The week it endeth. Bloody good job.

I went to bed at half past seven last night.

I haven’t done that in an absolute age.

I was so asleep that when the phone rang at 8.45 p.m. because I had failed to put it on silent, I woke up wondering where the hell I was and if it was morning yet.  My confusion was compounded by the fact that the cat, who is absolutely not allowed in our bedroom, had clearly snuck in earlier with one of the children and had been lying sneakily under the bed waiting for me to drop off.

When I woke up, there was a warm, solid lump in the crook of my knees.  I reached down, thinking that it was my hot water bottle, only to find that it was a furry denizen of the deep.  When I lifted her up she did that thing,  the one that small children do when they don’t want to be moved. She made all her bones heavy and sunk them into her rear end, making it virtually impossible to pick her up.  As it was I had to hold her in the manner of a slinky that has just done its last boing down the stairs.

When I finally managed it, she gave me such a baleful look as I shut the bedroom door on her, that if looks could kill I would have been as dead as the particularly crunchy spider she anihilated only hours earlier.

Little bugger.

It just goes to show you what sort of a week it has been.

It has been the sort of week where I have developed twitchy eye syndrome.  I am hoping that the soothing application of a fruity Shiraz and half a packet of digestive biscuits will be the cure for what ails me, and am half way down my first glass with that very end in mind.

I am pouring both down the throat rather than into the eye, by the way.

As an aside, I would be interested in some kind of wine/biscuit pairings guide.  There must be the right wine for a Hob Nob, surely?

Today was the culmination of all the excitement earlier in the week.  The garage were supposed to call me to let me know my car had been fixed, and that I could drop the hire car back.

I was hoping this would be earlier in the day because I had to get to the dentist with Tilly for ten past four, and it was sod’s law that it would be the time they would want me to get my car.

The dentist and the garage are fifteen miles away from each other.

As predicted, the garage rang me at ten past three, just as the school bell rang.  I girded my loins to battle with them to keep the hire car until the morning, and was just about to launch into my speech when the chap told me that the  damage to my bumper was much worse than they thought and they needed another part which wouldn’t be in until Monday. Would I mind keeping the hire car until then?

This knocked the wind right out of my sails and I sounded like a complete gibbering idiot as I stuttered my ecstatic and garbled thanks at them.

We got in the car with me feeling all giddy as a kipper. So giddy that half way to pick Tilly up the school secretary rang me to say I had left the gorgeous flowers that one of the teachers had bought me in the office.

We turned round to get them. It would have been a shame if they had died in the school over the weekend.

The petrol warning light came on as we set out to pick Tilly up for the second time.

Then we got stuck behind a bunch of Friday afternoon knobtastic traffic, and a taxi driver who was determined his way was the only right of way, thus meaning I had to execute a complicated, ‘backwards backwards aaaahhh’ manoeuvre on a traffic filled street.

Eventually we picked Tilly up, and then detoured to get petrol, and by the time we got to the dentist’s we had three minutes to spare before the appointment.

The conclusion to Tilly’s orthodontic shenanigins is that she will need two extractions, and braces for 18 months, and she is just bad enough to get free treatment on the NHS.  I am very grateful for this.

Which is a terrible thing to say, but there you go.

We now have to decide when she will start the treatment.

My filling was remarkably painless. It is the only time I have ever been glad that the stupid bint who smashed my tooth with that hockey ball had such a good aim. Dead nerves are a godsend when it comes to drilling.

No anaesthetic was required and I was out, without dribbles in twenty minutes, and at granny’s house eating roast chicken with all the trimmings ten minutes later.

We stayed at granny’s to warm our toes in front of the fire until the rush hour traffic had died down, and had just pulled onto the drive when the window cleaner arrived needing to be paid.  He had done the windows earlier in the week, but I was lying on the sofa with a migraine and in no position to come to the door, so he had had to wait.

I opened my purse with a flourish to find that I had a grand total of 47p on me.  In the end, as he stood, louring on the doorstep, I had to raid Oscar’s piggy bank for the £6 required.

Oscar tripped down the bottom three steps of the stairs, piggy bank in hand, and the chap just watched as I wrestled small boy, plastic pig and recalcitrant stopper into some semblance of order.

My revenge was counting out £6 worth of 20p’s into his hands.

Ha!

That will ruin the cut on his trousers and no mistake.

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