Another successful couple of days of the holiday checked off. Nobody died, nobody drownded, nobody died of food poisoning.
It is good that I have very low standards for success. Every day that everyone finishes with all limbs intact and everyone still breathing is a win for me.
Den building was achieved, rope swing made and absolutely flew, not plummeted. We could not dam the stream due to the warm weather meaning there were only trickles available to us. Chips and ice cream however, were consumed in quantity, to the great pleasure of all, especially me. I have made the executive decision that when I am either a) rich, b) world dictator or c) both, I will have a Mr. Whippy machine in my house.
You will find me lying underneath it, with my mouth open. Do not mourn me when I die of surfeit. It is the way I want to go.
Please ensure that they fit the top of the hearse with one of the speakers you find on the top of ice cream vans. I will be accompanied to the crematorium by a speeded up version of Greensleeves.
In other news, the fridge is finally fixed. It is a blessed relief to tick worrying about botulism off my list of things to do. I am so bloody glad I live in the modern world, despite all its horrors. The sheer bliss of a functioning washing machine, fridge and the availability of sushi at the Tesco Express round the corner, do a lot to soothe my frayed nerves and general air of doom mongering. That, and gin.
It is not all good news though. Never let it be said that life is plain sailing. I managed to sustain an injury yesterday. Gardening. In my own garden, of all places. I told you nature was a bastard.
I managed to throw my hip out, and have been hobbling around swearing and looking like Mrs. Overall since lunchtime yesterday. It is slightly less sore today but it needs to improve rapidly. My lovely sister in law is getting married on Saturday and I intend to party the night away, which I cannot do if I am bent double offering people macaroons from my invisible tray of pain.
I shall light more candles.