Ironing and Other Excuses

Hello Darlings, can I tell you how reassuring it is to return here after a week off for half term with Finn, and know that you are still reading: that alongside real life, there is this utterly scrumptious virtual one I miss badly when for the sake of my babba ( and occasionally my own sanity!) I close the lid on my laptop and get of my bottom to go out and play?
You are all wonderful and I don’t think I tell you as often as I should…
Anyways it has been a week of great books, decisions about curtains, Lego and duck in plum and chilli sauce that made me swoon. I have spent hours debating the merits of a new literary feminist tome with my Mum, felt deeply let down by anti-semantic, racist antics of my darling John Galliano (I hate it when my hero’s go bad), and swung that darn old Four Hour Body kettlebell more times than I care to count.
All that and I have taught my son to multiply without losing his little marbles as he was with the bizarre system they now use in school, offended him with yet another Cath Kidston Cowboys themed  cushion for his bedroom, fallen a bit in love with Kate Middleton (like a darling little lamb to the slaughter?) and watched a bright red nasty old rash come and go on my cleavage, willy-nilly. And now after a lunch of toast and pate with my lovely playground Mummys I’ve gone completely laundry-tastic and the entire house is hot and steamy and snuggly and happy…
So what I’m saying is this: I was planning on regaling you with all manner of puttery delights today: in fact I was counting down the hours until I could finally scrape an afternoon alone to share a  cosy chat with you, but after a stand up tantrum from Finley’s headmistress this morning over a Celiac related incident of their doing and far too much joyful gossip with Kath and Diane thereafter, my brain has turned to mush and it is all I can do to plug the iron in, prop up my Kindle, flick through yet another Agatha Raisin and dwell on how utterly wonderful the televised version of South Riding has turned out to be (would love to see the 1938 film of the same), as I turn a crumpled muddle into a pile of sweet scented smoothness….
Isn’t it just like me to try to cadge another day of empty-brained freedom? Give me an inch and I will always take a mile.
I will be back with something sensible to say tomorrow.

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