as happy as a happy donkey, eyeoring in a field of wheat blowing in the wind.

Well I have never, to date, washed my hands in toothpaste before, but in the frantic, chicken pooed up hand, looking everywhere with your wrists, trying not to touch anything with your hand search for the squeezy soap, I gave up. The kids or the chickens must have eaten it. So I find toothpaste and ‘squeeeeeze’. There, clean-ish, minty fresh hands. First time for everything as they say, although I do very much doubt I shall be blogging about it…Hang on, too late, B*ll***s.

Late last night there’s a squeaky-squeak noise in the lounge, ruling out hatching dinosaurs (my suggestion) Alex braves the dark. He actually semi-screamed like a girl, checked himself and made a few gruff man noises, walking in informing me that it was a mouse, brought in by the cats. I ‘m in bed and not having any of it-Alex can deal with this. But he, apparently, cannot. He literally pleads with me (promises of chocolate and lie-ins and everything) to follow him as ‘back up’. Back up? For a tiny mouse? I have no choice (he was a broken man) I must go and ‘back up’. And yes, you guessed it…who ended up on the search for it after it sprints off, yep, yours truly. I am prodding round under the cupboard in the lounge, waiting for a rodent to come flying out at my face and eyes and nostrils and ear holes-this is where they aim for, I’ve heard. Then Alex spots it (thanks, that’s helpful, love), and shouts-‘There it is’ to which I reply ‘Where?’ to which he replies ‘there, there on the stair…going clip clipperty clop on the stair’ this last bit, he in fact launches himself into song, yoddling with a little tap dance move worthy of the stage, like Maria in the Sound of Music (my fave film when I was a babba) at this point, he’s only missing the bob and the pinny. I stand and look at him, wondering whether to join in (bit of moral support for the ‘let out in the communtiy’) or whether I will wake up, and find my real husband. I think of the kids, and do not encourage him, give up on the moose loose aboot me hoose…and try and get some sleep, making sure the covers are hiding facial orrifices, just in case.

The next day, playing under Monty’s den with him for a wee while before he goes to bed, I notice mouse poo. Oh no, you know what this means don’t you? Yes, the orifice attacking trained rodent, is in my baby’s bedroom. OMG. I don’t mind mice so much, I just know they’re well dirty, well, don’t pretend you don’t know that, they never shower, and when have you ever seen them with a nail brush? Never, right? Filthy. And despite all the sh*t incidences, the livestock, I am a little neurotic about cleaning and cleanliness and clean things. It borders on an OCD, but I am still the right side of it- if you wash your hands/mop you floors more than 87 times a day I hear this is the cut off point, crossing into OCD land, so at a healthy 86 times, I’m still alright. Anyway, I have no idea how to get rid of it, not into poison or inhumane traps, may leave some cheese in a toilet roll at the end, hope it’s a fat mouse and he’ll get stuck, although if he goes round, he could obviously eat it without entering the tube. So this plan is flawed, and I have openly humiliated myself. Oh well, I’ll keep you posted…

Monty lost his 4^th tooth, and was so proud, running around the House whooping and all gleeful, as happy as a happy donkey, eyeoring in a field of wheat blowing in the wind. No idea if they like wheat, but a pretty, windy mental image. Anyway, here he is…

Right, I’m off. To continue my chain-baking, he’s like the very hungry catterpilla the 15-year-old we have staying with us. Only, although it’s Wednesday, he did not just eat 3 juicy plums (although I have read this story a thousand times, I cannot remember what it is on a Tuesday, plums will do)…and to finish off the kids upstairs. Lola is trying to read in English, so I am helping her read a book every night with a torch in her top bunk. I did not feel the need to pelt up the stairs, braying myself on the top one as I fell back a step (so annoying) the second time I hear the ‘Ow o wow ow owwwwwwww’ and tears, as after doing this the first time, I realise the title of Lola’s book is ‘Ow, Pig hurts himself’ hence the gusto at reading a word she recognised, followed by fake tears.  From now on, I’m not skim reading titles before giving them the OK. So there we go, off to switch off torches and give kisses, then to cook, again. See ya tomorrow!

Tamsyn x