I am sitting at the dining table trying to organise Christmas Amazon orders to various family factions.
I am facing the open french windows and looking down to the bottom of the garden where, under a startling pink bower of Bourgainvillia, Sprog has set up a small table and chair. She has very carefully carried her bowl of porridge and her cup of milk down to her table. She is sitting in state, putting me in mind of a Victorian jungle explorer taking tea.
Wilf has gone down to bug her and she is distracting him by singing her very own version of jingle bells. Rattling a jingly baby toy she is lustily singing "Jingle bells! Jingle bells Jingle all the WAY!! (Hey!) Ohmah fahhh eddesterahhh! Amana OPEN SLEIGH (hey!)"
Wilf is clutching his nadgers and dancing from one foot to the other, laughing like a drain.
They are both starkers.
Life is good.
What was your favorite class in high school? (And no, lunch doesn't count.)
Lunch class? Pah.
How about smoking behind the newsagents across the road class?
Or bunking off and going to Drummonds class?
Or maybe those free periods either side of lunch when my friend would drive us to the Dome on the Kings Road and I'd drink gin and tonics before returning to my A Level English Literature class?
Lunch class, schmunch class.
Hello internets. Just thought I'd pop by to let you know that:
(a) the PGCE is going great guns (though I haven't actually been allowed near a child yet, so this may well be the calm before the storm)
and
(b) well, I think this one deserves a picture:
Bridesmaid gig on the weekend again, my fourth trip down the aisle. I love, love, love being a bridesmaid – being primped, pampered, photographed and drinking champagne until in comes out my ears, then having a big ol’ sook because the bride is beeeyoootiful and I love you soooo much and you desherve to be ha-ha-happy...uh oh, where the hell is my uvver shoe? Hic.
But most of all I loved this:
This is the reason I didn’t wake up on Sunday with a sizzling hangover. I alternated my tequila shots with surreptitious gulps from the chocolate fountain, which is clearly the sensible thing to do on a night out. In fact by the end of the night I found myself sober* enough to be babysitting the other two bridesmaids, the best man, and one random Phillippino guy who introduced himself as Arnie. I shoved everyone into a taxi, directed it to the closest 7-11, fed everyone microwave chicken rolls and convinced Best Man to keep his hands off one of the bridesmaids because dude, she’s REALLY not interested. Plus you’re married and have a child, you jerk. Then bridesmaid vomited out the side of the taxi and Best Man suddenly lost interest. Ah, young love.
I don’t think I’m too keen on being a bride. They’re unfailingly tense, weepy and strung out. Cheer up girls, it’s a husband, not breast cancer. Husbands are a lot easier to dispatch.
*According to the Rye Pub breathalyser, I had a healthy blood alcohol level of 0.07. Another bridesmaid blew 0.18 then cried because she’d wasted $2 on a breathalyser.
There should be alcoholic tea.
Sometimes you really need a cup of tea, but you could also do with a drink.
Some people put whiskey in tea. But then your delicious tea would taste of whiskey. Yuck.
Cognac, I suppose, but again, it would be ruining both a perfectly nice cup of tea and a glass of cognac.
Coffee lends itself so much more to the addition of alcohol, but coffee doesn't scratch the itch that tea does.
An evening drink that combines the oooooh of a good cup of tea and the ahhhhh of a gin and tonic. Then my life would be complete.
MUUUUUUM! Wilfie did a POOOOOOO!
Comming!
On the FLOOOOOOR!
Comming faster!
Of your BEDROOOOOOOOM!
Ahhhh!
Just next to your beautiful new sparkly CARRRRRRPET!
I'm here! Where is the poo?
There.
Where is the rest of it?
Nowhere.
There is no other poo?
No. Just a little tiny cute baby poo.
Really?
Yes.
Hmm. Okay. Just this tiny poo then.
And the wee.
There's wee?
Yes.
Where?
Umm...
Where is the wee darling?
... ... ...
Sprog darling, have a think and tell Mummy where on the floor Wilfie did his wee.
The wee you're standing in, or a different wee Mummy?
- Does Father Christmas know what I want for Christmas Mummy?
- Oh yes, he's clever like that.
- Does he know I want a yo-yo?
- I am sure he does.
- Will you tell him?
- We can write him a letter if you like?
- Yes. And you can write words on it to let him know.
- I'll do that.
- And I'll draw a picture of a yo-yo, just in case.
- Good idea.
- Or, I could just draw a picture of a yo-yo on some paper and I could pretend it's a real yo-yo and play with that?
