This week finds me sitting with Wine in one hand and Nit Lotion in the other (trying not to get so drunk that I drink the wrong one). Recent triumphs include having had a bit of a ding with the car (cost £500) – whoops, and having booked a clown for Harriet’s Birthday Party whom I strongly suspect of being a rather mad, drunk, embittered old bat. She appears to specialise in wearing, along with her rainbow coloured dungarees, the contents of a psychedelic knitting bag on her head whilst performing the world’s most peculiar puppet show. ‘It will be fine’ – I am telling myself reassuringly at regular intervals.
Tick Mania (the insect kind) is still rife at school so, following the latest additions, the extensive uniform list now includes full protective overalls (think Milking Parlour Chic here) and a wide-brimmed hat as apparently the Ticks have been known to make Mission Impossible style leaps from high branches onto their unsuspecting victims. I await the news that we are to provide beekeeper veils to complete the ensemble.
I have also been compiling a list of Things Husbands don’t understand:
- That Leaving the children’s shoes in Dorset is entirely reasonable given difficulty of loading the right 4 children and dog into the car whilst the wrong 4 children are clambering all over the roof and the wrong dog is attempting to stow away having taken a fancy to the extraordinarily plentiful bits of leftover party cake, crisp packets and apple cores that make up the heady aroma of the back of our car.
- That Beer is not an appropriate Harvest Festival item. Having clearly not been concentrating when the request for seasonal donations came in via that most reliable of delivery services – Boy Post – I had been caught on the hop, again, and so asked a bleary-eyed and dressing-gowned husband for help to source items whilst I located the eleventy-one shoes that had run and hidden themselves in their usual happy 8.30 game of hunt the slipper/trainer/welly/rugby boot/ballet shoe or whatever.
Successfully packed off the children to their School Thanksgiving Service but unfortunately was not quick enough to make it out of the school gate before being spotted, by the smilingly determined (and quite quick on her pins!) School Secretary, I was corralled into the chapel in time to witness the procession of children proudly bearing tins of Baked Beans and dusty Bamboo Shoots up the aisle before depositing them with all necessary pomp on the altar of plenty as the priest looked on with solemn approval. Approval, that is, until the Silly Brothers hove into view carrying a 4 Pack of Best Bitter between them. They looked very pleased with themselves – no one else had thought to bring such a splendid gift.
- That Subtitled movies do not count as a treat! Once collapsed on the sofa with restorative glass of something in hand my brain has disengaged and any attempt to reconnect it with complex thought or sentence structure is doomed to failure. Grumpy failure at that.