Hey there everyone. Enjoying the sunshine? Basking in the first proper British summer for years are we? Picnics in the park, you say? Barbecues? Trips to the beach? Pond dipping? Oh, it's lovely isn't it? Super.
It's a good job that Rory hasn't come down with raging chicken pox in the middle of it all really, isn't it? OH WAIT; YES HE HAS. And I, my friends am fuming.
It has rained non-stop where I live in Cheshire for - oh, I don't know - about 4 years. (Apart from the one unseasonably hot week in May when Rory had Rotavirus, and we had to spend the whole time inside wielding buckets and washing bedding), and now it's finally hot and sunny, I'm stuck in on the sofa with CBeebies, a vat of Virasoothe and the grumpiest, spottiest child in the North West. I feel just like I did in 1996 when I came down with Glandular Fever after my A-levels and had to stay in bed for 2 months while all my mates were out celebrating and getting drunk. Except this time I haven't brought it on myself by kissing too many boys. Summer is the one short time of the year when you think you're guaranteed good health before the onslaught of germs from September onwards, and I feel betrayed.
Not only that, it's the last day of term tomorrow, and I have therefore been denied the rite of passage that is sobbing copiously as I pick my little boy up from his last day at preschool. I actually work at preschool, so tomorrow he's being looked after by Daddy, while I go to work and witness all the other mums weeping as they take their children home for the last time and wave goodbye to their babyhood. This is the sort of thing that really matters when you've only got one child, because I'm never going to get to do it again.
*Breaking off here to go and rub some more soothing stuff into rank, crusty pustules and be growled at by said precious only child*
God, I'm bored. Nobody loves a poxy household, not even in the summer. Feel like everyone else is down at the pub having fun without me. Because my child having chicken pox is all about me after all*. Me, me, me, me, me, and how fed up I am. Nothing to do with the sad little barnacle who's covered in itchy spots in 30 degree heat and feeling awful and missing his mates and a trip to the seaside. Poor little dude. I wish I could make it better. Time to fill up the paddling pool with calamine lotion again.
*Actually, it really is about me, because I'm not immune to chicken pox and have had it 4 times already, so am pretty likely to come down with it myself in a week or two and lose the rest of summer to itchy, blistery hell. Pox off, pox.