The watering can

I was going to title this post 'Anyone have Liza's address?' but then I thought, Liza never actually does anything, except the verbal equivalent of rolling her eyeballs, and anyway it was a watering can, not a bucket.

This had better be worth it, I hear you think. (But I don't care. It's all I got.)

My favourite recycling thing, favourite because even though you can't really do it in winter, it's one I thought up all by my ownsome, is to shove a watering can under the hot tap while you are waiting for it to get hot enough to do the washing up. And voila - water for watering. At least half a gallon. Genius. So, last bit of washing up before bed time, really had enough of the day, looking forward to a few pages of Revenge of the Middle-Aged Woman, because Kit, to my annoyance, has made off with Skulduggery Pleasant: Dark Days, which he has already read and I have only just started, and as I lifted the nearly full watering can out of the sink, I discovered that it had a fu so jolly great split in the bottom.

One clean kitchen floor later (the kids had been screeving all day. Imagine the state of my black slate floor.), and this was no little up-side, and I was hideously wide awake. Luckily for my upcoming exam, scales have a way of calming me down, so those got a work-out, which was another upside. (Unluckily for my upcoming exam, thay are A major, E major, B natural minor, B harmonic minor and B melodic minor. The fingering is a bugger, and I have an awful feeling I am supposed to know them off by heart.)

Maybe I should have called this post 'Call me Pollyanna. Then shoot me.'

I'm too old for this

I think I give up to easily. No, not YOU. YOU are an unbelievably together person, firm in your convictions yet gentle in their application. Your opinions are the result of careful thought, and, while they are mature and balanced, you do not shrink from revising them in the light of an unexpected perspective.

But enough about you.

J and I girded ourselves for the usual scream-fest accompanying every holiday, when we announce a visit to the barber. The weeping, the wailing, the gnashing of teeth, yada yada yada. Same old same old. (They actually walk around with their hands over their hair, holding it on. I ask you. What I want is 'OK', what I get is I Pagliacci.) Kit announced VERY FIRMLY was he was NOT going to get his hair cut.

'OK', we said.

No backbone. None.

We just got back from IKEA, where we got rugs'n'magazine holders'n'glasses'n' paper napkins. We went there to get boxes with lids. There were piles of boxes. Not a lid to be found. Not even for ready money. And fascinating though every small detail of our visit to the Swedish Inferno is, it is the ideal opportunity to share this with you .




And finally, don't you just LOVE how BRILLIANT middle children are? So intelligent, so good-looking, so versatile, so talented. You meet one and you just know you are in for a good time. Some of my VERY BEST FRIENDS are middle children.