I Want My Mummy

Even though I’m so tired I had to stop myself from sobbing earlier because I dropped Chickie’s spoon on the floor, my son continues his high energy, supervision required at all times activities without a moment’s thought for my welfare.

I stand amidst a fanfare of noise. Justin from Tikkabilla has kindly sold his voice to Chickie’s new Alphabet Desk and is perkily Welcoming me to Alphabet Town, the toys ducks are quack, quack, quacking, the toy car beep beep beeping and the Helter Skelter singing a song I know but haven’t the energy to sing all the way through to conclude it’s name.

After three months of listening to Chickie’s toys wind themselves down into recordings befitting The Blair Witch Project, Poff’s little finger expectantly pushing the siren on the fire engine this afternoon and receiving an eerie wail in return, finally made me feel guilty enough that I hunted down the Philips screwdriver and batteries and held a Toy Surgery for Chick’s crackling entertainment units. Ironically, he is now playing with the one toy which continues to offend my ears as I had no batteries left to revive it, whilst all his other toys vie noisily for his affection behind him.

Despite enjoying a night’s sleep unpunctuated by coughing, crying, screaming or snoring, I am utterly pooped. I am attributing it to a knackering combination of not really sitting down since 7.45am, PMT, having the lurgy and attending the Flying Fortress Fitness for Fatties Session this morning (otherwise known as chasing/lifting/sliding/throwing Chickie around for three hours). Whilst on this subject, can anyone explain to me how I am 80% fat now that I am a human yo-yo compared to 70% when I was a full-time seat pad?

I have salsa tonight. I’m writing that in a petulant, teenage “it’s not fair, why do I have to go?” kind of way and not a “arriba arriba, let’s salsa” kind of way. The thought of being flung around like an unloved rag dolly by Salsabum is a wearying prospect. However, I’m too scared to cry off, especially after her email saying, “I do hope you won't be whingeing all night about how rough you feel - I really don't do pity!”.

Releasing the elastic of my fishnet popsocks so they could start burrowing into the core of my two left calves, I reached over my trainers for my black kitten heels. A bold move but necessary after last week’s hopping style pirouette sequence began to look more like a small seizure.

Salsabum’s here. Oh God.