Guilt, guilt, guilt.

Ker-ist.
Life is full on at the moment.
I don't think I have sat down today. Or been to the loo. Must have. But can't remember. My poor bladder.
Each hour is chockablock with Things I Need To Do Right Now.
So I do those.
And then there are the things I needed to do Yesterday.
So I do those.
Then the things that I REALLY needed to do last month. So I do those.
Then the things that I REALLY SHOULD HAVE done last year. So bugger those.
And then there are the things I need to do Right Now but can't be bloody arsed.
And then a friend rings.
And I feel guilty as it's about a year since I last rang them.
And then I remember all those friends I haven't rung for about a decade.
And feel worse.
Then I remember that I haven't rung my sister, or brothers, or sister in laws or brother in laws. Or nephews, or nieces. Or godsons. Or goddaughters.
And then I feel REALLY guilty. And then...?
And then I remember all the things I have forgotten to do.
And then I forget all the things I remembered to do.
And then...?
I give up.
And Blog.
And then I realise I have been a bloody useless Blogger as haven't visited, commented or just hopped about from blog to blog enough. Have Neglected the Blogosphere. Attempt occasionally to land, still running, on a blog or two, and leave breathy comment before buggering off again.
Guilt too in Blogland.
Bum it.
Guilt everywhere.
Oh, well. Forgive me for not visiting. Forgive me if I did and left comment about Swedish Hostess Trolleys by mistake. Brain not attached to rest of body at the moment. Is miracle that have got this far in post.
Uh-oh, children demanding bed-time kisses.
Better go.
But WILL be back to normal, just as soon as I can.
In the meantime, I hope I get to see some of you at Cybermummy on 3rd July.
London City Mum, we shall paint the town red! Yippee!! Hooray!! Whoopideedoodah!!
Or have a nice cup of tea and a slice of cake.
Kisses all.
I'll be back.
xxx

In-ger-land!!

Not sure whether to be glad or not that England is through to the next round. It's such bloody hard work watching that I would almost prefer to be eating my own toenails. In fact WAS eating own toenails.
Youngest asked, in the final five minutes of the England/Slovenia match,
'Mummy, can I say the 'F' word, please?'
His nerves, it would seem, were somewhat tattered.
I told him kindly that he couldn't say the 'F' word but he COULD say Bum, if he felt the need.
He did.
The utter relief of winning was mixed with the awful and real dread regarding the next match. Will we win? Can we? Might we? Really? Oh, god.
Remember those heady Tim Henman days? When we would cheerfully curl up on our sofas
and watch Tim playing his little white socks off.
He might win! we would all exclaim, 'He really, really might win!'
Then, just as we had given voice to that thought, he would start losing. Big Time. And then, just as we had resigned ourself to losing the sodding match, the bugger would go and win. Total Nightmare.
And so it is with England.
Yo-yo'ing between utter elation and downright misery.
Which is Not Good for the nerves.
I need to prepare myself for Sunday.
I will give myself permission to say the 'F' word. Only this time it's F**k. No mucking about with anything less.
I might EVEN say something Ruder.
On the other hand I may be Pleasantly Surprised by an Easy Victory, and then have to endure the next round.
Ker-ist.
I tell you, you just Can't Win.
Let's hope England bloody can.

What Could It Be?

Youngest woke me up this morning with a hiss.
And prodded me hard.
'What do you want?' I asked, somewhat reasonably, I felt.
Considering the Rude Awakening.
'There is Something In My Bed and it Isn't Good,' he whispered.
Oh, Kerist, I thought. What in hell's name could THAT be.
I racked my sleepy brain for possible answers.
'Wee?' I asked, wearily, rubbing an eye awake.
He shook his head.
I rattled off the various bodily waste that a 'Not Good Thing' might be.
'Poo? Snot? Skin? Sweat?'
'Nope,' he replied to each in turn, getting noticeably more worried as the list went on. And on.
And finally, 'Mummy, it REALLY is Not A Good Thing.'
Said with great urgency and some degree of panic.
I cranked myself up onto one elbow and looked at him blearily.
'Is it something Dead?' I asked with some resignation. That would be 'Not Good'.
'Nope.'
Having exhausted the potential horrors of what it might be, I decided that the only thing was to look for myself.
We entered the dark of his room, and I swished back the curtains. Blinking in the light, and screwing up my short sighted eyes, we looked together at the bed.
A Great Big Pile of Red Gloop wobbled shinily on the whiteness of his sheet.
'What the Bloody Hell is that?' I asked, in an Unedited type of way.
'That is The Not Good Thing in my bed,' answered Youngest, with his Clear Six Year Old Sightedness.
I poked it.
Yup.
Gloop.
Straight out of a new toy recently acquired on his birthday. A hideous toy with an eye that you can squeeze right out of Said Toy's head.
Nice.
Without another word we stripped the bed together, slung the oozing toy into the bin, and walked down the stairs towards the Kettle (for my much needed first cup of tea) and the Washing Machine.
'Sorry, Mummy,' said Youngest, as we pushed the gloopy sheet into the machine and switched it on.
'Don't worry about it,' said I, breezily. 'At least it wasn't Poo.'
And with that bright thought shining in our minds, we had breakfast.



PS. I am very aware of a Tag. Lurking. That I haven't done. Tags frighten me as am Total Crap at them.
But there is one Afoot, as it were, and I will drag it to the light of day just as soon as I have a moment to catch breath...