hasn't stopped me from buying all my xmas presents already. I can't help it. I start thinking about it as soon as the summer holidays are over. Tragic, I know.
Right, I had better go as it's nearly ten and I promised myself I'd go to bed at a sensible time tonight because I'm teaching in the morning. Tomorrow's lesson is about giving advice (use of should & shouldn't), and I'm giving out real problems from Zelda's problem pages in the Mail (no, I didn't actually buy a copy of the Mail, I appropriated it from McDonald's the other week). I have even done a recording of myself as Zelda, giving out useful advice to a forty-three year old woman whose husband has been having an affair, as a listening comprehension (I hope they don't think the forty-three year old is me...).
Night then xxx

Oh, the horror. It's Halloween tomorrow. I have been less than enthusiastic about it and even made the children buy Halloween costumes with their own pocket money. Well, it all just smacks of a bit of a money-making scam by the supermarkets, doesn't it? Back in the day, Halloween meant bunging on a black jumper of my dad's and a hat made out of black cardboard and wondering down to my aunty's for a handful of humbugs. Anyway, I've been nagged and cajoled into the whole thing, thanks to competitive  Halloween decorating here on camp. Yes, some of the houses have graveyards in their gardens, or pumpkins carved like spiders or cobwebs all over the place, but we don't. (Well, we do have cobwebs all over the place, but not because of Halloween, just because of my general abhorrence of housework). I have finally capitulated and carved a small pumpkin and bought some things to hang up  on the front door. And I've spent a small fortune on sweets (although, mixed in with them are all the sugar-free ones that nobody wants to eat from our family - because of that time at the cinema when we all ate too many and succumbed to the 'laxitive effect' that too much sugar substitute can cause...but let's not dwell on that). Right, anyway, I should really go and get some shut-eye. Night night! xx

Well, I might be stumbling inexorably into middle age, but I'm also a closet lesbian, apparently. This is what Hubby keeps telling me. His evidence is that I'm reading a book called 'women's barracks'. Yes, it is a title from the lesbian pulp fiction genre, but it was written in 1950, so it's really very tame, and I'm only reading it because it was written about a women's barracks in London during WW2 by a woman who was there, so the details (aside from pert breast showing beneath silk blouses, etc.) are all pretty authentic and useful for research. This is what I keep telling him. Anyway, it could be worse. I could be reading fifty shades of grey and forcing him into humourless and somewhat tiring S&M stuff (actually, I have only read a short excerpt of fifty shades of grey, so I may be doing the novel a disservice - perhaps it's not all about humourless and tiring S&M stuff, I wouldn't know, would you?)...Anyway, I'm off to bed now, to read all about cigarettes and knowing glances across the bed blocks. For research. Night then x

Oh, I am so middle aged. Here's the proof: I am celebrating getting all my ironing done by having half a shandy. I didn't use an iron until my mid-thirties, and back in the day a celebratory drink meant considerably more than half a shandy. Now I feel a thrill of personal fulfillment at a neat stack of school uniforms and a freshly-bleached hob. How has this happened? It won't be long until I start crocheting toilet roll covers and and joining the WI...
So, it's nearly the end of half term, and, the rest of the week has been quite calm in comparison to our watery start. Dog seems to have recovered from his near-death experience, and I managed to sneak in a nice pair of jeans ('skinny boot', since you ask) and a green jumper (no, it's really different from all my other green jumpers, honest) into the shopping basket when Hubby was buying new clothes for him (he's lost inches from his waistline and thus needs new clothes - sadly I don't have that excuse).
Blah blah blah...wish I had something more exciting to tell you! take care xxx

Hello, how are you? I'm just back from a weekend sailing in the Solent (which was not unexciting, given that we had a terminally ill labrador and a girl with cerebral palsy on board - luckily we also had Hubby and his v. nice friend V, who are used to taking boatloads of incompetants out in howling gales, so it was fine. Apart from the bit where Dog decided to test his tenuous grasp on life by jumping into Gosport Harbour; thank goodness for the helpful sailors who hooked him out of the water and brought him back to us.). So we're all back, and now have a houseful of small-ish girls (both Twins have a friend each over to play), and Son, who is trying to engage them in a complicated game involving his 'weapon of mass destruction' (a light sabre with some pipe cleaners sellotaped to the end). There is a fair amount of screeching and banging going on, but nobody has asked me to phone for an ambulance yet, so it all seems to be going off as well as can be expected, for a rainy day in half term. Hmmm, what else has been going on? Oh, I have just doubled my earnings (don't get excited, my income will now pay for school dinners and petrol - whoopee) because my class got so popular that we ran out of chairs, and have had to arrange for another class to run. Of course I take this as a sound endorsement of my teaching skills (best summed up as smiling a lot and hoping nobody asks about past participles), and nothing to do with the fact that this is the only place that offers an English class with free childcare included. Right, I can't think of anything else to tell you, so I suppose I had better go and tackle the downstairs bathroom - if I can make it there without being frazzled by the 'weapon of mass destruction'... Cheerio! x

I've got the lurgy, and no, it's not just a convenient excuse to not clean the bathroom or do kids' bedtimes and instead languish in bed playing with my new smartphone (actually it's a bit too smart - way too much I can't figure out). It all started on Friday night when I pretty much gave up the ghost before Friday download/big friday fun/something else with friday in the title had even started on CBBC. I got up on Saturday to take the dog to the vet (he's put on five hundred grammes and has a teensy spring in his arthritic step - being close to death obviously agrees with him) but then went all grumpy and wobbly at lunchtime and had to spend the whole afternoon under a quilt watching endless re-runs of Location Location Location and speculating quietly to my feverish self on the possible lengths of marriages likely for all those eager young couples (not long, generally, given the bossiness of the women and the sappiness of the men). I managed to make supper whilst everyone else was out on skates or scooters (alright, I put some pizzas in the oven) and then went horizontal again in the evening for a DVD (Notes on a Scandal with Judi Dench and Cate Blanchet - v.good, but a little unsettling). Anyway, I'm still feeling a bit groggy today, but I went out for a meeting anyway, and ended up just ready to lie down again by six thirty. However, I'm a bit bored of being ill now, and I'd really like to feel better again tomorrow...especially as there are no episodes of Location Location Location I haven't seen, and I really can't face Jeremy Kyle...x

Hubby is home soon, back from doing important army things, and possibly with chocolate (I'm hoping Toblerone as he flew through Heathrow) - worth staying up for, I think. I've had a reasonably productive day because I've finished another chapter of the book - I'm up to almost fifty thousand words now. I mentioned this to the man who came round to check the asbestos and ended up receiving a not inconsiderable amount of manuscript advice from him. He had some jolly good ideas about one of my characters, but I did eventually have to hint that possibly he should finish his asbestos inspection before I had to do the school run, and he unwillingly got up from the kitchen table and got his ladder and asbestos-spying equipment out. I also tried to force my half-completed manuscript onto the wives book club. I said they could be my focus group - I hope they agree (I offered to pay them in wine...). Maybe I can run the asbestos man's suggestions past them as potential plotlines and see what they think. Incidentally, I'm in good company scouting round for story ideas - apparently Chekhov used to pay two kopeks for an anecdote, and more for a short story idea. So that's alright then.
Where is my husband? Maybe I'll go to bed and hope for chocolate for breakfast...xx

Just had two large glasses of wine and a bag of crisps. That's what happens when my newly-skinny and almost-teetotal husband goes away. Yes, he's in Cyprus at the moment. I'm not sure exactly why, but we have been promised giant Toblerone bars on his return. A large quantity of chocolate is always far more important than any spurious military information, in my opinion.
My mum & dad have just disappeared (not literally, they drove, in their big car, full of collies and canine accessories). They were en route from a holiday in Northumberland (why? brrr!) and going back to Devon. They said it was lovely to have some 'time off'. Now, my dad took early retirement at fifty five, which by my reckoning means he's been retired for (hang on, I've had two glasses and, no, I wasn't a competitor in the primary maths challenge last week).... twenty two years. That's like me having given up work aged twenty (oh, I know, given my two two degree and 'portfolio career' , that's almost the case, but I have moved house at least eight times and spent seven years overseas and had three children in that time). Anyway, somehow, retired life in an idyllic converted Devon farmhouse for the past twenty-odd years is a teensy bit stressful, it seems. So in order to stress-bust, they have just spent a week in Northumberland, in the autumn, in the rain. To me, none of this makes sense - but maybe that's just the wine clouding my judgement!
Take care xxx
ps - Dog is still alive, and thriving on his new diet of various pills and miniature trays of dog food. He's even been out chasing pigeons (suspect the whole bowel cancer thing might just have been an elaborate ruse to get us to buy Cesar and let him sleep on the bed)...

I accidentally ended up invigilating the Nottingham Primary Maths Competition today. I had planned a day of writing, with perhaps a short run and a dod of light housework, but no, somehow I found myself ferrying four kids to a private school and running maths relays and speed maths test etc. At least I got a free lunch (and Son's nice teacher bought me a lovely bunch of flowers, too). One of the school's teachers was meant to do it, but at the last minute she had to be somewhere else and asked, since Son was in the competition, whether I wouldn't mind taking the team. I thought she meant taking them, ie. dropping them off at the competition and picking them up afterwards. But no, I spent five hours helping run a numeracy olympics (luckily I wasn't asked to do any maths myself, as I had the answer sheet, phew). Most of the other people involved were either head teachers, or, at the very least, teaching assistants. I was just a random mum, and possibly more excited about the free chocolate biscuits on offer than the real professionals. Son was wildly excited about the whole thing, so excited, in fact, that he indulged in a little impromptu kleptomania and stole a whole box biros from the posh school that hosted the event (well, what can they expect when they invite pikey state schools through their gates?).
So, the bed sheets have not been washed, and my protagonist still hasn't had the showdown with her parents that I promised to write for her this week. However, I do have a very happy son (despite his team only coming tenth) and enough biros to last for the next decade.
Cheerio x

No, I'm not mopping the kitchen floor now, and you can't make me.
Today I have mostly been clutching my stomach and moaning gently. So, this week I've had one night sharing my bed with Twin 2 (overactive imagination had produced nightmare inspired by Roald Dahl's Matilda - I blame book week), one night sharing my bed with Dog and Twin 1 (feeling sorry for terminally ill Dog & then Twin 1 had a vampire nightmare - apparently she's in a secret vampire club at school...it's not been all that secret since she bit my neck and told me I could be in the club as well, as long as I promised not to eat butter - don't ask me why, I don't know!). Last night my bed was mercifully empty but I ended up squirming about in abdominal agony - I blame my healthy stir fry last night; the kids all had hot dogs and they were perfectly fine.
Today the kids, apart from being irritatingly chirpy and healthy, have been in fancy dress. Despite my parlous state of health, I managed to produce two Aztecs and a World War Two soldier for dress-up day at school. (Yes, Aztecs did wear old pillowcases with holes cut out for heads and arms and yes they did wear plastic princess crowns with feathers stuck on. Honest, I did my wiki research and everything. Thank goodness I only had to rootle about in the garage to find some old army kit for Son.)
Apart from coping with food poisoning and dying pets and ridiculous fancy dress costumes, I also lurched in to a meeting at university to do with the literacy project I'm co-ordinating and took kids to 'Fun Friday' in the mess (a bit of a misnomer: think cold chips, half-cut parents, and out of control kids swooping around the officers' mess like a flock of starlings on a fizzy-pop high), took Son to karate, took home brew kit back to someone in the middle of Nottigham, took Twins to McDonald's, picked up Son, got bedding out for kids sleepover and tidied up assorted school bags/coats/Aztec clothes
Which is why I still haven't got round to mopping the kitchen floor...
Have a good weekend! xx

Would it be very wrong to have a little nap? I'm halfway through my working week (oh, I know, two mornings doesn't really count) and I have a cold coming on, and the downstairs toilet is broken, and the dog has terminal cancer, and Hubby is up in the stormy old North Sea and I had to share my bed with a seven-year-old girl last night, and I can't go to the gym because it turns out I'm not insured...there was a pause there whilst I had a phone call from an old friend, who has way more to worry about than me, so I have now decided to stop bleating on and man up. Right, need to give the dog some pills to stop his stomach lining giving way (yes, really) and pick up kids. Take care xxx

Just had the serious chat with the vet about Dog. The vet says Dog will probably not last until the end of the year. Obviously I am distraught, but when I told the kids, they were really excited about the prospect of trading him in for a younger model. They want a boy dog called Richard Hammond. Yes, that's right, a dog called Richard Hammond. It doesn't bear thinking about. The Twins said if they really can't have a boy dog called Richard Hammond, then could they please have a girl one called Jessie J?
I'm sure I wasn't quite so heartless at that age.
I suppose, on the positive side, we're finally getting to recoup all the millions of pounds we've paid into dog insurance over the years.
Nope, I'm not feeling it; there is no positive side.
And I'm not getting a puppy called Richard Hammond, ever.

Hi, I know, I ought to be in bed, but it is a weekend night, not a school night, you know. And that's why it's also okay to have two large glasses of white and two bags of crisps, too. I'm now contemplating a small whisky as a nightcap, but worried that I won't be up in time for karate in the morning (no, I'm not doing karate, Son is). Twins are off at a very exciting sleepover tonight, and didn't even give so much as a backward glance as they raced into Big H and Little G's house round the corner. I spent the night with Son, Dog and rats, watching Apollo 13, with lush Kevin Bacon looking buff and moody, even as he was passing the dark side of the moon with just 20 amps of power on the lunar module...sigh...he's almost exactly like Hubby. (Wonder if Kevin Bacon also gets huffy when people don't close the curtains properly or when he treads on a rogue bit of abandoned Lego?) I should really go to bed now, shouldn't I? Right then. Oh maybe just a very very small whisky, just for the taste....

The kids decided that they weren't that keen on Chocophilly (on special offer this week, so I bought two), so I had to eat it all myself before it passed the sell-by date (which was, erm, November sometime). I know, it's wrong, wrong, wrong. I felt dirty afterwards....and then I wiped my face with a wet wipe. I suppose I can excuse it as comfort eating, after all, Hubby is away, skippering a big boat up there in the electric storms on the North Sea. Apart from stuffing my face with cheese-based chocolate products, I've had a very productive day writing the novel, and when I did a word count I'd got to a whopping forty-two thousand words, almost half way, by golly (and it would have been more, but my big sister phoned, just as the two women were discovering their best friend in the outhouse next to the body of a man - gave me quite a shock when the phone rang as I was totally immersed in the story). Then this evening I planned and packed up my kit for my teaching tomorrow. The kit includes wooden Brio models and a purple bear, hope they enjoy it. Right bedtime now. Night night xx

Ah, there you are. So, how are things? At the moment I'm watching Dr Who with my exceedingly tired kids (they were up at five to wave goodbye to their dad, and unlike me, didn't sensibly go straight back to sleep again afterwards). I'm husbandless again. He's off sailing in the North Sea (lucky old him, I'm sure it won't be chilly at all up there). Then when he comes back he's almost immediately off on exercise somewhere, so we're all just having to get used to life without Major Fearnly-Bumsaw. The good news is that with him away it's back to school dinners and hot dogs in front of the telly for supper (cue cheers all round). How absolutely lovely it is not to have to be making tuna mayonnaise at ten o'clock at night for sandwiches that I can almost guarantee will end up in the dog's bowl eventually. Oh, and talking of Dog, he's just cost us about a million quid this week with his unspecified ailments. I do love the hairy old mutt, but I could have had a long weekend in Italy with the amount we've just spent on a canine version of ibruprofen (do they not make generic copies of drugs for dogs?). In a futile attempt to make up for all the cash we're chucking at the family pet, I've decided to make chutney from the windfall apples in the garden. I've never made chutney before, but it was dead easy and made me feel (for one brief, sweet, moment) like a slightly less sultry and voluptuous version of Nigella Lawson. Except that when she has hot windfall chutney running down her chin she probably looks pouty and alluring, whereas I just look like a dribbling old skinflint. Cheerio x

Hello, I tell you what, this work thing isn't as great as it's made out to be. I'm pooped. I just did my first class today, with a group of highly educated middle eastern parents. Most, if not all, have spouses doing postgrad/research work at the university. In once sense this is great, because they're all bright and motivated. In another sense, this is scary, because they are all so keen that they don't even want a tea break and want me to do an hour and three quarters lesson without so much as a cuppa and  a bourbon biscuit to give myself a breather. Phew. I think I shall be relying quite heavily on listening comprehension exercises on the CD, just to give myself a sit down. The lessons take place in a Sure Start centre. I don't know if you know anything about Sure Start? I think the idea behind them is to give support to parents of young children in deprived areas, which is great. However....there is a whiff of nanny state about it all. For example: I am not supposed to allow the mums and dads in my group to give unhealthy snacks to their children. I was told that if they bring out a packet of crisps, for instance, I'm to ask them not to let their children eat them until they are out of the building (!). This morning I happened to mention something about biscuits and there was a collective gasp from the admin staff. As it happened, I'd forgotten to bring them, so I didn't have to sneak digestives to the students under the table (and even if I had they wouldn't have been able to dunk them into their tea because - guess what - no hot drinks allowed anywhere except the kitchen). I know we should all be encouraging healthy eating, but pul-ease (also when I went into the staff room I noticed a packet of hula hoops and a packet of quavers on the table there, so someone is smuggling in contraband). Right then, I'm off to mop the kitchen floor and then hurl myself into bed and dream about prepositions of place and illegal choc chip cookies. Night x

I've been in my running kit all morning and still not made it out of the door...oh well, I'll just write a quickie and then I'll be off. It's been a busy old week because I've been handing in my dissertation and out getting work. I've found two brilliant jobs, both of which are just perfect for me. Sadly one of them is unpaid and one doesn't pay very much. I shall have to change the words of that well-known Dolly Parton song (all together now):
Working ten 'til twelve, once a week for just a pittance, 
Working nine 'til three, once a week for no remittance,
Working the rest of the time, cleaning floors and washing pants,
It's enough to make you crazy if you let it!
(sorry about the dreadful scanning - but my masters is in fiction, not poetry...)
Anyway, I really ought to go for that run now, so I don't have time to tell you about all the other exciting things that have been going on, like Hubby's new job and Twin 1 getting a sweet stuck up her nose. I'll just have to leave you on tenterhooks. Cheerio x

I have finally stopped tottering along like Mrs Overall...I did a class called Metafit on Saturday morning  which consisted mainly of lots of 'burpees' and 'sumo jumps' and ever since my bum has been in agony and I've been walking around like an arthritic old lady. It seems like I won't be able to make the class this week as Hubby & Son are going to a regatta at the sailing club, so I won't be able to get to the gym. Shame, I shall have to stay home and eat cake instead.
Today I have been terribly productive. I have applied for jobseekers allowance (doubt I'll be entitled to anything, but worth a try), and made two speculative enquiries about TESOL jobs and done mounds of washing. (Yes, I know, I still have to clean the bathroom...maybe that's why I've been so productive, anything to get me out of setting to work with the toilet brush and glass cleaner...). We've also had a thrilling trip to the thrift shop, which was busier than Tesco's on a Saturday morning, and exchanged our profits for yet more tat. Twin 2 has yet another tiara (Hubby mentioned that at some point she'll have to abandon her delusions of royalty, but I have Prince Harry in mind for her - he'll have calmed down in ten years or so, and be ripe for a tiara-obsessed bride with an unhealthy passion for bubblegum pink), Twin 1 has two spangly-covered books, Son has a logic puzzle and I have a throw to cover the decrepit old futon. Ah the joys of budget retail therapy!

So I find myself at a loose end (not really all that loose, I mean obviously there's the washing up, the washing and cleaning the bathroom that I could be getting on with if I really wanted to, but hey), just me and a silent walkie talkie and my newly-dyed hair (light copper bronze, this time, thanks for asking).   I have dispatched the kids off to pick blackberries, which is exactly what my dad used to do to me and my sisters when I we were children (the difference is that he wouldn't let us come home until we'd picked a pound each, whereas I said they just needed to be out of the house for twenty minutes until I'd finished dyeing my hair). They have a walkie talkie with them, so they'll be perfectly safe in the woods near the abandoned world war two bunker beyond the big sign that says "Out of Bounds to non-military personnel" won't they?
Anyway, it's nearly the end of the hols and Hubby is back at work. Today I took the kids out out to buy PE trainers (at Evil Tesco Extra - not sure how I resisted the urge to buy seven tubs of ice cream, a new TV and some leather boots for only forty nine ninety nine, but somehow my willpower held up) and tomorrow there'll be hair cutting and pencil case finding and then that'll be it. I'll just have to hand in the dissertation and I'll no longer be a student, I'll be a writer and job seeker. Which isn't scary at all, given that it's seven and a half years since I last worked for anyone...it's not a threat, it's an opportunity (I'll just keep telling myself that).
When we first lived here (in a little house at the bottom of the hill on camp - now we live in a big house at the top of camp, such is army hierarchy), just me Hubby and Dog, I was also an unemployed ex-student struggling writer. I had just finished my journalism course and was making steps into becoming a freelancer, but in the meantime working part time in an organic supermarket and typing up pensions letters. Fifteen years on and I've just finished my masters course and I'm making steps into becoming a novelist and I'm looking for part-time work to keep me going until someone recognises my obvious literary genius and propels me to well-deserved publishing gold (alright, but making things up is what we writers do!). Plus ca change and all that...
Kids are on their way home now so I'd better go.
Take care xxx

I know it's been fairly paltry of late. What can I say? I've been away, but now I'm back. Right now Hubby is downstairs in the kitchen perfecting a mushroom and curly kale lasagne and the house is full of street kids. No, not actual street kids, just kids from the street (although occasionally it does feel as if the house has become a refuge for street children, with my own being the most guttersnipe-ish of all). I've just been for a run and done sixty seven sit ups. I know! I'll have a washboard stomach in no time (or even a dashboard stomach, as one not-very-bright babysitter once described it to me). I didn't do any press ups, though, because my shoulder is still hurting from the whole manual labour thing earlier this month (although worth the pain as the grass is coming on nicely, thanks).
So we've just done the whole relatives thing this week, with a trip to Devon to see grandparents and aunty and one set of cousins. The cousins are a bit like an Amazonian version of the seven dwarfs. I don't mean that they are teeny tiny and live in South America. What I mean is that my Twins have christened them with dwarfish names. They are: Lovely, Kind, Beautiful and Glorious (not sure who is which) and they are all young ladies between the ages of ten and sixteen with long flicky silky hair (of which I'm particularly jealous). It rained a lot in Devon, so we cut our trip short and went to Weymouth to see the other set of grandparents, and managed to have a picnic in the two-hour slot of sunshine. Then we went on to London to see another aunty and cousin with long flicky silky hair (of which I'm jealous), who was in the closing ceremony of the Olympics, dressed in pink. This may trump being an Amazonian dwarf, but I'm not sure. I'll have to ask the Twins when they're not too busy (they are very busy at the moment, playing 'librarians', their current favourite game. I have no idea why, but it does make me feel that I should introduce them to some more exciting role models - wonder if you can get Wonder Woman on DVD?)
Now we're back home and I should really have spent today getting through a mountain of washing, but Hubby took the kids out to see another aunty (they have several), although the other cousins with long, flicky hair were busy (one is about to become a solicitor and the other a vet - all my nieces are so high achieving and have such gorgeous hair, it does make me feel academically and follically lacking), so I used the time to tinker with the dissertation - I think it's finished but I'm not brave enough to actually send it in yet...
We are now onto the last week of the hols. And I know most other mums are probably whooping at this point and can't wait to get the little blighters back to school. However the truth is that I'm a teensy bit nervous. I have just about finished my dissertation, and when the kids go back to school I'm no longer a student, or a full-time mum, and I have promised to get my arse in gear and go out and earn some money. Which isn't scary at all, honest!
Right, time for some veggie lasagne. Ta ra xxxx

Hello. How are your summer hols? We've got to the point where we have run out of cash for going out to do child-friendly summertime things, so tonight the Twins have invited their friends over to camp in the garden as a low-cost alternative. I think there's hail due tonight. And they've set their alarm so they can all wake up at midnight for their midnight feast. One way or another it's going to be an interrupted nights sleep. Oh well, they can all just sit inside and watch telly tomorrow, whilst I rustle up another meal from Tesco's 'everyday value' ingredients (it's amazing how many things you can do with half a packet of tortillas and some old cheddar cheese - I feel another 'Mexican surprise' coming on...) and Hubby watches Top Gear re-runs. Actually, I feel like I'm doing Hubby a disservice because yesterday he mowed the lawn and cooked supper and hoovered the entire house and put up a tent for the kids. And this morning he read through my dissertation for me (again - will I ever finish the damn thing?). But this afternoon he did fall asleep on the sofa in front of Top Gear. I guess he deserved a break. Oh, and talking of hard work, I don't want you to think that it's only him who's been at it. No sireee. Yesterday I dug up the enormous weedy front flowerbed and sowed it with grass seed. I have barely done so much manual labour in my life (in fact, I think the last time I wielded a spade was in 1994 in Tanzania). Today I have neck ache and a nasty blister on my hand, so I have attempted nothing more challenging than spritzing glass cleaner over the bathroom mirrors and making a risotto. And I went to the hairdresser's as well (I was meant to go last week, but I discovered a nit the night before - I think it was Polly's estranged stepfather, Derek), and now feel fully up to date with important current affairs issues such as why Katie Holmes really left Tom Cruise and when Prince William actually fell for Kate Middleton (and some stuff about someone from the Saturdays getting married too). I also have shorter, marginally less Kate Bush-ish hair. The hairdresser was nothing if not honest. After I'd sat down and explained what I wanted, she gingerly fingered the end of one of my desiccated tresses and said: "Well, I know what you want it to look like, but I'm telling you now, it won't end up like that." She went on to mention that it will take around a year to get my hair back into good shape, thanks to the coiffure nightmares it has suffered over the past few months.
Now, I value honesty above all things, but in a hairdresser perhaps it's a somewhat overrated virtue. Couldn't she just have told me that my hair is lovely and that I look gorgeous right now. I don't want to be told that I'll have to wait a full three hundred and sixty five days just to look normal again.
Still, what can you expect for twenty quid (I'll tell you what, a whole week of everyday value 'Mexican Surprise' that's what)? Next time I'll just pay more for the senior stylist in the hope that she's a more accomplished liar.
Hope your hols all going well.
Take care xxx

Holidays, holidays, hurrah for the new-to-us trampoline and that plenty of other kids are also holidaying at home this year. Twin 2's nits are pretty much gone. There were about four that seemed to linger, and Hubby took to calling them her nit family and asking what their names were. When I did the last comb and found one and showed it to Twin 2, she said, 'Oh, no, not Polly, she was just a baby and I loved her!'. Anyway, I think they're finally gone now, but I'm going to do one more comb just to make sure, in case perhaps little Roland or Uncle Frank are still hiding in there somewhere.
So, yes, the hols carry on, and I'm almost forgetting about my ambitions to become a novelist. The way things stand, I'm less bothered about being a good writer, and more bothered about being an adequate bathroom cleaner...we had some people over the other night who might be posted to Nepal and wanted to talk about it, and I couldn't shut up about the joys of domestic staff. The poor things finally managed to escape after a couple of hours of my ranting on about how nice it was not to have to tidy anything up for three years. Sigh.
Hubby finally has a job, sort of. He's been in work this week, but then is off for the rest of the hols. We're going camping next week. At least, that's the plan, but have you seen the blooming weather forecast? Honestly, I think another four days at Butlin's would be preferable to camping in the rain. Maybe I should just become too ill to go and send the rest of the family off so that I can stay home and finish my dissertation?

Oh hello, sorry about the silence, I'm still recovering from the Butlin's experience. Sharing four whole days with the equivalent of the disgorged contents of an EasyJet flight has taken its toll. The kids loved it, but Hubby and I have had to break it to them that we are never ever going to go to Butlin's again. Ever. On the way back we had to visit not one, but two National Trust properties in order to fully cleanse ourselves of the chavtastic experience. Luckily the Olympic opening ceremony was on when we got back home, so we could watch it and feel proud to be British again, instead of faintly sullied by association. Talking of which, my sister-in-law was in the opening ceremony (if you were watching carefully you might have glanced the back of her head) and my niece - the cheerobics one - is going to be in the closing ceremony. I'm quite jealous, actually, wish I'd been there to see Her Majesty parachute in in person (the twins think that bit was real, and I'm not about to bust their bubble: a parachuting Queen, what a role model, eh?).
Anyway, I'm going to go now, and revel in living in a place that doesn't have drunken arguments raging outside my bedroom window, and not having to share space with people that I'm a teensy bit scared of because I'm worried that if I look at them funny they'll beat me up in the loos.
Tootle pip! x

Sorry about the silence. There's no excuse, really. I would love to tell you that I've been busy, busy, busy, but actually I've been doing quite a lot of drinking coffee and wishing I were a better writer. At least the dissertation is nearly finished now, just in time for summer hols (hooray!). I have decided that Hubby is my muse. I'm not sure if muses are supposed to be small bald middle-aged soldiers; I think they're supposed to be lithe young women wafting about in diaphanous strips of silk (I could ask him to try that, but unless Ben Sherman does a line diaphanous silk t-shirts, I don't feel lucky). Anyway, he's my muse because every time I get stuck and write something rubbishy and cliched that I just can't get right, he swings in with a really great plot suggestion. I wonder whether we should do a job swop? I could harrumph about in camouflage sorting out engineering solutions and he could write a book about three young women in the army in wartime. Or maybe he should do both jobs, and I should spend my time wafting about in diaphanous silk and looking pale and interesting? Perhaps I could try that one when I sign on after the school holidays and have to give suggestions of the kinds of employment opportunities I'm looking for. The way I see it there are three choices:
1. Muse wafting in diaphanous silk (might be a slight issue with the varicose veins and cellulite with that one);
2. Bestselling and extremely rich author (unlikely to happen soon, given my current speed of output);
3. Dinner lady (smells of gravy but far greater likelihood of generating income than either of the above).
Last day of school tomorrow and then we're all off for our chavtastic holiday in Butlin's (the perfect break for a wannabe dinner lady/muse/author), yay! xxx

Twin 2 has nits. I've never had nits and nobody else in the family seems to have them, and their source remains a bit of a mystery. Anyway, the good news is that I'm developing closer relationships with school mums keen to furnish me with anti-nit advice. Apparently hairspray helps as the nits can't cling onto hair, so I'll be sending the girls to school with nice eighties haircuts in future.
Other exciting news this week includes Son's role in the school production of Cinderella. He was a horse. We were of course very proud (watch out Hollywood)...
The dissertation is ticking along. I'm saving the panic until next week: because it's the last week of term I'll probably hit Monday morning and realise with dread that I'm never ever going to finish it before the hols. Luckily Hubby is on a course next week so he'll miss most of my stressing and feeling inadequate.
Did you hear the news about armed forces being used as public service polyfilla yet again at the Olympics? I do hope they don't pull Hubby in as it would ruin our week in Butlin's Skegness!

Just effected the great rat recovery part two. Last night Son was in tears: the rats had vanished. We searched the house but they were nowhere to be found and as the french windows had been open, we suspected the worst...poor old Son had a late night and Bach Rescue Remedy. Then today, when I was sat at the kitchen table 'writing my dissertation' (drinking coffee and daydreaming about being Joanna Trollope) I heard a suspicious scuttling and saw a flash of Rattus, the pesky little rodent. After school Son had a proper hunt and we found pesky Rattus and fat-bottomed Nameless had made a little den inside the sofa bed, in the underneath bit where we keep the bedding.
Would it be wrong to make Son pay for the cost of two ruined pillows, pillowcases and kingsize duvet cover? I feel the trauma of believing his ratty little daughters were dead was probably punishment enough.
What else? Hubby now has a job, sort of. At least our days of behaving like a couple of OAPs are over - no more endless lattes in Costa, and I fear my hairless Hugh FW may soon be replaced by a small angry soldier. Oh well, it couldn't carry on, all those coffees didn't come cheap and we've run out of money now, anyway.
Right, need to get kingsize quilt of the line before the thunder starts (damn that pesky gulf stream and those even peskier rats). Take care xxx

On Friday I had supper sitting next to a cannon, in precisely the same spot where Nelson said, "Kiss me, Hardy". Well, it might have been, as we were on HMS Victory, after all. Although according to Horrible Histories, he said "Kismet" not "Kiss me" - anyway, nobody said either 'kiss me' or 'kismet' to me as they were all too busy guffawing about hilarious armed forces things from their six months in Camp Bastion (however, I almost said, 'bugger me' when I banged my head on a big metal thing that you use to pack powder into the cannons).
Whilst I was busy being blinded by the reflections from a thousand medals and bumping into various bits of nineteenth century military hardware, Son and Twins were being babysat by my lovely niece in London. We all think she's lovely, but to my seven-year-old daughters she is beyond perfection because she teaches cheerleading and cheerobics for a living. They all stayed up late learning some cool moves and as a result were tired as old dogs in the morning, and a good job too, because none of us were in the mood for an early start, least of all the war hero in the bed next to me (who I have to say looked particularly handsome in his uniform).
And now we're all back in Nottingham, in the rain, and dreaming about the possibility of a summer happening at some point...

ps. Whilst I was Lily Savage, Hubby was a less hirsute and more aggressive version of Hugh Fearnly-Whittingstall (which may explain why we never seem to look that good in photos). He has been pelting round the kitchen like a flesh-coloured bullet, waving bits of puff pastry and getting huffy about not being able to find the tamarind paste. Suppertimes have been filled with tasty vegetarian things that the kids have loyally said were 'kind of in-betweeny' (which is high praise indeed, because if I offer anything other than hot dogs these days they say that it's yukky and the school dinners are much better), served with a kind of manic zeal and an angry tut if anyone asks for extra seasoning. Anyway, I'm not longer Lily, and it seems he's no longer bald Hugh, because tonight we had Tesco Value lasagne (how I love baking trays you can just throw away afterwards and not have to wash up - come to think of it, maybe there is a little bit of Lily Savage left in me!)

My son is keeping a chart on his new pinboard that follows my perceived emotional well being. He says I'm a fifteen at the moment. When I asked him if that was good or bad, he said that it's better than zero. He said that if I get famous and publish a book it might go up, but if I get all shouty it will go down (apparently there is the potential to get down as low as minus one hundred and something). I'll let you know what my score is next time, but I'm guessing it will depend if he fills it in on a Sunday (room tidying and rat cage cleaning day) or not...
What else has been happening? Erm...I'm now a redhead. I think the Lily Savage look had been done to death, to be honest, so I got a Groupon voucher for a cut and colour somewhere that I thought was nearby. I went by the postcode, because my geography of Nottingham is a bit sketchy beyond the school and the big Tescos, and I thought that it ought to be somewhere around here - turns out it was over the other end of town and took half an hour to get there. The hairdresser took one look at my peroxide and roots combo and, rolling his eyes, said that it would take an hour and a half longer and cost an additional twenty quid. So I spent the morning reading many magazines and also many F Scott Fitzgerald stories (luckily I came prepared with my Kindle) and having many cups of lukewarm instant coffee. It does look better, I suppose. So that filled up most of the day today. The rest of the time since I last blogged I've been busy with the dissertation. Well, that and sports day (which took up the whole of Monday) and having cups of coffee in Costa and wondering vacantly which earrings to wear tomorrow night. Oh, yes, I haven't told you about tomorrow night, have I? So the urgency of getting my hair done today (and not kicking up a fuss at having to pay twenty quid in cash on top of the Groupon voucher, etc.) is that Hubby and I are going to a posh dinner thing on HMS Victory tomorrow night with all the people he was in Afghanistan with. And I couldn't possibly go with bad transvestite hair - although I do seem to have bad transvestite nails (which maybe serves me right for trying to do my nails and watch the football with two rats scuttling about on the sofa).
Right then, there's probably loads more I could tell you about, but I need to take my red hair, blue nails and fake-tanned face upstairs and get some beauty sleep in readiness for a night of listening to Afghanistan anecdotes. Night! xxx

ps. I'm not going to become a dinner lady. I have withdrawn my application because Hubby said, "I don't want you coming home smelling of gravy every night.". So that's my career as a 'lunchtime supervisor' over before it even began. I'll just have to become a famous novelist instead, then...

Footie's on, so I've got nobody to talk to except you...actually I'm going to watch it in a bit, if I can persuade my husband to crack open the whisky or something.

Since I last blogged my son has managed to turn into something of a local radio star and I've managed not to turn into the elephant woman. Last week Gem 106 (our local station) visited the kids' school during lunch hour to serve lunch and interview the kids, which was wildly exciting (would have been even more exciting if I'd got the dinner lady job, but more of that later) at the time but totally thrilling during 'Sam & Amy's breakfast show' the following morning when 'Amy' played her interview with Son. It went something like this:

Amy: Hello, do you like football?
Son: No, I prefer maths, actually.
Her: Wow, what do you like about maths?
Him: Well, it give me a feeling like solid metal bars when I think about it.
Her: Okay...what else do you like?
Him: I like moles.
Her: Er...why?
Him: Because I imagine that they have a whole network of tunnels extending underneath the planet's surface, and....(here he continued at some length).
Her: Brilliant! Can I take you home with me, please?

Well, no, Amy from Gem 106, you can't, because he's mine (I may have to fight her in the toilets). Not only was I feeling insecure in my motherhood that day, with concerns that minor local celebrities were about to abduct my son, I was also feeling generally worried as I had woken up that morning with a face all red and puffed up. I made an emergency appointment at the doctors for some medical advice, which consisted of a shrug and a suggestion to go to the pharmacy and buy some antihistamines, after which she said, oooh, wasn't your son a star on the radio this morning? Can I adopt him, please? (actually I lied about the last bit, but it wouldn't have surprised me if she had said that, given his current celebrity status).

Anyway, luckily my face got less puffy over the weekend, and no random stranger has snatched my son and sold their story to Heat magazine. So that's alright then.
Right, better go and watch the footie. Night then xxx

Hello, how are you? Major Bumsaw has morphed into a domestic god (which is a slightly geekier version of a domestic goddess - think lovechild of Nigella and the bloke off the gadget show), which means we had healthy mushroom stew for supper and we get to watch a new 3-D television. Fantastic. It's a bit like having Meena and Mani back, but all in one person, and without the odd language and cultural differences (he didn't feel the need to tell me that the children will get diarhroea  -oops sorry, still can't spell it - if they go around with bare feet, for example) . And the really good news is that the army still hasn't given him a job to go to, so I've got my splendiferous housekeeper indefinitely...well, apart from on Friday when he's off to get drunk with his mate (so we'll have to have a McDonald's that night).
Today I started writing my dissertation. By 'writing' I of course mean staring into space, having lots of cups of tea, and worrying that I'm really not up to the task. Luckily my new domestic god doubles up as a dissertation mentor, and gave me some top plot tips (in between chopping mushrooms and tuning in the new telly). I hope the army don't want him back too soon xxx

Hi, how are you? Today is my husband's birthday. He is forty-six. I know this because three children came into the bedroom at around seven this morning chanting, "Forty-six, forty-six, forty-six!". This means it's a whole thirty years since he first went into the army recruiting office and asked to join up. (They sent him away then, because he was two pounds underweight, so he couldn't actually join until a whole year later. )Today is a grey and rainy day in Nottingham, so we have been spending his birthday at home, playing on the Wii and eating birthday cake.
So how has your half term been so far? We had great plans to go camping...until we saw the weather forecast. Luckily most of the other kids in the street have also been at home, or rather, at our home. I'm never quite sure which small child I will find where, and we're going through the multipack crisps at quite a rate, I can tell you. Apart from today, wierdly. I haven't found a random neighbour's child anywhere today. I'm not sure if it's because they have a sixth sense about the fact that Hubby is forty-six, forty-six, forty-six, or because they know there are only cheese and onion crisps left.
I keep looking out of the window hopefully. If the sun comes out then I'm going for a run, but if it doesn't then I'm having another piece of birthday cake...looks like it's more cake then. Hope the sun is shining where you are xxxx

sorry, sorry, sorry! I am still here, I've just been a bit, erm, distracted this past week or so...I will write more soon I promise xxx

ps. remember the Living Goddess profile I did for the Sunday Times a while ago? It's been sold on to Cambridge University Press for use in a textbook, which is not just good news, it's also two hundred quid,  hurrah (more than I'll earn in a month as a dinner lady...).

My husband is decompressing in Cyprus following his six months of aggressive housekeeping in theatre. Don't you just love military terminology and the images it conjures up? I see him as a teeny tiny soldier, dressed in a pinny, coming out from behind red velvet stage curtains and suddenly puffing up into gargantuan proportions on a mediterranean beach. I'm sure the reality is entirely different (he may well have left the pinny behind in Afghanistan). Similarly, I went to circuits the other lunchtime and the new, young (I felt like a pedo when I realised I thought he was quite good looking) PTI told us to 'dress up' for our pre workout briefing. Dress up as what, I wondered aloud, fairies? Nobody laughed.( I must stop being flippant; it's just inappropriate for someone of my age). So, yes, Major Bumsaw is on his way home and due to arrive at exactly the same time as my Tesco delivery (which is handy - he can help me out with putting away) and this gives me less than 24 hours to complete my list of jobs, which comprises: cleaning the oven, finishing the filing & sorting the office, two massive baskets of ironing, and losing a kilo from each thigh. Yep, I know, not very likely really. Furthermore, the Brazilian blow dry is not scheduled until Thursday, so my concerns about him coming back home to Wurzel Gummidge from the skip are fairly likely. Okay, I might get the ironing done (I've run out of lemonade to have with my Pimms, so I may be a little more efficient than I was last night - or I could just drink it neat....), but that's about it.
Right, better go and get on with it I suppose. Take care xxx

So, the other morning as we were rushing about trying not to be late for school (or rather, I was rushing about trying not to be late for school and everyone else was sitting about making interesting shapes from half-eaten toast), I happened to hear Son telling Twin 1 that she could have a baby any time she wanted because she's a girl, so all she had to do was mate with a boy, which of course necessitated an emergency discussion on ovulation, implantation, periods, and tampons - all before eight in the morning. Phew. Other than that, this week has been largely stress-free. Since handing in my work I have been wafting about vacantly (although I did manage to get my act together enough to apply for the dinner lady job). However, now Hubby's arrival is imminent, I've been looking round the house and realising just how much of a skip it has turned into. So this afternoon I've re-arranged the bedroom, planted out some rather sad looking seedlings and had vague thoughts about sorting out the office, cleaning the cooker, etc. I feel my spurt of domesticity is nearly spent, though, because I've just drunk a large Pimms & lemonade a little too quickly, and it's nearly time for The Voice...
Hope you're having a good weekend xxx

Hello again. BTW I'm a genius. It's official. I just got eighty percent in my last academic essay. Remember the scary essay that I sweated blood over a couple of months ago? Well, it turns out that I wasn't as useless as I thought, which is jolly good news. I've been feeling all happy and chirpy, not just because of the essay mark and the sunshine and the prospect of Hubby coming home soon, but also because I've just handed in my second semester work (two new chapters for my book plus two short stories and an essay) and now there's just the dissertation to do. I say 'just', it's actually pretty scary because it's another twelve thousand words to conjure up, but hey, I've got my fake tan on and my teeth bleaching mouthguard in and my next door neighbour even mentioned that I looked like I'd lost weight today (yes!) so, frankly, the world is my oyster. Oh, and I'm just about to apply for a job as a dinner lady. Yes, I am. The twins have been nagging me about it and I was laughing at the whole silly notion of me being a lunchtime supervisor at their school, but then I thought, well, it would give me plenty of time to write and fit in with school holidays...so I'm picking up an application form tomorrow. And, of course, I'm already planning the press release for when I get published: "local dinner lady wins Booker Prize"...Right, well I'm off now to watch the Apprentice and wonder why Steve hasn't been fired yet (could you work with him? could you? well, you're a better person than me). Night x

Hello, sorry it's been so long. And what have I been doing in the last ten days to justify the silence? Nothing much, except turning forty two (forty two, I know!). It's always nice to have a good old birthday celebration (even if Son was up at six in the morning decorating the cake, and waking the whole household, bless him). Lovely friend AL came for the weekend (bringing sweets, so the kids now wish she was their mother, not me), along with Mum, Dad and one sister and her husband, so it was a right houseful. Handily enough there was a sunday lunch in the mess, so we all traipsed along there to eat. I think my parents were under the impression that the officers' mess would be posh - Dad even wore a cravat - but sadly it was the usual school dinner type affair (chicken breast that would be useful in hand-to-hand combat and lumpy gravy) underneath a photo of a very young-looking Queen. Still, at least I didn't have to wash up.
I wouldn't be feeling my age quite so much if Twin 1 didn't keep reminding me that I'm the 'oldest mother in school' and that 'even Katy's mum is younger' than me, etc. Every time we go to Tesco she says things like: 'Why don't you buy some make up to cover up your wrinkles?' or 'That purple dress might make you look a bit younger' and so on.
Today at breakfast, there was the usual discussion about Fairyland, and who the fairies are (apparently Son is a vampire fairy, which was news to me). Until now, I've been assigned the title of  Fairy Queen, and I mentioned something about this as I chipped into the conversation.
Twin 1's response:
"No you can't be the Fairy Queen because the queen has to have lovely long hair without any grey in it. You're too old and you don't wear nice lipstick or dresses. In Fairyland, when you get too old you get banished to real life and you'll probably go in the woods and get killed by a hunter. That's just the way it is," she said with a shrug, and got back to her Special K (which, incidentally, is meant to be for my own cereal bowl only, but the evil little fairy keeps on stealing it and only eating the red berries, and leaving the rest).
I'm not sure what I think of Fairyland's ageism and attitude to regicide, but I suppose it fits in with the pink spangly regime quite well.
Anyway, I'm off to the real world now (probably to meet a hunter and get myself killed, unless I manage to find some lipstick, wrinkle cream and a sparkly dress before nightfall).
Take care xxx

I'm wishing my husband would hurry up and come home, not least because he can have the mildly embarrassing conversations with Son. Like this one, for example, that took place earlier this evening, whilst playing our pre-bedtime game of cards:
Son (aged 10): Mummy, is having sexual relations fun?
Me (valuing honesty above all things but taking a split-second decision to give away as little as possible): Yes.
Him: Is that because of the endorphins?
Me (casually offhand): I think it's oxytocin actually.
Him: Oh.
Then we got back to the game of cards. Phew, managed to get out of that one, but it's only a matter of time before there are more questions, I'm sure.
Hurry up and come home, Major Bumsaw, you are needed on the Home Front!

Hi, how are things? I'm feeling a combination of perkiness and guilt: perkiness because it has finally stopped raining, but guilt because I really should be out there in the garden making use of the sunshine, and I'm not. Frankly, gardening scares me almost as much as oven cleaning (no, I still haven't done it). Anyway, I've finally got hold of the laptop because Son has been lured out by his friend across the road - he can't resist the boy with the coolest sets of Lego in town. There are various interesting bumps and squeaks from upstairs. The Twins are hosting four friends and I think they're planning a disco, or possibly world domination. I think they would manage world domination fairly swiftly, actually, not least because Twin 2 has some extremely good torture methods that would easily scare any rogue elements into submisson. Under the pink spangly regime, there would be no need for rendering, waterboarding or press censorship. Anyone who didn't agree with the government would simply be subjected to an onslaught of Twin 2's jokes. Let me give you an example of one of the better ones:
-knock knock
-who's there?
-Justin Bieber
-Justin Bieber who?
-Oooh, Justin Bieber is my boyfriend! (followed by insane laughter).
Yep, those subversive agitators would give up in a nanosecond.
So apart from the rise of the pink spangly dominatrices, not much else has happened this weekend...let me think...
Oooh, yes, the Twins have joined a gymnastics class (all the better to outmanoevre their political opponents, perhaps). But what's amazing about this is that, as you know, Twin 2 has cerebral palsy and I thought there was no way ever in a million years that she'd be able to join a gymnastics class, of all things. But Twin 1 is very springy and agile and she wanted to go, and Twin 2 nagged and cried and whinged and employed all her many tactics and in the end I gave way and asked the gymnastics teacher if she could have a go as well...and she said yes! Inclusivity is alive and well and living in a leisure centre in Beeston. I was so overwhelmed at the response that I have to admit to bursting into tears. So that was good. How was your weekend?
Take care xxxx

My lovely son has only left me twenty minutes of charge on the laptop, so I'll be brief (no, I can't go upstairs and get the lead, because that would mean missing crucial moments of 'Will & Kate: the first year' on ITV. Sorry, yes I am a shallow old Royalist - best not to dwell on the permanent marker moustache on the Queen's portrait incident at university - after all, the Queen is effectively Hubby's boss).
I was really happy to get back into university today for a meeting with my tutor. I'm clinging onto my second-chance student hood; I'll be quite sad to leave it all behind and get back to reality. Even though the taught part of the course is over, I still have loads of work to do, and I don't officially graduate until November, I think, so I can carry on in student mode until then (eating Beanfeast out of a mug with a teaspoon because nobody can be bothered to do the washing up, mainly).
 I'm very much looking forward to my second-chance graduation, I have to say, as I did make a bit of a hash of it first time round. It was my friend H's twenty-first birthday the day before, and we went out for cocktails with her and all her scary hockey club friends. I don't remember much of the night, but I do remember vomming just before having my graduation portrait taken, and my mum muttering darkly that I should really have worked a bit harder and got a 2:1.
You know how most parents proudly display their children's graduation portraits somewhere prominent, like the hall table or the mantlepiece? That never happened to me - I found them a few years later in a box under the bed in the spare room. I can't say I blame them for not putting me on display; I do look a bit green around the gills.
So this time, the plan is to do better than a 2:2 and definitely not vomit.
Ah, look at the lovely royal couple...sorry, I have to go and watch more Hello-style telly now. Take care xx

Hi, Saturday night and a house full of pesky kids. Twins' friend E is having a sleepover. She is quiet, clever (knows her eight times table already, and she's only seven), and doesn't like fizzy pop or chocolate - I have absolutely no idea what she has in common with my girls, but they all seem happy enough up there in their improvised tent on the bedroom floor. Son and I have just watched The Voice. He's a big fan of Samuel, but my money is on Ruth, especially with that rendition of 'Get Here'. Blub? I should say so!
The excitement for tomorrow is a cheerleading party. Both Twins were invited, but I have managed to persuade Twin 2 to bow out. I'm all for inclusivity, but I think that handstands and high kicks would be just a little too much for a girl with cerebral palsy to manage. She was upset, but perked up a bit when she realised that she would still get a party bag. It's a bit difficult at the moment because there have been a few incidences recently where she has to accept that her disability is an issue. We've had tears because I won't let her scooter into school (because she can't actually scooter yet, and because school is at the bottom of an enormous hill), and huffiness because I won't let her join a gymnastics club. I don't want to come across as Nemo's dad, but there are some things that it's just unsafe and impractical for her to do.
Right, I have to go and turn lights off now, will try to think of something cheery to tell you about next time! xxx

...hello, I'm back from the exciting trip to the tip, and in order not to tackle the next thing on the list (yes, the oven) I'm back with you. What else can I tell you about? Oh yes, it was the twins' birthday at the weekend. I booked a soft play place and I had visions of me sitting sipping a nice caramel latte whilst the party just sort of happened around me. But it all ended up being slightly manic. Oh well, the girls were very happy with it, although nobody was remotely interested in the cake, so I've given it to a neighbour for her kids - at the moment mine only seem to want to eat olives and oranges (strange children - they certainly don't get their eating habits from me).
I have to admit to feeling slightly dislocated and frazzled recently. I put it down to not having to fill up every spare second with coursework or kids and having odd amounts of spare time, during which I feel I ought to be doing something, but in fact don't have the va-va-voom for it. It all came to a head after a weekend during which, as well as the manic party, there were just enormous amounts of homework for the kids to do (I blame imminent sats) and then on Sunday night Twin 2 was up half the night with a nightmare, so then, by Monday I was so fed up and tired that I decided to just blooming well go back to bed. So I did. I ignored the breakfast dishes/washing and went straight up and hopped under the duvet and didn't wake up until gone eleven. I know it sounds dreadfully slovenly, but I think I'm a bit at the end of my tether with this whole single parenthood thing now - and I did feel so much better afterwards (in fact, I'm positively chirpy today).
Just realised that I have a whole hour to spare as they are all at choir today...would it be very wrong to go out for the quiet caramel latte that I didn't get to have at the weekend? xxx

Brazilian Wurzel

I've been writing lots of lists of things to do. What I've noticed is, however, that somethings get crossed off immediately, whilst others take weeks. Funny how booking the Brazilian blow dry was only on the list for a nano second, whilst cleaning the oven and taking stuff to the tip have been languishing un-crossed off for weeks now. Oh, yes, the Brazilian blow dry has nothing whatsoever to do with a Latin American shoving curlers in. Nor has it anything to do with shaving genitalia. It will, however, turn me into the flaxen haired goddess that I always have been...underneath every Worzel Gummidge there is a Timotei advert from the 1980s waiting to emerge and I shall be that Timotei woman. When Hubby arrives back from Afghanistan I shall flounce through a meadow of wildflowers in a floaty chiffon number and waft into his manly embrace. I shall also be twenty years younger and quite possibly Austrian. So now Hubby is not allowed to come back from Afghanistan before 31st May or he will be greeted by the disgruntled Wurzel that he left behind six months ago.
I have to go now and take some stuff to the tip. I'm not going to clean the oven today though, and you can't make me. I'll be back in touch later...x

Hi, how are you? I got a phone call from my husband last night. On a Wednesday, I know - it was so unexpected that I burst into tears. I didn't sob for long though, as the phone was soon wrested from me by children needing to say important things about missing teeth, lost watches, etc. Not sure why I'm feeling so emotional, but it must be something in the air because this morning both girls were in tears (Twin 1 because  of my unreasonable request that she get dressed before breakfast and Twin 2 because of my unreasonable request that she stop playing 'teachers' and brush her teeth). I can only apologise to them for being clearly the worst mother in the world. Not only are they not allowed a pink television in their room, they are also not allowed to have breakfast in their pyjamas and they have to brush their teeth on school mornings. Bad, bad mother.
Maybe they'll forgive me tomorrow morning because, hurrah, it's their birthday. They are seven (yes, this does make me feel old). I'm going to be spending this evening baking cupcakes and assembling scooters, so hopefully there won't be tears tomorrow...
Right, must go - still working my way through the backlog of washing from the broken washing machine furore. Take care x

I've developed a TV crush on the one who plays Henry the eighth

Hi, how are things? I've found myself with a bit of spare time, and I know that I should be cleaning the downstairs bathroom or sorting out the finances or doing something productive, but, you know, it's been a while, so I thought I'd write. Talking of it being a while, I went to circuits today for the first time in yonks (since that day when they decided to have a 'fun sports competition' and I ran away - literally). It's all so very painful and humiliating. But someone has to be bottom of the class and make everyone else feel good about themselves, so it might as well be me. The sad thing is that I'm also bottom of the class in yoga, too. Most people are good at either being bendy or fit, but I'm good at neither. Oh, well, better stick at it. The plan is to be nice and buff for the summer, but I have a feeling it might take a bit of work. It's not that I ate lots of Easter eggs, but I did have quite a lot to drink when my friend H was here at the weekend, when we reverted to our student lifestyle, spending the evening drinking, eating crisps and shouting at the telly until H started snoring on the sofa and I wobbled up to bed. The difference is that twenty years ago, when we last existed like that, neither of us had kids, so we could sleep in. Nowadays we have four between us, and although they are very good at sorting themselves out on a weekend, come eight o'clock there had better be toast and bacon or there will be the kind of consequences I don't really want to think about. I feel quite tired today, and the scary circuits haven't helped...
Right then, nearly time for exciting Horrible Histories. Tonight we are having a snack supper in front of Horrible Histories. I don't care if you think this is chavvy. And it has nothing to do with the fact that I've developed a TV crush on the one who plays Henry the eighth, honest! xxx

I have just discovered that when my husband gets back from Afghanistan, he is planning on a sailing trip to the Arctic. Did I discover this via a diplomatically voiced telephone conversation, or in a carefully worded letter accompanied by a big box of chocolates for his loving and understanding wife? No, I did not. I discovered it via a Facebook conversation with a yachtie friend of his.
 He has yet to mention the trip to me.
I wonder how long it will take for me to officially be told? I'll let you know...

ps. Does this cancel out him finding out about the two grands worth of damage on the car via my blog when he was in Iraq?

Easter

Hello! How was your Easter? I'm going to try to write something but I admit to being a bit zombied out after my very long trip back from Devon (although also a bit high on heady mix of Red Bull, double-shot lattes and Green & Black's Easter egg). We set off late morning but as the car tyre had been flat my dad directed us to ATS in Totnes to get it looked at before hitting the M5. Turns out that ATS closed down four years ago, but we found somewhere else, luckily. The nice man removed a nail and bunged in some glue and then we were off, by which time it was almost lunch time so we had to stop for a Burger King somewhere in Somerset...by which time the traffic jams had started, so it was already five by the time we got to the M42 so we had to stop again for some sandwiches and caffeine...and by the time we got home it was pretty much bed time. Why does Devon have to be so far away?
Anyway, the Easter weekend was a success. We managed to see some lovely friends from Nepal on Good Friday here in Nottingham. It was fantastic to see them, although it did confirm my suspicion that I am the  hostess with the leastess, because they did end up eating Tesco ready meals that they bought themselves...(oh, was it my fault that they didn't want fish and chips and I didn't have any other food in the house?). The following morning we had breakfast with them at their hotel (I can't think why they decided against sleeping over at my house...) and then we went our separate ways. The Twins didn't manage all their breakfast, so I saved it for Dog to have in the car, but he only ate the sausage and left the bacon, which he sat on for most of the journey...so when we arrived in Devon I gave it to my mother for her own two dogs. For supper that first night we had paella. After we finished it and dutifully said how tasty it was, my mum said that the little bit of bacon had been a nice addition, hadn't it. I said what bacon? And she said, the bacon you gave me. I said, you mean the bacon that was breakfast leftovers that the dog had licked and then been sitting in for five hours in the car?
The next day Twin 1 had diarrhoea. My mum maintains that there is no connection whatsoever between her cooking and her granddaughter's stomach upset, but I beg to differ.
Other than that, it was a pretty good weekend. We went to the beach, we saw the cousins and I managed not to have a row about politics with my dad - well, almost...
Hope you had a good one too.
Take care xxxx

I found the launderette, despite the lack of satnav, managed to make it through the blizzard...brrr, it's a bit parky at the moment, isn't it? I still haven't actually managed to order a new washing machine though, because my new credit card has to be activated before use by the account holder...who is of course in Afghanistan. Bummer. Oh well, the trip out in the arctic conditions to get the washing done was the highlight of the day today. That and making Easter 'nests' out of the left over Coco Pops (left over because, since the rat poo ingestion incident the other week, everyone  - understandably - prefers Minibix) and some mini eggs.
The day almost got really exciting just before bedtime, when Twin 2 looked out of the window and then started screeching, "Quick, quick, Daddy's come home!" Of course, it wasn't him, just some other random chap in combat kit walking down the street. If it had been him it would have trumped the launderette trip and the homemade Easter nests hands down, but sadly we'll have to wait another couple of months for that one.
Right, bedtime for me, now xx

holidays...

Hello. Sorry, I know it's been a while. It was the breathless excitement of finishing that essay and the whole whirlwind end-of-term thing. I've now finished the taught bit of my masters. There's still loads to do, but I don't have any more academic stuff to work on, it's just writing short stories and chapters towards the novel now - the nice bits. Quite wierd to have time to watch telly in the evening and not have to get on with set novel/essay/critiquing - tonight I sampled the delights of the hairy bikers (it was bakery porn, really - whilst they were hoofing down Hungarian scones, I was eating the last two gherkins in the jar and thinking wistfully about cream teas).
Tonight I'm sharing a bed with Twin 2, who has a hideous cough. I'm stocked up with her inhaler, bottle of water and box of tissues and am psychologically prepared for a very interrupted nights sleep. Bless her. Luckily I have diddly-squat to do tomorrow, so lack of sleep is not a problem, hurrah. Oh, well, I do actually have to take a huge load of washing to the launderette because the washing machine has just broken (and so has the sat nav in the car, wonder if the end-of-term thrill has affected my electric aura and caused me to fuse any appliance I touch? And will I be able to find my way to the launderette now?). And I also have to take my son to the garden centre to spend his birthday money (is it normal for a ten-year-old to want to spend his birthday money on plants? no, thought not).
Anyway, so what has been happening for the last week? Hmmm....(pause whilst I cast my mind back)...
The twins had a go at being body guards in a shopping mall on Saturday. We'd been to see Pirates with some friends as Son's birthday treat in a mall in Derby. When we took the girls to the loo afterwards there was some worried looking teen and her mate hanging around. They asked if they could walk out of the toilets with us as some other girls were threatening to beat one of them up. I sympathised; I have vague memories of girls threatening to beat me up and having to hide in loos or library (although I also seem to remember that as soon as I started wearing blue eyeliner and scrunch-drying my hair these threats seemed to stop - a top tip I perhaps should have passed on to the troubled Derby girl). So I told one twin to hold on to each of her hands and pretend she was an auntie and out we strolled. My girls may be only six, but nobody is going to mess with them, so the Derby girl was saved a punch-up (or more likely, a bit of squawking and hair pulling).
Other than that, we're just pootling along in holiday mode (which means that I wake up at six thirty when Twin 2 comes in and asks if they can watch 'Milkshake' or play on the Wii, I mumble something that she translates as a yes, and then I wake up again two hours later to goggle-eyed children and cereal all over the living room floor, then I make breakfast, set Bertha to work on the living room floor, and think hopefully about the possibility of going for a whole day without having to yell at anyone - I almost managed it today...).
Right, Twin 2 has stopped coughing, so now might be a good time to go to bed and try to get some shut-eye before she starts again.
Night then x

Wah-hey!

Wah-hey! I have just finished the scary essay and submitted it to Turnitin (electronic anti-plagiarism site - although I hardly think I'm at risk of plagiarising anyone,  as I can't imagine that anyone else in the world will have written anything like the pseudo academic twaddle that I have managed to cobble together). I honestly have no idea how it will do. I tried really hard to answer the (really complicated) question, so I just have to hope that's good enough. Luckily everyone else was also having problems with it and one of my peers (blimey, it is a bit wierd calling a twenty-four year old bloke my peer) worked out that the scary essay only amounts to one twenty fourth of the total marks for the masters course. I wonder if being up half of last night with a combination of a huge ironing pile and a small girl having a dream about being eaten by pirates counts as extenuating circumstances if it's not?
As a result of my finishing the essay, the washing has not been done, nor the downstairs bathroom (although Bertha has kindly hoovered the living room floor, bless her). The cleaning rota is frowning at me in a matronly way, and I'm fantasizing about picking up a big fat advance for the novel I'm writing and spending it on employing a cleaning lady (and also getting a Brazilian blow dry - well I think it's justifiable, after all, I'll have to look good for all my book-signing tours and interviews on This Morning, etc.)
I now have almost a whole novel (Hallucinating Foucoult by Patricia Dunker - I've started it and it's pretty good so far) to read in time for tomorrow's workshop. Luckily the workshop is starting late tomorrow, not until 2pm, so I might just do it if I make a start tonight.
Must go. Take care xx

'I am a genetic clone'

Hi, how are things? I've just been sewing labels saying 'I am a genetic clone' onto the front of the girls' dresses. It's science dress up day tomorrow, and I didn't realise until this week that it was a whole school thing. I knew that son had to dress up as he brought a letter home about it. He decided to be a solar flare, so I bought an orange hoodie and some gold streamers etc. for that, but then when I realised dress up day applied to the Twins as well, I just lost heart with the whole thing. I think school dress up days are probably brilliant if you only have one child, and you have lots of time and creative energy. But, frankly, when you have three it's a bit of a pain in the bum. I contemplated having them go as matter and anti-matter, but that would entail mutual annihilation - and then they wouldn't get to have tea at Erin's house, which would cause a bit of a brouhaha, not to mention the end of the known universe...unless Son decided to go as Higgs Boson, in which case everything would be astro-physically okay, I guess. However, as Son is intent on being a solar flare (and what's more, we have an orange hoodie with streamers attached that will otherwise go to waste), the calming effect of Higgs Boson will be absent, and I don't want to risk the destruction of reality as we know it so...that's why they are going as the little biological miracles they are, bless 'em.
I'm starting to ramble  a bit, aren't I? I should really go to bed.
Night then xxx

Thanks Lion Foods for remembering Mother's Day!

The package was chocolates, hurrah. But the hoody was too small (in retrospect perhaps I was a little ambitious ordering one in a size eight...). But the most mysterious thing of all was that although the card that came with the chocolates said "To the woman I love, Happy Mother's Day, Hubby denied all knowledge of them.
I was briefly excited by the thought of a secret admirer, but the excitement was swiftly followed by feeling well creeped-out. After all, what kind of a man shows his ardour by sending you something on Mother's Day? Only some oedipal wierdo. So the flush of giddiness was replaced by thoughts of being stalked by some strange, probably bearded, chap. Eventually Hubby remembered that he'd entered a competition to win free chocolates for mother's day, but forgotten about it. So it turns out they were from him and not beardy wierdy oedi after all.
Not sure how I feel about the whole thing now. I mean, obviously I'm relieved not to be the victim of a beardy wierdy oedi stalker. And I'm also grateful for the Mother's Day gift. But am I actually grateful to Hubby (who had forgotten all about Mother's Day, and I know I should forgive him, what with him being stuck out in Afghanistan and all that, but I'm not sure I do because my Son, lovely as he is, delivered breakfast in bed by waking me up for it at 7.30 on Sunday morning, and all I seemed to do for the rest of the day was wash up, oh, and the hoody was too small, thus reminding me once and for all that I am not and never will be a size eight, etc.) or grateful to Lion Foods for picking his competition entry? Lion Foods, I guess. Thanks Lion Foods for remembering Mother's Day!