Humour me. I know this is the second babba with Santa photograph in as many days, but  Christmas as a Mommy offers far too many opportunities to show off your own little rockstar…

So this morning we went for breakfast with Father Christmas and as you can see no-one was that impressed. Even old Nicholas himself looked a bit bewildered. I was busy stuffing my face with a sausage sandwich, Mum was hovering about looking demented by the mayhem that is a ludicrously rainy day,  100 kids, assorted family members, lots of croissants and a hungover Santa, while  Finley couldn’t make sense of the whole situation, so concentrated on eating the gluten-free toast I had to toast myself because school had forgotten to provide it for him.

And actually speaking of toast, if I tell you something, will you promise not to banish me to the home for women with slovenly ways? Last night when I was getting undressed for a bath, a  piece of gluten-free toast tumbled out my trousers and landed jammy side down on my cream carpet.

Yes, Dear, you read that right. I am the kind of scummy wench who keeps toast in her trousers.

Please don’t report me to Santa.