Darling wifey is having a good day.

Peter Ustinov died before Alistair Cooke did, and as a result she trousers ?110.

She pays a weekly sub into a very tasteless fundraising game at her work - the “Death Pool.” In return, she is randomly allocated a collection of celebrities:
The A List consists of the frail and elderly, like Princess Alice.
The B List is generally old people and those with an outside chance of croaking (Michael Douglas passing away with a filthy smile on his face - things like that.)

So, since Cookie came second (in a manner of speaking) Darling Wifey pockets the “Urn” (come on - I said it was tasteless!) This, on top of the news that her Mini is ready for delivery a full month early, and she is a very happy (albeit tasteless) Wifey.

Oh, and she got a promotion today as well. Better job, more money, 83.5 miles closer to home.

Driving is hazardous enough without children - but when you have a tribe in the back of the car, extra training and risk assessment skills are essential. I recommend the following:

After-party reversing: fill the car with overexcited children, each carrying a large balloon (to obscure your rear view) and a piece of cake. Reverse across a car park whilst avoiding thirty other overstimulated children.

Sleep deprivation driving: negotiate the city centre in rush hour after a night of nappy changing, drink making, row arbitrating and monster evicting.

Temper management: complete a two-hundred mile motorway journey in safety whilst entertaining all children and maintaining a cool and relaxed mood.

Distraction avoidance: do not react in any way when something warm and sticky starts to make its way down the back of your neck.

Orienteering: find a public toilet in a strange city. You have three minutes.

Valeting: identify the stains and gooey secretions covering the interior of your vehicle and select the most effective detergent.

Darling Wifey is looking for a new job - commuting 84 miles each way is a bit much, and she is ready for a promotion.

Application #1 went well, and she did get an interview - six days ago. She still hasn’t heard whether or not she got the job. The standing joke is that, in about a month, someone at that school will look up and say, “Wasn’t there something that we had to do…?”

Application #2 was a bit rushed. The details didn’t arrive until the last minute and the letter was written the night before the deadline, after a long parents’ evening, and over a bottle of wine. It was posted in a daze of mental exhaustion and mild inebriation. According to the feedback she very nearly got that job, but the winning candidate had twenty years of experience, which made all the difference.

Application #3 was also rushed - this time because the job details were lost. They were eventually found, a week after they arrived here and the night before the application deadline, when we realised that the only place we hadn’t searched was the dustbin. There they were - buried under several strata of used coffee filters and nappies.

We have high hopes for that application…

Little Nutter has injured his thumb.

We don’t know how, but it is quite severe, and he needed emergency treatment. Being Little Nutter he didn’t complain about it, even thought it must have hurt like hell, but just stopped using it.

Anyway, rather than just turn up at the hospital, I telephoned them in advance. This required exhaustive planning.

Little Nutter doesn’t like hospitals, and has anxiety attacks when he is taken to them - which, due to his autism and his hearing problems, is very frequent. The paediatrician and audiologist are well-briefed, and we are in & out in a twenty minute flurry of mayhem. Simple.

A&E, however, have their own rules. Promises were made over the ‘phone, but triage didn’t agree. Autism or not, we must wait - for 45 minutes.

I then had a row with everyone. Meanwhile, Little Nutter was becoming more and more upset; still only volcanic - not quite thermonuclear - but showing early indications of assault & battery. But the receptionist insisted: it is only fair that Little Nutter waits his turn, and I must explain it to him.

How, I ask you, can such a simple-minded vegetable get a job dealing with patients in a hospital?

Only by clearly telling the receptionist that Little Nutter will be a danger to other patients, and threatening to complain to the NHS trust, were we ushered through. And even then it was only because a doctor overheard us, and offered to see Little Nutter quickly.

Tiny Flirt
Rugby on telly is a great excuse to sit on Daddy’s knee and try to drink his beer. He also has a snack that I can steal. Best of all, I can fall asleep on him and he won’t move for ages.

Little Nutter
If you don’t put Thomas the Tank Engine on that television right now, then expect a tantrum - imminently.

Little Madam
Ewww. Those big, ugly men are pushing each other around and getting covered in mud. That is soooo naughty!

Me
OK, I’m about as Welsh as Isambard Kingdom Brunel, who only built a bridge from one bit of Wales to another. But that doesn’t stop me from supporting Wales in the Six Nations. Unless, of course, Wales start winning again. In which case I shall start supporting Italy. Probly. Pass the beer.

Darling Wifey
I’m off out shopping. Don’t wait up. And don’t bother reading the credit card statement - it’ll only upset you.