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Notes from have come home from school – not nits: Worse!

It is that time of year again and Costumes for School Play are required.  This news was met with the deepest of deep sighs. We have only just got over the trauma of the Halloween Disco at which, after changing his mind 15 times: discussing, planning, refining, and laundering ad nauseam, Silly Brother No.2 point blank refused to wear his costume. The legitimacy of forcing a child into a daft outfit, in order for him to have fun, being deeply suspect I managed to restrain any more violent urges and confined my expression of irritated disapproval to some tersely worded phrases.

No.1 Son on the other hand takes such things very seriously as we discovered on world Book Day, when a full-blown temper tantrum was unleashed from my most placid child. Having been mucking out their room (involving the removal of all festering items of clothing – some of which could arguably have marched themselves into the laundry basket) – It became apparent that I had ruined everything.

Apparently method acting was Key to adding the necessary realism to this particular costume and Sam had been carefully layering aromas on his Survival Outfit for Weeks! If one’s character has been living in the wilds for several months surviving only on what he kills – Smelling of Ariel Ultra completely destroys all verisimilitude.

So my name being Mud or more appropriately ‘Washing Powder’ I have rather continued in that vein this week –

The house has divided on gender lines as we have been left in charge of our neighbour’s Long Haired Chihuahua: a creature more akin to a guinea pig than a dog. Both Smallest and Nearly Teenage Daughters are thrilled and have been carting the animal about in a combination of dolls pram alternating with a special handbag dependant on whose turn it is. The Chaps are predictably less pleased at this new addition to the household – ‘Princess’ is not a macho dog!

Perhaps rather unkindly, on Sunday morning, I derived a great deal of entertainment from the lonely image of my More-than-usually Morose Husband on his way to the Rugby Club unwillingly attached to this pretty prancing puppy by the most delicate of pink leads. The Boys had abandoned their father to his (Dog) Walk of Shame and were marching ahead with the Outraged Hound who had taken against the visitor at first sight and – beyond eyeing it in an alarmed fashion –would have nothing further to do with it.

We may not been going back to the Rugby Club for a while – particularly after No.1 Son announced in a furious treble squeak that He wasn’t that keen on the game –declaring that the rules were ‘not very nice’ as every time he gets the ball someone takes it away! Oh and (giving the poor Coach a Paddington Bear-like Hard Stare) ‘That Man hurt my feelings’!

Not a startlingly successful foray into the world of touch-line Daddies.

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