Springtime On Mars.

Brassbed

What can I tell you about this week? That I have taken up making a nuisance of my self? That I turn up on peoples doorstep and kind of park myself on their sofa in the hope that they will drip feed me tea and regale me with life affirming tales of good times and gossip? And that in return I will do their ironing while they bath the baby or make me a sumptuous three course meal? Or a piece of toast? Because all of a sudden I am desperate for company...?

Perhaps you want to hear about Finley? He's much better. No longer blotchy. Officially co-ordination disorder free  and able to brandish a pencil with aplomb and render myself, Kath and Diane dumb as he sails across Kath's playroom on Eleanors bike like he's been doing it all his life.  Then yesterday he informed me that having his hair brushed hurt more "than a horse having it's nut's cut off". (Yes, you read that right) and when I recovered from a choking case of shock and horror and asked him where a horses nuts are, he looked at me like I was crazy stupid and said "You know Mum, those things on the end of his feet?"...  So that will be his hooves then??

(Oh and he's got nits so thats nice.)

Hmmm, what else?  Oh yes, the neighbours aren't speaking to each other, the daffodils have died a sorry death in the front garden and I've finally got round to replacing the mat with the Christmas trees on it at the front door with a rather snazzy paisley affair. Snazzy is a rubbish word isn't it? Do ban me from saying it. My conversation is littered with  ridiculous words like this and  for the record my Dad says he is going to smack me if I say "Rightie Ho" one more time in his company.  Perhaps I should have been christened Doris or Aggie or something equally as beguilling...

Goodness what am I waffling on about? It's been a strange old day so far. I threw myself out of bed this morning and drove here to Mum's with my pink jumper on inside out. Without washing my neck or boiling the kettle or anything at all really. I have highly offended the man I went out with last week to the degree that he has informed me that we have nothing left to say to each other and all I can think about is chocolate. Rose scented chocolate. Chocolate with amaretto. Chocolate pie. Chocolate sauce. Chocolate on a butty.

Truly I've got chocolate on the brain and can't quite figure out the importance of anything else in my entire life.

Rightie Ho Daddy lets have another cup of tea. I'll iron your shirt if you make me some of your extra special cheese on toast. Must go before I reveal anymore of my awful torrid secrets. Some things are more appalling than even the scratchy little feet of head lice nesting in your babbas curls.

I'm feeling irrationally happy today.