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A jolly night out in the provinces culminated in a delightful agreement with another delusional émigré (erstwhile Londoner). Her Children had set up an illicit egg incubator in the airing cupboard. Alerted to this by their sudden and unprecedented interest in laundry she was slightly taken aback to discover she was running a hatchery. Against all the odds there are now 15 rapidly growing chicks who have commandeered the spare room. In the spirit of friendship (combined with my inner Tom-and-Barbara) I offered to relieve her of 3. On waking this morning and remembering hazily this new venture, I thought it may be a case of warming Oppressed Husband to idea. Clearly did this very badly –was just sounding out on the subject of new arrivals before hitting him squarely with the news when a panic-stricken look shot across his face: he started to sweat, getting paler by the second, so first job was then to convince him that I was not pregnant (AGAIN as he so charmingly put it). Once I had scraped him off the ceiling I did have not the heart to plunge him back into the black despair that had momentarily afflicted him at the thought of becoming a Daddy AGAIN. Left him, still gently shivering, to have his breakfast in peace with the intention of trying a different tack tomorrow.

Number One Son is off camping with school. Having insisted on packing for himself and claiming that he had all the essentials I thought it best to check (and surreptitiously make additions or substitutions) before he headed for the wilds.  Clearly pants, toothbrush, and more clothing than he was standing up in are utterly inessential in Boyworld. Rope, torch, penknife and chocolate are all a chap needs. The Dangerous Book for Boys was also secreted in an inner pocket so clearly there are specific plans in mind. Retreated to my comfy sofa with large G&T and took comfort in the knowledge that I am not required on this adventure – pity the poor teacher!

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