Today, after supper (just for added context, we had been doing a science quiz whilst finishing our chocolate biscuits, which had led onto a bit of biology, for example: what do your kidneys do?) Son suddenly piped up. "I've got a fact!" he said. In the spirit of encouraging learning outside of the classroom I asked him what his fact was. To which he replied: "Most boys my age haven't ever seen a vagina, but I have seen the girls' vaginas because they run round the house naked with their tights on their heads."
I think in future I shall eschew biology quizzes at the supper table, and go back to letting them have hot dogs in front of the telly...
(ps. in case this makes our house sound like some kind of unsavoury naturist outpost, I should perhaps remind you that Son is 10 and Twins are seven - running around naked is just what they do.)
pps. no child on ebay - I got the job.
ppps. doesn't pay enough to justify hiring Oona the cleaner, though - shame!

The weather outside is frightful, but inside it's so delightful...Hubby is tucked up under a furry blanket with the undead Dog watching 'Charmed' on E4. I told him I thought it was a load of tosh, but he just replied, "Three fit witches, what's not to like?" (clearly I don't count as a 'fit' witch, just a witchy one). The children have made a barricade on the stairs out of bedding and soft toys and declared upstairs 'children's world'; I am not allowed up. They are all sat in hats (woolly ones for the Twins and an old policeman's helmet for Son), eating Hula Hoops and making up a secret language. And I'm sat at the kitchen table, entering things onto the family finances spreadsheet and realising that I have to get another job, or alternatively sell a child. Luckily I have a job interview on Monday for a very interesting looking flexible part-time position with the university's art history dept - I shall let you know next week whether or not one of my children is going on ebay or not...

Brrr, it's a bit parky out there. Apparently it's going to be minus ten tonight. Oooh, I know! This is roughly the same temperature as it was at Annapurna Base Camp two years ago - feels like a lifetime (sigh). The closest I get to trekking these days is slogging back up the hill after the school run, with my very heavy Tesco bags full of dog food (yes, I know, probably horse meat) and a new bikini (it just cheered me up, and it was only a tenner), up the very slippery road - the camp's gritter broke down on the day it snowed, apparently - and not a porter in sight, or even a nice hot bowl of garlic soup waiting for me at the top.
So, what's been happening recently? The dog is still alive...even though our vet, George (aka Harold Shipman, due to his keenness to offer Dog the final solution), keeps hinting that it's time for him to go, Dog has been frisky as anything since the cold weather (well, he chased a pigeon on Saturday, if that counts) so I cannot bring myself to make the scary appointment on Friday. He has a stay of execution.
I've just started reading the Twins Roald Dahl's 'The Witches' as a bedtime story. Twin 1 seemed somewhat concerned at the revelation that witches don't wear black hats and carry broomsticks, they just look like normal ladies. She insisted on phoning her dad and checking whether or not I was a witch. He replied that as I have a huge hooter and an even bigger arse that I most definitely am a witch. Twin 1 seemed to take it in her stride, and I even think it might have given me a little bit more authority around the house. In fact, this evening she even apologised for getting huffy with me when I told her to practice her spellings, quite possibly due to the fear of magical repercussions. So me having a huge hooter and an enormous arse and being a witch may be to my advantage....
Living dogs and slippery slopes and real witches aside, I think the most exciting thing that's happened this week is that someone called Oona has slipped a flyer through the door offering her cleaning services. She says 'no job too small' (no chance of that in this house) and 'I love to clean!' (clearly Oona and I are from a different gene pool). The flyer is on the pinboard in the kitchen, tempting me in just the same way that a free five pound play on on Sun Bingo would tempt someone with an online gambling habit. Oh, Oona, how I long to have you round to clean the cooker, wipe the mould, scour the limescale and make my life happier all round - just need to get one more teensy little dod of work in to pay for you!
Right then, almost out of charge. Hope it's a bit warmer where you are than it is here. Take care xxx

Hello, how are you? At the moment I'm avoiding the upstairs bathroom, but I know it will find me eventually...I had planned to get back to writing the novel this week, but Twin 2 has slightly sabotaged my free time by having to go to hospital for a hip x-ray and also being sent home from school by claiming to have a sore throat. I think I believe her - however, she has just been eating popcorn and I've heard her screaming whilst playing 'Narnia' with her sister, so her throat may not be quite as sore as she's making out. The bathroom is calling me "Clean me!" it's wailing plaintively. "Please clean me before I die under this crust of hardened toothpaste and dog hair." I suppose I'd better go...

Did you know that breaking a pinkie promise makes you fat and bad? Nope? It was news to me, too, but when Twin 1 promised me that she'd let me wash her hair tomorrow she said - as she thrust out her little finger - that breaking a pinkie promise makes you fat and bad. So I shook her little finger with mine, confident that the hairwash was guaranteed because Twin 1 definitely doesn't want to become 'fat and bad'. I think she might be onto something. Maybe we should ask politicians to do pinkie promises instead of writing election manifestos (although obviously the whole pinkie promise thing wouldn't work on someone who is already fat and bad, so might not be effective on all politicians).
I'm in a really good mood because it feels like my lurgy is finally lifting. I've still got a bit of a sore throat, but it's nothing compared to the pit of viral despair I've been wallowing in for the last few days. I even had the energy to clean the downstairs bathroom this evening, and let me tell you, never has wielding a toilet brush whilst singing along to the Darkness ('I believe in a fing called love') felt so good.
Hubby's gone back to ye olde London town, kids are back at school tomorrow, and I'm itching to get on with the next chapter, having had lots of inspiration for my posh character after listening to some of the audio at the Imperial War Museum in the hols. I am going to finish this book and get it published this year, and that's a pinkie promise ;)

Very fed up with having radish nose, dragon breath and hair like the child catcher, so decided to haul myself out of my sick bed today. Went shopping with Hubby who says he's 'fed up with looking like a tramp'. Now he looks like a tramp with a Ralph Lauren top and brand new underpants, thanks to the wonder of TK Maxx. Then we went to Ashby de la Zouch, which sounds like an obscure character from a gothic novel ('Countess Ashby de la Zouch always wore purple silk taffetta and spoke in rhyming couplets' or something) but is in fact a small midlands market town. We had supper with a lovely family, made doubly lovely by the fact that we had chocolate brownies with ice cream and chocolate sauce for pudding. Right, I need to go and lie down again now. Cheerio xxx

Hi, how are you? I'm surprised to find myself still alive. I have just had the worst cold ever. I would have called it flu, but it can't be because I've had my flu jab. Honestly, ebola would have been nicer. Luckily my amazing husband has brought my my meals in bed all day, where I've spent hours watching obscure channel four documentaries on iplayer on my phone. I still feel like someone has sandpapered my throat, but at least I've stopped sweating and shivering (too much information? soz). Apart from that we've had a lovely old festive time, including xmas with grandparents, a trip to wonderland park in London, the chance for me to do a bit of research at the Imperial War Museaum, eating far too much stilton and chocolate (not at the same time, though)  - I'm too scared to get on the bathroom scales at the moment - and I'm a bit sad that the new term is looming; it's been so nice to get up late and hang out in PJs for half the day. Oh well, can't avoid real life (or the credit card bill) forever, I suppose. Hope you had happy hols xxx
ps. Hubby says that the last post makes it look as if it's my fantasy to wake up in bed between Kylie & Danni. It's not: it's his. I guess my equivalent would be to wake up between George Clooney and, oh, I don't know, a nice plate of stilton and pickle on crackers.
Right, new years resolution: to finish the blooming book (and publish it too) and become a fabulous novelist with shiny hair and slim thighs (not too much to expect to achieve in twelve months, surely?). What's yours? xxx