My house looks like a typhoon has hit it.
I have not stopped since we got back from holiday, and when I walked back into the house this afternoon after picking Oscar up from school it hit me what an absolute tip it has become.
You would not actually know if we had been burgled it is that messy.
I have kept a handle on the basic stuff. In that I am confident nobody will get botulism, we all have clean clothes to wear, it is safe to use the bathrooms and the floors are not too sticky, but everything else has gone to hell in a hand cart.
My plan for tomorrow therefore, seems to be to do some cleaning rather urgently, which is a shame, as I had created a utopian vision of me lounging about decadently, idly flicking through a book whilst throwing biscuit crumbs to the four winds.
Like that was ever going to happen.
I could do this decadent lounging, of course. I could choose to ignore the mess, but now I have seen it, as if with the eyes of a visitor, I cannot unsee it, and it is beginning to get on my nerves.
This is probably a good thing. I have the latent tendencies which would allow me to become one of those people the BBC make documentaries about, where archaeologists are brought in to excavate the historical layers of the carpet.
But it is still bloody annoying.
Other bloody annoying things:
Tallulah managed to forget her lunch box today.
I drove to school on my way to drop Nanna at the railway station to drop off the lunchbox. The man at reception, who was twelve, promised me he would get it to her.
She never even bothered to enquire as to whether I might have delivered it, and ate half of Tilly’s lunch.
Then she came home with no lunch box.
There is so much GRRR in this short anecdote I cannot begin to tell you.
She had already lost her swimming money before she set off. This was pretty annoying. Then she found her swimming money, which was less annoying, except that it made her late for swimming. Which was annoying.
As you can see, she is still getting to grips with organising herself. It is adding more grey hairs to my downy head.
Thank God I am dying them pink.
Oscar is going through a phase of interrupting people every thirty seconds. It makes me want to smack him up the side of the head with a bit of two by four. I have resisted so far, but he is wearing me down gradually and inexorably.
He is also going through a phase of eating his dinner with the decrepitude of an arthritic dinosaur. We have only just managed to get Tallulah to speed up her food consumption, and that only works 75% of the time. He has inherited the mantle and spent forty minutes masticating a table spoon full of noodles this dinner time. He then complained that the rest of his dinner was cold.
To nobody’s amazement but his own.
Gah! Pah! and Rrraaah.
On a cheerier note, his whole school is doing a project on fashion and music through the 20th Century this term. His class has the Sixties as their allocated decade.
Today when we went to school, all the teachers in the playground were dressed in their class’s appropriate fashion. The head looked very spectacular dressed as a Fifties rock ‘n’ roll chick with blue hair. Oscar’s teacher rocked a fabulous beehive do, with a shift dress and a swing coat. Both of which I would have killed for.
Oscar has come home eager to participate. We are a bit stumped for boy’s outfits, but we have found a brilliant Sixties style bandanna, which he has been wearing knotted round his head.
Tilly complimented him on his look. He struck a pose:
‘I’m channelling early Mick Jagger.’