Don't you just HATE it when . . .

. . . you discover, after getting into the shower, that ALL FOUR BOTTLES on the shelf are conditioner?

And your only options are the hand soap and the bottle of Drain Clear in the corner?

. . . and bobs

Over the past few - I dunno, but it feels like lifetimes - Beri and I have been working on a particular aspect of his socialization. The idea is that, when he asks me what's for supper, and I tell him, he doesn't melt down. Screaming 'No no no no' is inappropriate - a simple 'Oh' will suffice. For Pete's sake, it's not as if I'm suggesting he eat sheep's brain with an entrail coulis, followed by honey-glazed earthworms and pig's trotter brandade. Though I have been SORELY tempted . . .

We had been coming along reallly well - ooh look, three 'l's - until two days ago. 'What's for supper', he said, 'Chicken Bits' I said. 'No no no no' he shrieked.

Chicken Bits, I hear you say? That's the one where you chop chicken breasts into bite-sized chunks, dredge them in seasoned cornflour, brown them in a little oil, turn the heat down, put the lid on the pan and they are done in ten minutes? Good with rice, and some sort of sauce made with a stock cube, honey, soy sauce and orange juice? What on earth is offensive about that?

And then I realised. Older Brother Syndrome. (In Sid, it manifests itself as a tendency to sprinkle her conversation with the word 'fart'.) When Kit was little, and we were teaching him how to bathe himself, the expression we settled on for a *ahem* certain area of his anatomy, was 'twiddly bits'. After a while, he dropped the 'twiddly'. (He is currently using 'me tenders'.) Beri, however, still refers to 'my bits'.

So when I told him what was for supper . . .

It's been a funny old week 10 days whatever

. . . and I'm still waiting for the bit where I get to sit down with my feet up.

Sid's party was a hoot. Normally, for a party at home, I draw the line at seven guests, on account of I can sit eight people in comfort round the dining room table for a Proper Meal. But this time even I didn't honestly see how she could manage with any less than fourteen, and even that was risking pariahood (pariah-hood? Pariahness? Pariah-esqueness?) I got pointed at Asda for all the party stuff, I engaged the services of the lovely Elaine, we had an alphabetical treasure hunt, musical statues, sausages and mash and some concert-level shrieking, and my baby girl was five years old.

Then it was my turn. Breakfast in a cafe with my friend Anisa, which meant coffee, Danish and YAKKING until noon. Bliss. Ma cooked supper, yum, and Jeremy gave me a BEAUTIFUL box of 30 Caran d'Ache crayons. Not for using, mind you. Just for looking at. And maybe the occasional sniff.

You know you live in Chalfont St Giles when

. . . your husband, that guardian and protector of his family, makes the icy driveway safe by salting it with your ENTIRE box of Maldon Sea Salt.

The first day of the rest of my life*

Well, there's a cliche that turns out to be a universal truth. Sid started full-time school yesterday - well, I say full time, but for the first week the newbies do part-days, until next Tuesday, when actually she starts full-time school. Nevertheless, yesterday was The Day. And that thing they say about three being as easy as two? Uh-uh. No way. Exponentially harder, in my view. And the whole business where Getting Dressed turns into a Thing? That's a girl Thing, right? I mean, dear Heaven, she has all the necessary items of clothing ready the night before - everything she needs to GET DRESSED after breakfast, and it still takes her ages. Ages. So apart from the extra yelling, and the fact that they all start their school days in the morning now, actually nothing has changed.

But it will.

In other news, because I know you really want to know this, The Jumper is all sewn up. Purty, ain' it? Sleeves a tad long, I know, so we will ALL refrain from making jokes about the callouses on my DD's knuckles thank you very much. BUT there is another side to this. Literally.


Will you look at how many b****y ends I have to sew in! And I've already done a whole bunch. Is it any wonder I've moved onto the next project?

Oh - and I tried it on Sid, looking forward to her comments (on three months of work. Three months.) She said, and I quote, 'It's itchy.'


*Yesterday. I know. But, frankly, I was too busy playing QBZ.

We're all one year closer to our graves

The trouble with for a house guest is that, at every party to which you take her, she has to listen to you tell the sodium atoms joke*. At least for a husband, it comes under the heading of 'For Worse' (among other things (MANY other things). I know already.) not least of which is, he wants to tell the joke himself.

One of the (many) pleasures of a visit from Teresa was the vegetarian option. Our hosts for New Year's Eve dinner had the totally brilliant idea of hiring a caterer, who, for the omnivores among us, provided a perfectly yummy salmon-and-sea-bass en croute, and for the rest, a leek and gruyere - well, thing (flamiche? It could have been a flamiche) - in the face of which said omnivores developed unforeseen veggie tendencies. And Elaine brought Poinsettias**.

All eight children got along together fantastically well, Greg sang some Jake Thackeray songs, and we discovered that six is quite a small number of people for singing Auld Lang Syne.

*Na1 'I've lost an electron!'
Na2 'Are you sure?'
Na1 'I'm positive!'

** Cointreau, cranberry juice and champagne. Yum, yum and thrice yum.