My son

We were sitting in TGI Fridays the other day, doodling on the back of the paper place mats while we waited for the servers to finish flirting with each other and come and take our order. Poppet loves a game of Hangman while she waits but she clearly swallowed the thesaurus as an appetiser this time, giving me words like 'jacuzzi' and 'bizarre' to guess instead of her customary 'mummy' and 'rosie'. The cunning cow.

Pickle, on the other hand, got to work on drawing an adventure maze, oddly reminiscent of a Super Mario game, (no idea where he gets his ideas from). He then tore off a corner of the paper and drew a little figure to try his luck in the maze. He moved it all over to me so I could admire his work.

'Lovely!' I exclaimed,' what a cute little teddy bear you've drawn there! Cute little ears and a sweet face. He's got very large claws though, hasn't he?'

'No Mum, those aren't his claws,' says Pickle.

'What are they then, darling?'

'Those are his guns.'

That Friday Feeling

I was going to try for the sympathy vote: 'Oh poor me, Nobby's away for the night leaving me all alone,' but of course I am never really alone with my two little people in tow.

Especially when they interpret 'Time for bed!' as 'Time for a disco in Pickle's room.'

Whose idea was it to buy the Crazy Frog album anyway? I used to love the tune 'Popcorn'; I remember my parents had the original Hot Butter version on vinyl when I was little myself. It's not quite the same with the 'brrrrrrrrrring, bing!'s thrown in by Monsieur Frog.

Though I have to say 'Who Let The Frogs Out?' did raise a titter at the end of a long week at school.

It's been a strange week with almost half the class out with a bug. You'd think that such drastically reduced numbers would be a doddle to teach. Er, WRONG. They reckon since hardly anyone is there then they can just play, otherwise it's 'not fair!' to expect them to work while their contemporaries are at home. 'But all the others are going to miss this; we should wait for them to get better and work next week instead.' (under their breaths saying 'Yeah, we may be 5 but we ain't stupid.') What they don't appreciate is that the others are at home in bed, coughing up a lung and they should count their ruddy blessings.

One boy got so bored he asked his Mummy to turn off the TV, put away the DS and ask his teacher to send him some work from school...

I had the pleasure of teaching my oldest offspring today as her teacher was off sick too. I was not sure how to get her classmates to take me seriously with her wrapped round my leg like a friendly ferret sniping 'Don't be rude to my Mother!' at anyone who shouted out.

Pickle has had an amazing week. He finally sorted out his desk and actually did all his homework. I could speculate as to how long his teacher sat on him to achieve this result but his just reward came this afternoon when he won a competition to invent a blend of tea. Who would have thought he'd take on a challenge like that? we'll make a Jamie Oliver of him yet.

Nobby has asked me not to diss him in my Blog after he hit a rather slippery slope earlier in the week. I just want to record for posterity that I forgive him. But I still think he was a twit.

Now for some staff notices.

- Would the person who has kidnapped Spring please return it as soon as possible because we have all had enough of the chuffing snow. Lovely to see the flowery sentiments and appreciation of how beautiful Budapest looks under a glistening layer of crisp whiteness on Facebook statuses, but these people clearly didn't have to get up at 6am, dig out the ski gloves and shovel the stuff off a steeply sloping driveway.

- Winner of Star of the Week goes to my landlord for a) fixing my kitchen tap without spraying the entire room like I would have done and b) finding me a cleaner who not only makes the house smell clean but actually cleans it as well. In the words of my favourite saying at the moment, Top Banana.

- Please be on the lookout for Tiggy's appetite. She seems to have lost it recently, judging by the barely tickled bowls of biscuits every evening. We've been to the vet; Poppet accompanied me, concerned as she was about the poor mutt, who strangely isn't losing any weight and will accept treats until the cows come home.

This is the same dog who developed bladder trouble when she sussed we were moving house then became perfectly normal once we moved in... Only I could have picked the psycho doggy.

Poppet became less gushing when the vet decided to run a test for microbes and approached Tiggy's rear end wielding a cotton bud and a petri dish... she's decided against vetinary medicine as a career path I think.

The result was negative though, so why-oh-why is the this dog avoiding biscuits yet will pick them up one by one and drop them on the floor to get at any gravy or meat I hide underneath as a crafty reward? And why did it all start on the day I fed some of her food to a mangy stray who'd been hanging round the gate tugging on my heart strings for 3 days?

Well, please think of me tomorrow trying to turn Saturdays into Sports Days for the Nobby household. I remember when I was their age there was only 'boring' Grandstand (sports) on the telly all afternoon but it never occured to me to go outside and run about. Well, my kids are getting the treatment now - wake-up call at 8h30, football at 10 and cricket at 12h30.

Yeah, ok, and McDonalds at 12.

Bribery and corruption before we even start? - I may be 41 but I ain't stupid.

All dressed up and snow-where to go

So, we made it through another skiing holiday without breaking anything, other than the bank. Oh. My. God. How expensive is it to buy a benign-looking lift pass which enables you to be dragged up a hill perched on a t-shaped sliver of plastic, trying to chat casually to your loved one whilst hanging on for grim death, before the inevitable Tom and Jerry style wipeout when you both try to get off at the top and tangle your skis?

200 smackers that's how much.

If you fancy a sit down you can also brave the eight-man chair lifts which either try to take you out at the knees as they whip round and under your butt at the bottom of the ride or narrowly miss decapitation of the entire group if you're too slow off the mark jumping off at the top.

At the resort we went to there was also a wonderful 'scenic train' where you can bundle on with 100 or so of your most distant acquaintances, skis in one hand, poles in the other, elbows in your back and fluffy hats in your face, and all rock in unison up the mountain for the most claustrophobic three minutes of your life, ears popping all the way.

Pickle really didn't like that one but managed to amuse himself by head-butting his sister in the face with his ski helmet to pass the time whilst I entertained the entire passenger list with a loud rendition of 'how many times do you need to be told...'

Anyway, I am painting a grim picture but in actual fact, ski lifts and extortionate prices aside, it was the best ski break we've had yet. The kids enjoyed their ski-school so much they started staying for lunch so Nobby and Me got a whole FIVE HOURS to ourselves!! Of course we used the time wisely, fitting in at least one morning hot chocolate break and an afternoon gluhwein stopover in addition to lunch.

Well, it gets chilly up there zooming down mountain trying to keep up with Speedy Gonzales on skis. I think Nobby forgets I do very little exercise apart from bending over and kneeling down to five-year-old height all day long while he still goes crazy on the footie field once a week.

The hotel was one we've been to before - look back about two years ago and you'll find my Catherine Tate style lamentations about the 'peas in aspic' incident and the fluorescent sour cream debacle. I have a sneaky feeling they've taken on a new chef since then as there was mercifully no jellied veg in sight this time. There was a questionable 'strawberry-pepper sorbet' at one point - literally a strawberry sorbet containing whole peppercorns, served in a whisky tumbler filled with something vaguely alcoholic. ???

On the very first night Pickle had a falling out with the spotty teen running the 'kids club'. We had soooo been looking forward to packing the brats off to a babysitter who promised in the paperwork to feed and entertain them for two hours while we adults relaxed over a candlelit, wine soaked dinner. Especially since the day we arrived, after six hours festering in the car together, was my birthday. (I quite like this new found tradition of travelling to celebrate my advancing years - last year currying it up in Reading, this year whizzing off to the Alps... though I think I might aim for a flight to Tuscany next year if its all the same to Nobby.)

Yet we hadn't even made it past apperitifs in the bar before Pickle came running in wailing loudly and declaring 'I am NOT going back to that club EVER AGAIN!!!' By all accounts it all seemed to come down to a misfire during a pillow fight which resulted in Pickle's head ricocheting off a nearby wall, I'm not sure we'll ever know who really started it, though I did send the hotel manager in for a quiet word with Mr Spotty to remind him which one was supposed to be the responsible adult in the room and to suggest taking a deep breathe when the coca-cola powered eight year olds get a little busy with the furniture instead of returning fire.

Poppet made quite a few friends, particularly several little girls who spent the entire evenings hero-worshipping her. During the day her skiing came on a treat and she has abandoned the 'pizza' position for parallel skiing like a true pro. 17.5 seconds coming down the ski-school slalom race secured her 5th place and a cool medal. We are very proud parents.

So we all came back down to earth with a bump on Saturday after another 6 hour drive back to the laundry and homework. I have washed just about everything we own since then whilst learning some fascinating facts about the Thames for Poppet's river project. Nobby and Pickle decided to raid the cupboards for Pickle's tea project and had a great time sellotaping samples to a piece of A4.

Meanwhile Tiggy and Lucky returned from their pet-sitters, well fed and well exercised. Lucky managed to instigate a full maintenance check of the entire heating system at his sitter's house. No, he didn't escape, thank goodness. He just arrived while the man of the house was out of town then made some very loud noise on his wheel when he came back and was relaxing in front of the TV. Poor bloke thought the boiler was coming apart and spent a good half an hour examining its inner workings in the basement before discovering Lucky and his pneumatic drill-sounding wheel in the laundry room when he popped upstairs for a spanner. The spanner.

Today we were all back to school and work after the lovely break, refreshed and ready to get on with the next eight weeks of term until Easter. I've bundled all the thermals, ski socks and salopettes away in the basement and rounded up all my Easter Bunny and cute little chick stencils and stickers in preparation for this term's arts and crafts frenzies...

... and this morning it snowed.

Ranting and Randoming

I have a few ponderings on this fine, Thursday evening.

Is a bad cleaner really better than nothing when you've a new job and a mucky pair of kids and a big hairy dog?
Until the other week I was happy to answer 'yes.' However I am now ready to remove the word 'MUG' from my forehead after two years of my crap cleaner and say emphatically 'NO.' I fired her on Monday and I can honestly say, no cleaning this week has left my house just as clean as her tickling it with a tissue twice a week and charging me 5 quid an hour for the privelage.

I haven't left it entirely untouched of course; Anthea would never stand for it and she'd be straight round to snaffle my golden loo-brush. And as a result of my efforts I have found places in my house which have spent so long without seeing the business end of a vacuum cleaner, duster or mop they visibly flinched when I came at them with the Dyson. My ornaments and furniture are acclimatising to the new sensation of being lifted, dusted and replaced onto a freshly wiped surface rather than the usual frustration of the duster whizzing past faster than light speed.

I'm still undecided about getting a replacement cleaner in. I actually quite like the break from frantic tidying two nights a week so that there are no obstacles that might impede progress or lead to another shitty note either asking me to tidy up or requesting more money for the inconvenience of having to dodge a stray piece of Lego.

Pickle has offered to help me out for a couple of hours every weekend, having expertly hoovered up a year's worth of dust bunnies and dog hair from underneath the sofa this evening. He's clearly heard me ranting because although he did demand payment, he offered 'not to be greedy and only ask for half what the cleaner got.'

Oooh, can you detect some bitterness coming off me?! Let it go, girl. Nasty text messages accusing me of treating her 'like a criminal' notwithstanding (how on earth can giving her two weeks money as a pay-off be construed as bad treatment?) the deed is done and I can sigh with relief, leaving my possessions wherever I ruddy well choose.

Moving on, how did I come to have such amazing neighbours?
I must have done something good once because the family next door to us are such diamonds. We were all invited to tea on Sunday where they served up Earl Grey and freshly baked scones and a huge chocolate cake. It was like a scene out of the Famous Five, only without the lashings of lettuce and buckets of ginger beer.

One other neighbour rang at our gate the other evening to tell me 'I've rescued your bicycle.' It took me a second or two to work out what she was on about. She was referring to the old, clapped out BMX bicycle I found in the shed last weekend and had left out on the road to be 'recycled'. I don't mean by the recycling lorry, I mean by someone walking past, seeing an abandoned, saleable item and nicking it. It's worked several times before with old shoes, another old bike, piles of wood etc. I thought it was understood that whatever was left unattended in the road was ripe for a swipe.

But I didn't factor in my generous neighbour who walked me down the road to her house to retrieve my precious pile of junk telling me 'it's a miracle it wasn't stolen,' and I didn't have the heart to tell that was exactly why I left it in the road in the first place. That really wouldn't have done after all her trouble but I do wonder where all the thieves have gone to.

So, tell me. When you're knackered after five weeks solid teaching and you've a week-long holiday from your class of little darlings, will six days of throwing yourself down mountains with long planks strapped to your feet really help you unwind?
Yes, we are off skiing. And I am wondering if we shouldn't have traded in the snazzy ski-suits and crazy bobble hats for a bikini and a kiddy club at Center Parcs instead. I know, we'll have a great time; after all I won't have to cook or clean for seven days and the hotel has a pool, jacuzzi and sauna. It's just the packing blues talking.

Despite a very thorough Holiday Packing List which we've used for many years now, removing the kids' obsolete items (nappies, potties, pushchairs) and adding new essentials (i-pods, Nintendos, hair straighteners) as we go, I always manage to forget something and I am a total bear for the first ten minutes of any holiday journey while I run through a mental checklist trying to work out what the hell it is this time. I'll let you know in a couple of weeks, I just hope it's not the hamster.

Also this week: could my kid BE and cooler as Prince Charming in the school production of Cinderella?
His entrance was to saunter on stage in a leather jacket and sunglasses, flick his collar up a la Eric Cantona, pause in front of a girl in the audience and give her a quick 'Hey!' before grabbing Cinders for a tango. What a heart-breaker! He even sang a solo - 'The Smelly Feet Blues' - during the search for the owner of the glass slipper and I swear I heard a wee sniff from Nobby who was watching proudly beside me.

Poppet also had a part to play. Small but essential - she was a door. When Princey-boy goes banging doors across town, rounding up all the totty to try on the shoe, several helpers held up cardboard doors for the full effect. Every so often a little face peeked out from behind door number one - that's my girl. I did a tiny bit: making-up the ugly sisters. Poor lads. I don't think they really knew what they were signing up for when they agreed to play a part in the show. One nearly bolted when he realised he had to wear a dress and seeing me coming at him with a rack of face-paints, lipstick and mascara did not help the stage fright. But I think I made a decent pair of horrors out of them and they totally stole the show.

Finally, are there any better bands out there than The Australian Pink Floyd Show?
Because I think not. Lovely Nobby earned himself a pasting on my Facebook page last week by calling me at 4pm on Thursday telling me to get a babysitter for Friday night. Yeah... OK. Does he not know by now, if it was that simple we'd be out every Friday night.

The babysitter was busy of course, but free on Saturday. 'No, it has to be tomorrow night,' was Nobby's reply.

Luckily I managed to flog the children to friends for a rare 'double sleepover' instead, though it didn't stop me dissing my man big style on my FB profile and getting a lot of agreement from my friends that men always book the romantic night out first and childcare second (or not at all). A whole Blog entry could have been devoted to exploring that one, had he not thrust two tickets to see TAPFS, as they are tongue-twistingly known, at me when he arrived home.

I never made it to a Pink Floyd concert when they were still going strong. My brother was treated to The Wall back when we were younger but I am quite pleased to be able to report I was too young to go too. (There aren't many things I am too young for so I take my kicks where I can, so there.)

I can only imagine it was something like the total frontal assault on the eyes and ears that we experienced at the Budapest Arena on Friday night. What an AMAZING show!! Despite Nobby's heavily barbed comments on the age and dress sense of the crowds pouring through the doors with us when we arrived, he also had a great time. And it wasn't just because they blew up a giant inflatable teacher for 'Another Brick In The Wall' or a giant inflatable red-eyed Pig for 'Run Like Hell'.

It was probably the giant inflatable kangaroo that did it...

In the words of my ten-year-old, whatever. They were totally awesome. Nuff said.
Thanks Nobby x

Wobble

My neighbour just popped round and asked me if the earth moved for me.

Now, although we're pretty friendly I wouldn't say we're close enough for that kind of question actually. Besides, Nobby was nursing a hangover whilst watching Manchester United trying to get a goal back against Southampton so the only thing likely to move from his direction was his hand to his forehead.

Then I remembered the gaggle of girlies enjoying Poppet's 10th birthday party upstairs. I am still struggling to come to terms with having a ten a year old, no wonder I'm going so grey, especially coupled with the 17 five year olds I am looking after all week as well, but that's another story.

I'm pleased to report that birthday parties get less labour intensive as time goes by. I didn't have to fork out a fortune to spend three hours of my life slowly going deaf in the local play centre while hyped up kids perform death defying feats on various inflatable animals. Nor did I have to trawl the shops for party favours, pass-the-parcel prizes, balloons and sweeties then rearrange my house to accomodate a class-load of kiddies.

Poppet was offered a sleepover for three friends, which somehow evolved into a sleepover for six friends, but she took on all the organising and entertaining herself. I just had to provide the pizza and cake, make-up and nail polish, set a nice dinner table and make some 'truth or dare' cards. Just before my neighbour came round Poppet was leading them in a merry game of Murder In The Dark with a LOT of screaming. They proceeded onto a recreation of the X Factor later on, no quieter really.

But no, it was none of this. Pickle couldn't have done anything as he is away on a sleepover himself, the second one this weekend. Seriously he has a better social life than me.

It turns out there was an earthquake measuring 4.2 on the Richter Scale - and whilst the neighbours felt the earth move and watched all the beach balls wobble into the swimming pool from the vibration, Nobby and me missed it.

Clearly too chilled over here. We'll catch the next one.

You don't have to be mad to live here, but it helps

My final comments from my last post were bound to set me up for a fall, weren't they? I am the master of shooting my mouth off and regretting it soon after. I wonder how Nobby lets me out on my own. He must have to brace himself every evening before he walks through the front door, never knowing what acts of madness are waiting for him on the other side.

Actually, thinking back to our Christmas trip home, I can't be left alone for even five minutes. Let me tell you the story.

Our flight to Gatwick was delayed on Boxing Day, but we still had to turn up and check in at the original time - nice logic there slEasyjet, thanks for that. This left us needing to occupy two excited monkeys for three hours without the aid of a play area, Nintendo Wii or DVD player.

At first we set up camp in the cafe by the Arrivals gate as the hour-long queue to get through passport control and security didn't really appeal. We played a few rounds of Uno as a family, a touching scene if ever there was one, until Pickle decided to change all the rules, Poppet got miffed because she didn't win and Nobby and me wondered once more where their competitive streak comes from. (It's definitely him!)

So I took Pickle off to calm down and whoever coined the phrase 'Necessity is the mother of invention' may well, I suspect, have spent time trying to amuse an eight-year-old at an airport. Armed with just a couple of Mars bar wrappers and a smeggy tissue we invented the game of 'Bin Basketball.' The airport kindly provided a back-board by having the bins up against the wall and a convenient oche/ockey line from which to throw. Pickle was as happy as larry having a brand new game to dictate rules for. I persuaded him that requiring Mums to shoot blindfolded was a little unfair but I conceded to having to kneel down, to the amusement of several onlookers.

Nobby was probably quite happy left alone with Poppet, knowing that the 'divide and conquer' method works pretty well with our two. But he didn't count on the 'Missus Factor' and you should have seen his face when I returned from the bins five minutes later carrying a large, sleeping baby.

No, I don't mean Pickle had stopped for a catnap, chance would be a fine thing. In just five minutes unsupervised by a responsible adult I had acquired a stranger's baby. A lady had just arrived from the UK travelling alone with said infant and she needed to put him somewhere while she dug in her bags for her phone charger so she could call her mother. Well, she couldn't very well pop him on the floor so she asked me to help. Then it turned out her phone charger didn't fit the socket she'd found so I offered to let her use my mobile. Which is why we ended up back at the table to fetch it from my handbag.

Nobby relaxed a little when I introduced the Mum but then, after her call, she said she needed to get a taxi, if I wouldn't mind holding the baby a little longer, and she hurried off out of the airport exit. This is the moment when Nobby went white as a sheet and demanded what I was going to do with my new acquisition if she never came back. He had a point I suppose. Total stranger asks you to hold a baby then buggers off out the door... if you're an eternal sceptic that one could send you into overdrive.

Anyway, she DID come back and take her baby but Nobby decided standing in the passport control queue would be good way to keep a better eye on me so sadly we'll never know who won the inaugural game of Bin Basketball. (Think I'll let Pickle have it.)

Well, I've been pretty good since that episode, right up until I decided two guinea pigs were better than one, despite Nobby insisting one was more than enough. I think meeting the little fella softened him up though, and he even managed to satisfy his football fanaticism by changing 'Gary' to 'Gazza.'

But I am sorry to report that little Peppermint didn't make it through his first week with us. I found him acting listless and unhappy on Sunday morning and sadly he died a couple of hours later. Poor Poppet was distraught and given that she was ill all weekend herself and has since been diagnosed with bronchitis and signed off school for the week she's really on a very low ebb.

So since Sunday afternoon I have been back and forth to the vet several times, first taking poor Peppermint for an autopsy, which showed he died from a parastic infection which he already had when we bought him, unbeknown to us. Then Gazza had to go to be checked out and I experienced the fun game of 'Hunt the Poo' - searching for stool samples in his carry box so the vet could check whether he was also infected. Then we did some complex maths trying to work out the proportions of medicine to give him when it's 10ml medicine per 30kg of animal and this one only weighs 250 grams. And finally a quick round of 'Squirt the Medicine in the Guinea-Pig', which went surprisingly well.

Lucky Hamper the hamster has also been in for a checkup and a game of Hunt the Poo and tonight Tiggy needs to get a blood test to confirm her rabies jab was effective.

... I'm not sure Nobby ever wanted to live in a zoo. If I was him I'd install Mummy-cams and revoke my financial priveleges before he gets any more 'surprises'. Poor bloke.

He's probably bitten his nails down to the quick by now, knowing that I am staying home alone with Poppet for the next two days while she guzzles the jungle juice and recouperates. He had no choice but to leave me my computer as I have vowed to use this windfall of time wisely and work on my teaching plans. What he doesn't know is that the vet agrees that guinea pigs should be kept in pairs but that we should buy them from private breeders rather than local pet shops.

Here, let me Google that. What's Hungarian for 'guinea-pig'...

Happy New year

There's nothing like a New Year to set you pondering the big mysteries of the universe. Like, 'how many Hungarian dentists does it take to change a 9-year-old's tooth crown?'

At least I can answer that one, thanks to Poppet and the ongoing tooth saga. You may have read that she snapped off most of one of her front teeth during an acrobatic stunt in December. The first temporary crown lasted a week before it fell off into her hot chocolate. The second one made it all the way to England for our post-Christmas Progress through the Realm... until she spotted something interesting on the floor of the rental car, bent forward to try and reach it and bashed her mouth on her knee.

She had to manage with only one front tooth for the rest of the trip, which wasn't easy when she didn't want people to know how she knocked the other one out yet they could hardly miss the strange hole in her smile. Oh well.

And to answer the original question, it's about four. One to build a new tooth, one to hold her gob out of the way, one to pass the instruments and one to translate to Mummy that they are worried all the wincing from Her Ladyship during the process means that the tooth is dying. It's not a great prospect that she's going to need root canal surgery but I'll keep you posted.

Another deep mystery: Is Gary a good name for a guinea pig?

Nobby thinks that George, Eric or Wayne would be more appropriate since the guinea pig is supposed to be his and he is determined at least one of our pets' names should reflect his football fanaticism. But let me back up a minute, what on earth is Nobby doing with a guinea pig?

Back in August I found a single sheet of A4 on my desk with a simple message:

'Dear Santa, all I want for Christmas is a guinea pig. Love from Poppet.'

Being a total softie when it comes to small furry creatures, and recalling the hilarity of watching my own guinea pigs from my childhood, Whisky and Soda, play follow-the-leader round and round the lounge, depositing a trail of 'chocolate drops' behind them as they went, I duly ensured Santa delivered a guinea pig voucher to Poppet on Christmas Day. She was delighted and as soon as we returned to Hungary we hot-footed it down to the pet shop to choose the perfect animal and all the associated paraphernalia.

And thus Peppermint, a tiny brown and white bundle of fur, joined our happy home. Only, in my softie opinion, he didn't seem very happy, spending his first 24 hours sitting perfectly still under a pile of hay in the corner of his cage. Of course it could have been nerves but I decided it was loneliness, given that until we turned up he was quite happy living with a friend in the pet shop.

Which is why we rushed back to the pet shop and bought his friend as well, passing it off as a New Years present for Nobby to try and soften the blow of finding out his wife had finally gone nuts. Still, the internet is on my side, several sites say these are social animals and ought to be kept in twos. And it has to be said that Peppermint greeted Gary like an old friend with a lot of squeaking and snuffling, which I translated as total delight of course, in my new found role of Dr Doolittle, and they were soon snuggled up together under the hay. Point proved, Nobby.

Okay, here is a real humdinger:
What is the worst place for an over-playful, maniac Vizsla pup to cut himself?

Whilst we were away, Boy-Next-Door and family went home to Portugal and we both left our doggies in the same kennels. Since we came home first we bravely volunteered to take on their mad mutt along with ours for one night only to save the guy from the kennels making two trips.

Ike is permanently happy and wags his tail so hard and fast that if it catches your legs the whip welts can take a couple of days to go down. However, it wasn't until he'd been here about 12 hours and engaged in some very enthusiastic wagging whilst trying to bite Tiggy's face off, that I noticed red splatters all over my kitchen and hall cupboards, doors, walls and floors. With much wrestling I managed to ascertain that he has a little cut on the very tip of his tail and had been blithely spray-painting my house while he mucked about. Bugger.

Luckily the neighbours came and got him soon afterwards and with a bit of spit and polish my house is more spick and span, and less abattoir. I do fear for their white three piece suite though...

More musings next time, very likely about the joys of returning to school after a three week break. I have INSET training tomorrow and Friday, with the kids in tow due to lack of babysitting; I'm sure there'll be loads to tell.

Meanwhile, Happy New Year and here's to an interesting 2011! At least I won't be a) studying, or b) turning 40 this year.