Oh my the joy of instilled routine. I have to be somewhere at nine o’clock every morning for the next fifty million years and I’m so happy you’ll probably catch me doing the Charleston around the school yard…
Tis a good thing indeed that from now into eternity I have to be fully dressed by the time I am usually in the midst of prising my eyes open. Tis a good thing that scaring a classroom full of kids and respective (read glamorous) yummy mummies is not an option and thus make up must be applied, hair controlled and nightie tucked inside pants and hidden well under a desirable smock shaped tangerine frock coat. Tis a really rather wonderful thing that one’s child must be fed, watered, ironed and delivered to responsible nursery teacher for a blissful four hours, five days a week and his demented mummy can go about her morning routine, blog her life away and drink coffee in steamy coffee shops whenever she feels the urge, without feeling like she is a permanent contestant in the Doctor Who version of Who Wants To Be A Millionaire- you know, the one where Chris Tarrant has a hissy fit and bangs his head on the floor when said contestant fails to understand the difference between Doctor David and Doctor Chris and is clearly incapable of comparing and contasting the super powers of the anitronic spider lady with those of the daleks from episode six of the third series.
Is it any wonder I’m halfway to a strait-jacket with delirious glee?
And so I’ve spent the day setting my little world to rights. Glueing the handles back onto some sorry looking
He was four on Sunday and I miss him already.
Anyone feel like a cold sausage?