There are ants in my kitchen. Not many as yet, but often at least 4 or 5 in the same square metre, which is enough to count as an illegal gathering as far as I am concerned (what is the collective noun for ants anyway? A herd of ants? A swarm? A nuisance? A nervous breakdown?) Only one flying ant witnessed as yet, but I know what they're doing : they're waiting for us to go away for the weekend, at which point they'll all emerge en masse over 48 hours to ensure that we are greeted by the Flying Ant Apocalypse when we get back. Not that we're going away for the weekend any time soon as we have approx 30p and a few shiny buttons between us. You know when the Bash Street Kids go into their clubhouse and open their money box to see what funds they've got to pay for whatever dastardly scheme they're hatching and all that's in there is an apple core and a fly? That's our bank account. If Richard's boss ever reads this, please can he have a pay rise? Seriously Richard's Boss, it's Just Not Funny any more. We have needed curtains for 9 months, I haven't had my hair cut for 8 months and we're relying on 19p tins of kidney beans to feed us far too much for my liking. My child refers to charity shops as 'toy shops' because the only time I can afford to buy him anything it's a 20p car from Oxfam. Sort it out.
Ants and pennilessness aside, it's been business as usual here. You'll be overjoyed to hear that I've started running again, which I celebrated by running straight into a big feck off thorny bush when not concentrating the other morning. Now look like I've had a major disagreement with an angry cat.
Rory has been 'helping' around the house, which is always a recipe for nervous collapse. On Friday he felt the need to sneak upstairs with a full potty of wee and poo and then tripped over on the top step. The words "oh dear" alerted me to this atrocity and I ran upstairs to be confronted from a scene that was, if not straight out of a horror movie, at least from some sort of highly specialist porno. Needless to say, I have been at one with the bleach.
Today, I decided to cut out all possibility of anything going wrong by taking him to soft play. I hate it and find the whole experience utterly traumatic, but it would be worth it not to have my house wrecked for a whole morning, plus how much trouble can a toddler get into in a padded cell? It was great. I sat and read a quality publication* for a couple of hours while Rory roamed free and climbed stuff. It was nice and quiet - only a few kids there. All fine. Until I was alerted to a commotion and looked upwards to see my son, psychotic grin on his face, being chased along the top level of the play barn by a somewhat large and out of breath playworker. The reason for the chasing was that he'd somehow managed to sneak a tricycle up there without anyone noticing and was now paying homage to the Shining by pedalling it through scramble nets and balloon tunnels and down hazardous whirly slides, all the time singing that much loved 1990s classic 'I'm the Scatman'. Came home to a house that still smells of bleach and a line of ants shuffling across the floor in a "fuck you" sort of a way. Hurrah.
*Take a Break