Chickens in a box

My ongoing crusade to be a true domestic goddess continues, this time it was Christmas pudding on the menu and my mentor Sonya came round with Lucy, Andrew and Mattie to oversee a complicated operation - not least because as well as concocting the pudding itself, you also need the athleticism and lightening reflexes required to dodge lego pieces, children (some dressed in a variety of random ninja/animal costumes) and the cat. Fortunately everything went according to plan and my two puds were eventually left to simmer for the rest of the day (and half the night) while we went next door to swipe at polo balls from my bike, torment the rabbits, kick a football about and generally enjoy an arctic, but very beautiful, October afternoon.

"It is not a good idea to eat soil."

Trying to get myself ready this morning and feeling smug that we were nearly ready to head off to nursery, when cries of 'it was a accident, Mummy' and much scuffling in the bathroom made my heart sink. Peering round the corner I found William in the bathroom frantically pulling out Kandoos and swiping at his feet, fearing the worst I walked into his room to be greeted by two eyewatering piles of faeces. Sometimes, when faced with situations of this magitude you freeze, unable to take in the horror let alone do anything about it. To add insult to injury he'd even managed to smear it into one of the hinges of his ELC garage. How the...? Alas sinking to the floor and weeping was not an option. Teeth gritted, armed with reams of loo roll and a can of industrial-strength Vanish I set to work while William kindly pointed out where the poo was and James tried to crawl through it.

I fear I'm losing it. Last night, whilst slumped in front of a double-bill of Heroes followed by Desperate Housewives, I realised that I bibble to the boys all day and then in the evening, sit mindlessly in front of the TV, too tired to speak. Eddie is much the same after fighting off a million political backstabbers and then coming home and slumping next to his comatose wife. After a really long day, the only activity you can cope with is one which requires zero effort on any front. But I'm finding that the downside of it is that whenever I come into contact with another adult, I witter appallingly, and then come home and worry that I really am turning into a desperate housewife. Fortunately there is a possible solution to the gradual disintegration of my adult brain cells. I've just started doing a tiny bit of freelance PR work. It's terrifying having to ring the FT after 8 years out of the game, but I also secured a briefing for later today with the CEO of the compan...

It's just a good job there's no sound to go with this picture of Will and Fleur murdering the piano with their own, unique rendition of 'Baa baa black sheep'.