I woke up from a very odd dream today in which I had just discovered that I was the Queen. I have a vague recollection that it had something to do with hair, and someone had lost my crown. All in all I was quite bewildered and not best pleased with the situation. I’m glad to say that I woke up before I could issue the immortal lines: ‘Off with their heads!’ and haven’t remembered anything since. Typical that it had to revolve around hair, given the fact that I seem to be endlessly at war with mine. Maybe it’s symbolic of the fact that I should just chop the whole bloody lot off and have done with it. I might consider it later, when the spots on my chin have died down a bit and I don’t have to hide them cunningly behind a loosely thrown tress.
I don’t recall ever having had such delusions of grandeur before. Obviously we’ve chatted here about when I get to be world dictator, but that’s a different thing altogether. World Dictator is a much bigger job than being Queen, and it’s a bit more political I think. Being Queen would be a big waste of time and effort in my opinion. I don’t like car coats. I don’t like hats in the shape of brains. I hate small, fat dogs, and I am absolutely terrible at being polite to people, remembering their names or being an expert on etiquette. All things considered, should I ever be asked, I think I should refuse firmly but politely and say that I think I would be much better suited at being Prince Philip. You have to know your limits.
This could be a very short entry by the way. I’ve been away for a couple of days, I have millions of things to catch up on, and I’m not doing them. Also the girls are due back at any moment, along with my parents who are staying for dinner. So far the kitchen table is full of clean laundry that needs sorting, I have failed to put the dish washer on, and apart from a trip to the Co-op to buy some bread and butter, the most culinary thing I have done all day is put the kettle on. The baking phase is well and truly over. We may well have to indulge in a takeaway. I felt this after I had purchased the bread and butter and consequently went home via the bank machine just in case my intuition turned out to be good. I would have used the bank machine in the Co-op, but a man was sweeping its blackened remains from the floor as I passed. I feel that someone had a miserable Easter and decided to take it out on the machine with a flame thrower, as a protest against capitalist consumerism and piggery. It’s hardly No Logo, but then this is Glenfield.
Oscar is asleep. He has been snoozish all day which is good, as I finally did get my essay finished and off to the markers. This is brilliant news and is the high spot in my day. It may not be the best essay in the world, but as of lunch time it is the most finished essay in the world and right now that’s all that matters to me. I can now read Rebus without feeling like I’m going to be discovered snogging Jason behind the bike sheds while I should be doing double PE. Whizz for Atoms as Molesworth would say.
Oscar has a new hobby. He has developed an obsession with me reading books to him. He has always had an obsession with books. He usually likes to carry them about and make piles of them whilst muttering ‘booK! booK! booK!’ under his breath repeatedly. This was fine. Now he has chosen two of his very best favourite books and is making me read them to him, on average once every ten minutes unless I can distract him with something else, which unless it is a raspberry yogurt or a biscuit, is proving to be rather difficult. His two favourite books are ‘Maisy Goes to Bed’ by Lucy Cousins and ‘Homes’ by Jan Pienkowski. I have read Maisy eight times today, and Homes fifteen times today, including all the actions, noises and necessary additions that Oscar feels are important, such as repeatedly finding the page where Maisy has a wee and shouting ‘Wee!’ I have suggested other books, but he just gets cross, shouting ‘Nooooeeehhhh!’ and flinging them asunder. Not even Stanley Bagshaw And The Football Match made the grade. I bought him a new In the Night Garden Magazine with an inflatable Pinky Ponk toy, but that was rubbish, and after working out that he couldn’t inflate and deflate it at will he decided it was pathetic. He wouldn’t even look at the magazine. Normally he plays with them until they’re in tatters. This is a full on fanatical thing we’ve got going on here. I fear for my sanity.
It could be worse, but I’m afraid this is just the beginning. I’m hoping it doesn’t end with Thomas the Tank Engine, but I’ve got an uneasy feeling in my water that it probably will. Still, as long as he’s reading. He’s definitely not going to be an illiterate neanderthal. He’s going to be a highly intelligent neanderthal, who will still spend his teenage years scraping his knuckles along the ground, grunting and refusing to change his underwear until I take him hostage in the bathroom with a fully loaded can of Cillit Bang. It happens to the best of us. I imagine even Jesus was a surly teenager at one point.
I think the girls are quite looking forward to coming home, despite their grumpy mum. Tallulah didn’t like Spiderwick. Apparently it had too many monsters in it for her and she rang me on Monday night with a quivering voice to tell me how horrible it was and how she was convinced she was going to have bad dreams. I rang her on Tuesday morning to check how her night had gone. She sounded very disappointed when she said: ‘I didn’t dream of nothing mama! Nothing at all…’ I think she was quite sad she’d missed the chance of peeing the bed and screaming until she made all the hairs on Jamie’s head stand up. Still, there’s always next time. He took them to see Horton Hears a Hoo yesterday. I’m so grateful that he takes them to all these films. I was thinking of taking them on Friday when Oscar is at nursery, in the spirit of parental sacrifice. Now I won’t have to, so we’re going to meet Andrea for lunch and eat lots of cheesecake instead. Much better all round.
Right. I have to go and find the kitchen table, find my credit card bill and buy a birthday present for my best friend’s daughter. I forgot it was on Saturday, but she doesn’t mind because she knows I’m hopeless and I generally buy her something nicer than I would normally buy kids, not just because she’s my best friend’s daughter, but because I feel guilty for being so rubbish, so she’s quids in really!
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