Last Sunday I forced us all to get into the car and drive to castle. As you do, when it is the last weekend of the Longest School Holidays In History and it is raining and you cannot face more indoorsy screaming and weetabix underfoot and the cushions getting taken off the couch to make huts. I cannot understand it – those boys wake up, get out of bed, go straight to the couch, take every cushion off, lay them on the floor, then walk away again. Every day of our combined lives. You go to sink down into the couch and whack your head against the wooden leather-covered frame. Is nothing SACRED? NO.
Anyway we were supposed to drive for an hour and a half to the castle and then we could use our new National Trust membership cards to get in free. But there was some cycling thing on near the river and all the roads were closed and the GPS sent us in ways that were long and mental and illogical and it rained heavily and we arrived at a pub at about 1pm and it was torrential and we had lunch and the children upset all of the locals because they had been strapped into the car for THREE HOURS. And it was extremely average Sunday Roast.
But then the rain cleared and look! A photographic essay of fabulousness:
Did you notice the technological slideshow wizardry? Another triumph, which I can add to my mastering voicemail on the phone this morning. If you call me, and you leave me a message, I will TOTALLY be able to locate the message and hear it. I am impressing MYSELF with my knowhow.
So. The kids are back at school, I have accidentally sent someone a YSL jacket without them paying for it (another ebay FAIL), I have been up to Chesterfield to see a manufacturer and been away a whole day and then been locked out of the flat for an hour and even then no one noticed I was gone, I had a fight with a designer and a fight with a lady from the head office of the nursery and I currently have a little bit of poo juice on my leg thanks to the baby.
It is all ok, because this afternoon Evelyn is coming to stay in our lounge and she is going to be our babysitter when we fly off to Istanbul for four days on Friday. That is so monumentally fantastic that even the poo juice doesn’t matter much.
Meanwhile the Rugby World Cup is on, and everyone in the house must be quiet and must not fight each other around the TV or distract Mark from the games. If these rules are not obeyed, somehow I am responsible and I get black looks and people yell at me. So I must get the children dressed and take of the poo juice pyjamas and leave this house of interminable rugby and go out in search of tasty cake-like treats to fool Evelyn into thinking this babysitting gig was a good idea.
I shall leave you with this:
A baby who is playing in a puddle. It was ok with me. Other parents looked on in horror. When will they stop with the horrified looks? Chill out, Passers By and General Populace. Dirt and water and sand and soil is good. I draw the line at glass, ok?