Now the other one is home and Lashes has just pinged a rubber lizard's tail in his eye and Fingers is trying to skip using my extension lead and climbing everywhere in search of an elusive marble and there are Playmobil warriors in all the water glasses and all I want is SLEEP. It is all very boring and leaving me in a state of semi-paralysis in which nothing but unconsciousness seems appealing and my eyeballs are receding further and further into their sockets to hide from the brightly coloured assault. I imagine the tedium will seep into here too. Sorry.
You know what? Let's have some photos. I am so sick of the sound of my whiny little voice.
This is a present from Red Shoes. She thought I would like him, and I did, just SO much. Would you not feel much happier about monarchy as a concept in your sovereign was a yam? I would. Look at him!
Red Shoes and I also shared our scepticism about Gwyneth's newest missive. Gywneth's Thanksgiving recipes are, frankly, implausible. Gwynnie would have us believe she makes a "not scared of butter" Martha Stewart turkey, giblet gravy and caramelized sprouts followed by pumpkin ice cream pie with maple syrup whipped cream. Mmm, macrobiotic, much?
First I had to I get past the post-traumatic shudders at the words "pumpkin pie". Violet and I had an extremely disturbing ouzo hangover pumpkin pie experience in Florence staying with the gloomiest family on the planet when we were 18. There was a morose English woman, a largely absent Italian man, and a precocious three year old with fecal retention problems whose catchphrase was "Mama is being ironic". The night before had involved me finding it unfeasibly hilarious to leave a baked potato on her pillow and vomiting in the corner of our bedroom because in the FLAT WITH NO DOORS it seemed like a better bet than the bathroom with no door. The pumpkin pie came out the next day after we had been left, in disgrace, to do all the clearing up with only the incontinent cat Ambrogio for company and we both had to hide the hideous pie under the sofa and flee, retching all the way, for pizza and white chocolate. But I DIGRESS. A LOT. After that I was all "As IF Gwyneth eats that. Any of it. Is she even allowed to look at that stuff? What would Dr Joshi say! Or that other one with the 'no white food' dictat?" Red Shoes agrees. I said her best bet for a happy Thanksgiving was to eat Chris Martin, but Red Shoes astutely pointed out how stringy and dry he would be, and that he would need a good week's simmering to be edible. Then I decided that instead, he should be force fed like a foie gras goose, but with Big Macs and KFC and other unethical foodstuffs. This mental image was the high point of my day.
Next, we (the spawn and me, not Red Shoes) made some monsters out of kits. Here they are intimidating Makka Pakka.
I recommend these fervently. They come from Magma, my favourite shop in the universe (apart from all the other ones) and if they want to sent me several free, well I wouldn't mind compromising my principles at ALL (I have never been offered any free stuff, ever, not even a Peloop. Bah.).
Ok, I think we've all had enough of me tonight. I certainly have. Imagine me banging into the NaBloPoMo wall at high speed, then sliding back down, shedding biscuit crumbs and despair. Pretty no?