The Mule

In the past few days there've been some definite signs that Spring has truly arrived, and no, I don't mean the warm air or the nodding daffodils, I'm talking about bloody sand all over my bloody house.  It's amazing how far a three year old can track the stuff, and it turns up in the most irritating places, its regular removal becoming your number one mundane and thankless task for the next six months, until the wheel of the year turns, and you can start repetitively and ineffectively hoovering up its Winter counterpart, glitter, instead. Yesterday, in between bouts of sand clearance, I launched a sunshine induced and uncharacteristic attack on my two daughters respective wardrobes, sorting out summer clothes from various chaotic boxes and cupboards and drawers.  Like all such jobs, in order to try and complete it I had to do two things - set the three year old on a lunatic project (how many layers of trousers can you get on?) and allow the...

Wellies.  Yes I realise this might seem an unlikely place to start.  But I'm all fired up about them.  I know, I know, it might seem trivial.  But bear with me.  Because, sometimes, the microcosmic detail reflects a macrocosmic problem.  And this is one such occasion.  Let me explain. Wellies.  I just popped into the children's welly aisle in a well known supermarket to chuck a pair in my trolley along with the six pack of pinot grigio I had actually gone in there for in the first place.  My daughter's number one recreational activity at the moment is puddle jumping, mine is taking the edge off the day with two glasses of chilled white before going to bed at 8.30pm: everyone's a winner. So here was the choice: pink background with dark pink stars, pink Charlie and Lola, pink and purple with rabbits, or, and this is the one that really got to me, pink with a picture of a princess, and trimmed with the words 'Waiting for my P...

Today, in our house, Operation Stack is in place.  We borrowed this code name from the Kent Police.  They use it to refer to the system of parking lorries on the M40 when the Channel Tunnel is closed.   For us it describes the days when all normal activities need to be halted due to a family member being so tired that they cannot perform the simplest of tasks without crying, yelling, or lying on the kitchen floor beating their fists on the lino.  Sometimes, this is the three year old, but more often than not, it's me. When Operation Stack is declared, it's an acknowledgement that no forward progress is going to be made, and that therefore it is better for all concerned if we just park up between Junctions 11 and 12 and stop trying.  We light the fire, we put the telly on, we wait for clearance.  And things just, well, stack.  Stacks of laundry, dishes, paperwork, toys; there is an unmistakable sense of 'stacked...