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...