SO HELP ME GOD!

It's the Easter school holidays, again.  Oh God, really?  Then that means there are two weeks of constant whinging, whining, crying, screaming, tantrums and door slamming to look forward to - and that's just me!  Oh God, please just kill me now.

On top of two whole weeks of school holidays, Sarah has chickenpox and Bart has had the most amazingly explosive diarrhoea for days, leaving his arse raw and very sore.  Obviously he has no concept of REAL pain, you know, like the pain of trying to push a baby the size of a Brontasaurus from somewhere a Brontasaurus was never realistically going to emerge without it smarting a little.  Saur Us?  Pah!  Tell me about it.  If only I'd been willing to countenance a sore arse more often, my baby Brontasaurus wouldn't have been born in the first place!

Sarah has been comparatively lucky by only having two pox spots, but she has suffered terribly with a shocking temperature and stomach and headaches that won't be beaten with pain relief.  Like most children I'm sure, I'm now having to endure days upon days of having her clinging like a limpet to any available limb, whilst still trying to complete the most mundane of tasks.  Imagine having a pox-ridden child's arms wrapped around your middle, cuddling you from behind, whilst you're trying to clean foul smelling mustard arse gravy from a baby that would really rather you wouldn't!  Oh, the joy...

The other day was a complete nightmare: Bart was ravenous and Sarah wasn't.  I cooked a meal (!) and Bart couldn't get it down fast enough.  Sarah on the other hand was feeling nauseous and scarpered upstairs, believing she was to be sick, and insisting I go with her to hold her hair and try very hard not to throw up on the back of her neck.  Whilst upstairs with Sarah, morphing into a fetching shade of Kermit Green myself, Bart is unleashing hell downstairs because he's strapped into a highchair and unable to reach his food, which is just outside his reach.  So down I run, leaving Sarah perched over the toilet bowl promising not to be sick for 2 minutes, so that I can give Bart his dinner.  Upon pushing his plate towards him, Bart plunges both hands into his mashed potatoes and gravy and then releases them suddenly catapulting peas, carrots and sweetcorn everywhere.  You can imagine my delight.  I think I said something along the lines of "Oh heavens above my little darling, what on earth did you do that for?"  Now I was committed to feeding him his dinner (because he couldn't be trusted not to redecorate the kitchen in my absence), between manic strides upstairs to check on Sarah, who was heaving and retching away, when I told her quite clearly not to until I got back!  Kids!

Once Sarah's stomach had settled without actually being sick, and Bart had finished what was left of his meal from between his fingers, in sauntered Keith asking about my day.  Luckily I didn't have a heavy bottomed saucepan or a sharp implement in my hands at the time, but the steam from my ears and a look of reassurance that only I can give [that one's for you Olga], told him all that he needed to know, and he promptly put the kettle on.

Sarah's getting better every day and Bart's arse is less scarlett, but the two are a combustible mix when together for long periods of time.  They love each other dearly, but two weeks of their squabbling is going to send me around the bend.  Wish them luck...

This article has been sponsored by Hardys Shiraz Cabernet, on your table ... for not very long!

I'm Back! Again.

Sorry for the unseemly delay but I'm back now, and there'll be no stopping me!

I've simply been so busy with work, family and the rigours of Facebook and Twitter (urgh!), that I've not had time for this blog.  Congratulations to all of you who have held it together all these months, your therapists have updated me repeatedly on your progress, and are confident of a full recovery now that I'm back.  I promise to not wander off like that again without full and complete notification.

Not much has changed since I've been away. Maleficent continues to breathe - dammit - and also continues to be a hooning great pain in the arse, Olga is still magnificent but I don't get to see or speak to her nearly enough, whilst Keith and the kids are still married and/or related to me, which is as much as can ever be expected.

Our neighbours however have been renamed (from Shagette and Igor) to Forehead and Peanut, simply because of their very odd shaped heads, and because she doesn't get the shaggings she used to - boo hoo - more sleep for me! I've been reliably informed (via the For Sale sign outside) that Forehead and Peanut are moving house soon. This fills me with joy and terror all at the same time. Watch this space to find out what species of pond life we get as neighbours this time. The fact that I saw David Attenborough setting up cameras in the front garden does not bode well I feel.

I have absolutely LOADS to rant about, so do keep up and be sure to visit back again very soon - I could literally go off at any time.  I have set up a blog for work recently and have to positive, cheerful, proactive, dynamic and friendly - you know, all the things that come so easily to me [cough].  This blog however is going to be where I vent my spleen, where - because I'm annonymous - I can say what I like about who I like - woo hoo! 

Stand well back coz' here I cum, come.

Just What The Psychiatrist Ordered!

Apologies to the throbbing millions of you who have been waiting patiently for my next blog update, but I've simply been too busy to put weary digit to key - but hey, I'm here now! I've just put the phone down from my dear friend Olga, who I've not spoken to in many moons, and I feel like an alcoholic falling off the wagon.

You see Waldorf and Statler (some lesser friends of mine) just don't cut the mustard, and Waldorf has a particularly annoying habit of turning every topic of conversation back to her or hers. For example, if Bart has just cut a tooth her son has cut two in the shape of Disney characters: if Keith farted in bed last night and left me with a centre parting, her husband farted and followed through whilst humming "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen - you get the picture?! It's so exasperating I'm seriously contemplating telling her that I've spent the entire evening wanking myself into exhaustion - just to see what she says. It may backfire and we end up comparing bicep density, you never know. Olga has almost dared me to do it, and I wouldn't put it past me, but I'll have to get back to you and let you know.

Olga on the other hand is a feat of friendship engineering, knows just what to say and when and isn't in the least bit perturbed with anything I tell her, however hard I try. Yes, Olga baby I know you're reading this, which is why I wrote it - thanks for the laugh tonight, I really needed it, and I couldn't have done it without you.

Olga visited & bought gifts!

Olga visited on Tuesday and bought Sarah a karaoke High School Musical microphone that plugs into the TV and allows my little tone deaf darling to caterwaul her way through the entire song book - many, many times. She sounds like a bag of cats being slammed against a wall, and this is a picture of what I look like now, having previously looked remarkably similar to a young Jennifer Aniston. You can run Olga, but you can't hide - I will get you for this!

Ratty and Ferret visited Maleficent's at the weekend and we were summoned, along with Jabba and Plank, for an audience with them. Thankfully Thing was visiting those from afar, and so there was some food left for those of us who use cutlery as opposed to garden implements during our dining experiences. It was a civil enough exchange, but Maleficent couldn't help herself with her snide remarks and comments. Oh how I long to tap dance on a newly settled mound of earth!