I was having one of ‘those’ days yesterday- one of ‘those’ days when every time you attempt to have a cuppa, you for no apparent reason start choking and it dribbles relentlessly out your nose. No? You don’t have days like those? Well I do. Often, and dribbling tea out your nose on regular occasions makes you appreciate the fact you are not working in an office-being responsible for seeing others, or just a presence in any public place really. If I worked in an office, I tell you this, you should all be thankful that I live in France.
|Happy families...Monty 2, Lola 6 months...feeling the luuurve|
My pet ostriches are still growing, not dying like poor Meg R.I.P Meg. I notice they are pecking frantically at something out in the garden. They are going flapping bonkers for it as well, I panic that it is in fact a child, and run over, faster than you can say 'stop pecking my children to death you b*****d chikens’…which is pretty fast, FYI. Thanking god in his heaven (lucky dude) and the angels in their thongs, it was not, but do you know what it was? It’s almost worse, it’s old raw chicken that I left outside in the bin, and then forgot to take the street’s bin over to the new public bin, the other one I burnt down, accidentally, but the whole region’s Fire Brigade came over to put it out. Ooops, is all I shall say about that (although you can read about it here http://manic-mums.blogspot.com/2011/02/i-actually-managed-to-burn-down-public.html). The chickens were actually eating their own relatives. Now, I have heard of this on Jerry Springer, well, you can credit this to Americans…JOKE! All you lovely Americans, before I lose you all to other blogs…but never in real life, British France (no we’ve not gone all Napoleon in reverse, no takeovers here, well except by the ostriches) chez us. How rank’s that? It’s not even fresh, in fact, I’d got it out to defrost to cook for the cats, then forgot about it, realised too late and had to bin it. Terrible crime, I HATE binning food, such a waste, but there you go. I rescue the semi-masticated, pecked beyond recognition chicken bosoms, and arm outstretched like something giant and very erect, I take it directly over to the bin. A few *hand sterilisation frenzy* moments later, I start to panic. I spend the whole night freaking out that the chickens are going to self-peck themselves to death, or turn on each other and peck each other to death, in some hideous chicken ‘first one pecked to death wins’ contest. Luckily, the next morning, on close inspection, they are still 3, and still whole, no breasts/legs/barbecued thighs missing. Phew.
I am actually watching Sleeping Beauty snuggled up with a poorly Lola, whist Esmie has a nap. And would you believe it, did you know she’s actually got a name? I thought she was called Sleeping, and her surname was Beauty, and it was all just some terrible, unfortunate coincidence that that actually happened to her. Her real name’s Aurora apparently. So it’s now all clear, and there was no name coincidence at all. God forbid your name determined your destiny-well, depending on your name. We’d all be calling our kids ‘Rolloverlotterywinner-Junior’ names like ‘Jesus ‘ would be a thing of the past…
Right, I had best get on, Wednesday, no school for kids in France day fast approaches, and I am up to my eyeballs in clothes to stitch, socks to match, towels, that were freshly dried and put away, that were ALL got out to soak up the toothpaste, yoghurt, water, leaf, twig and camembert swamp, which the girls made a while back, to wash…and the list goes oooooooooon.
See yas all soon