Dear me, do pardon the French, but it has been a helluva week.
This morning I did myself a damage with my pegbag. Clearly you see, I was not made to be a limbo dancer. I kind of shimmied under the washing line, but failed to navigate the  pegbag and smacked myself right in the face with it, and trust me you haven’t known pain  till you have pegged yourself good and proper.

Pain, however, is right up there with embarrasment. Yesterday I was attacked my a really rather persistent pregnant goat. Oh yes, a pregnant goat.
I was being a good Mummy, doing the childrens farm thing and pretending that no Finley, of course, Mummy isn’t scared of goats, llama’s or damn domestic rhinocerous’s.  What my scrumptious little  boy is there to scared of? Look they’ll eat this yukky cereal stuff right out of my carefully manicured, false fingernailed hands. And look babba, here’s a baby goat, and oh look- here is his hormonally challenged pregnant Mommy. And oh my goodness, who’d have thought fat goats could jump that high! No sweetie, Mummy doesn’t mind having hoof prints on the oh so inapropriate beaded top she stole from  Nana. Hell’s bell’s down you naughty goat! No don’t bite me!! Finley, Mummy is fine, no really I’m fine. Oh my Lord, I’m  nearly a celebrity, somebody, goddamn  get me out of here!!

Now here’s the thing: had either of my accompanying lovely friends Kath or Diane found themselves in such a predicament, I would have waded in and at the very least  prevented  their little person from screaming in absolute terror  and pulling Mummy’s elasticated pants  halfway down her legs.  I would have took on  a manic elephant to prevent such a crisis. Really I would. But oh no. Oh no. You see Housekeepers, so apparently hilarious was this spectacle that I had drawn an audience. An audience entirely disinclined to put a stop to the mayhem when it was clear that at any moment  I  could be wrestled to the floor, semi naked and mauled halfway to heaven by a mad goat.   I should have been on the stage.

As should Finley. Currently sporting the worst black eye you have ever seen on a minor after an argument with a table. Which unfortunately hasn’t put a stop to his mischief in any shape or form. Last week I watched him conduct a really rather fascinating experiment involving dropping Mummy’s  precious mobile phone into a glass of water (Don’t worry Mummy, I’m only drowndeding it…). Then he went on to  knock  a half full bottle of red wine  all over  my cream  carpet, scribble  on the wall  in a variety of pastel  coloured  chalk,  and in a  moment that could not have  been anymore mortifying, ask a very  old, absolutely appalled, grey haired lady whether her name was Mr BumBum or Mrs Willy.  

So is it any wonder that Saturday night find’s me curled up on the sofa watching Gigi  on TCM with  a gin and lemonade and a bar of amaretti dark chocolate (get thee to a Waitrose for heaven in a silver wrapper!)- I need a week off to recover from the ongoing debacle that is my life. 

Anyone want to take Finn of my hands? I am selling him to the highest bidder.
Mommy needs retail therapy.