When your son wakes up three hours late doing a really rather  spectacular impression of Desperate Dan you can be certain it isn’t going to be your average Sunday.

But then it hadn’t been my average Saturday either, because bless me, it has been a weekend and a half. And not in a good way.

There I was zipping round  the supermarket in very silly heels, (Remember that article about the Retro Housewife…?) weighing up the merits of Ainsley Harriots Ceaser Salad Dressing versus the delectable Mr Newmans, when almost without thinking I slipped a jar of organic mayonnaise into my trolley. Slipped Dear Readers being the operative word, because said mayonnaise dashed straight to the floor, covering my toes in mayo and flicking glass from here to Timbuktu. Glass I felt a sudden urge to tidy up. So tidy up I did. Grabbing the smashed jar  and watching in astonishment as blood fountained out my index finger and curdled the mayonnaise. So because I am a trooper, I put my finger in my mouth and went about my business till I noticed people staring and an old lady finally took my left hand and said "Excuse me dear, you have blood running out of your mouth…"

So I took myself to the instore pharmacy, splattered pretty red blood all over the counter and duly keeled over in a dead faint, then woke up to find handsome young medic attending to my dribbly mouth and taking my blood pressure and an attending crowd gathered around the girl with mayonnaise pants and blood splattered face. I am so undignified it is not funny.

So declaring myself alive, well and the shade of a mouldy olive, I let them bandage me  up and agreed to pay for my shopping with one hand raised above my head and then got in the car with Mark, (Who was waiting  outside with Finn, because my car is yet again off road), who, as should only be expected, presented  me  with  the kind of face that said, "and you still say you don’t know why I left you???"…

And that is I think enough medical drama for one weekend. But oh no, the universe wasn’t finished with me yet.
This morning my poor little boy woke up looking like the elephant man. Fat faced and not happy about it. Whimpering and red enough to give a beetroot a run for its money. So off we went to the hell that is the walk in clinic, where we waited a million hours and Finley did a fantastic impression of  the heathiest child alive, till we walked into the surgery where he performed the role of hysterical baby with style, and the Doctor apparently too scared to touch him, took one look at him, and declared "Mumps! Blood Tests! Ten days incubation! See no-one. Do not leave your four walls and paint a black cross on your front door!!" Or something like that. And I resisted temptation to collapse in a heap of sorrow at the thought of being confined  to barracks with a little boy who sent him self to sleep after informing me that his face was fat, but "not as fat as yours Mummy".

Who invented kids?? Pray tell…