On a hormonal scale of one to ten, I am off the graph and shooting skywards towards "homicidal". This is not helped by the fact that the dog has eaten the three dead mice which The Cats had left as a thoughtful reminder of what they will do to me if I forget to buy any more Whiskas, and has then proceeded to treat various "offerings" from the local wildlife as a veritable smorgasbord for her breakfast. As if this weren't enough to turn my already delicate stomach, Chris Evans has had the temerity to go on holiday (or drive a fast car somewhere) leaving Richard "mad as a tea cosy" Madeley to take over the reins at Radio 2 in the morning. I cannot and will not listen to that apology-for-a-man's own inimitable
brand of drivel, so we have to sit in silence or Make Conversation, which in reality means that the kids whinge and the School Run has become barely tolerable.
I wonder if Chris Evans realises the damage he causes by going away? How many mothers have all but strangled their off-spring on the way to school because there is no "Mon-day, Tues-day, WednesdayThursdayFriday" to sing along to; no "Candy Man" on a Chris-free Friday? I am seriously considering selling the piano to pay for a chauffeur until Chris Evans comes back. I realise I could put something else on, but no one is going to let me listen to the "Today" programme, and frankly listening to anything else is sheer insanity at that time of the morning. Daughter's choice of music is definitely to be avoided at all costs, as her preferences include the kind of music that have driven better women than me to commit Hari Kari at the steering wheel. I thus insist on seating Daughter in the back alongside Small Boy and the Mountain of Bags so that she cannot monopolise the radio controls and subject me to thumpy rappy stuff.
"But why don't you like rap?" asks Daughter. "It's better than the rubbish music you like."
"It's full of swearing," I say, "and it's aggressive and violent-" At that moment a van swings out in front of me, causing me to jam the brakes in an emergency stop. "What the *?@%£$?! does that white van man think he's doing, the *&%$£?>!!!"
"Aha! YOU are ALWAYS swearing," says Small Boy with a considerable amount of triumph in his voice. "And your worst ever swear word was that time you were driving round and round a roundabout in Peterborough and you said, "*&^%$£! Peterborough is the Arse End of the Universe!"
This is Small Boy's favourite anecodote about me which he wheels out with alarming regularity in the most unfortunate company, such as in front of friends who live in or near Peterborough.
"Yes well, ahem, never mind. What lessons have you got today?" I bluster.
"R.E.," says Daughter. "Mu-um, what is the difference between your soul and your spirit?"
At the moment, I am devoid of both, I think, gritting my teeth. "Oh, I think maybe one's to do with your actual essence that makes you you and the other is, um, sort of what makes you human." For crying out loud, WHY do they ask these kind of things when I'm trying to decide whether or not to overtake a bike on a sharp bend?
"That doesn't make sense," Daughter admonishes.
"Oh look! You've got a text from Grandma!" Small Boy shouts, waving my phone in the air. "Shall I read it?" The Aged Ps did make it on holiday to Greece, it transpires, but not before managing one last disaster en route: "Yr fthr st alrm 1 hr 2 L8. Thght w'd miss flght but it ws 3 hrs L8."
"What does that mean?" Small Boy asks in alarm.
I take a deep breath and give thanks that the Aged Ps are now in a faraway country and thus unable to call me from the two house phones and simultaneously regale me with their two differing versions of what actually happened. "It sounds like Grandpa set the alarm wrong so they thought they were going to miss their flight," I explain. "But luckily the flight was delayed so it was all OK in the end."
"Oh no. Poor Grandpa," says Daughter knowingly. "I bet Grandma swore at him all the way to the airport."
"So THAT'S where you get it from!" Small Boy exclaims with glee. I glower at him in the rear view mirror. He is looking thoughtful. "I wonder if Grandma thinks that Peterborough is the *&%$£>?! Arse End of the Universe, too?" he muses.
I wonder if Chris Evans realises the damage he causes by going away? How many mothers have all but strangled their off-spring on the way to school because there is no "Mon-day, Tues-day, WednesdayThursdayFriday" to sing along to; no "Candy Man" on a Chris-free Friday? I am seriously considering selling the piano to pay for a chauffeur until Chris Evans comes back. I realise I could put something else on, but no one is going to let me listen to the "Today" programme, and frankly listening to anything else is sheer insanity at that time of the morning. Daughter's choice of music is definitely to be avoided at all costs, as her preferences include the kind of music that have driven better women than me to commit Hari Kari at the steering wheel. I thus insist on seating Daughter in the back alongside Small Boy and the Mountain of Bags so that she cannot monopolise the radio controls and subject me to thumpy rappy stuff.
"But why don't you like rap?" asks Daughter. "It's better than the rubbish music you like."
"It's full of swearing," I say, "and it's aggressive and violent-" At that moment a van swings out in front of me, causing me to jam the brakes in an emergency stop. "What the *?@%£$?! does that white van man think he's doing, the *&%$£?>!!!"
"Aha! YOU are ALWAYS swearing," says Small Boy with a considerable amount of triumph in his voice. "And your worst ever swear word was that time you were driving round and round a roundabout in Peterborough and you said, "*&^%$£! Peterborough is the Arse End of the Universe!"
This is Small Boy's favourite anecodote about me which he wheels out with alarming regularity in the most unfortunate company, such as in front of friends who live in or near Peterborough.
"Yes well, ahem, never mind. What lessons have you got today?" I bluster.
"R.E.," says Daughter. "Mu-um, what is the difference between your soul and your spirit?"
At the moment, I am devoid of both, I think, gritting my teeth. "Oh, I think maybe one's to do with your actual essence that makes you you and the other is, um, sort of what makes you human." For crying out loud, WHY do they ask these kind of things when I'm trying to decide whether or not to overtake a bike on a sharp bend?
"That doesn't make sense," Daughter admonishes.
"Oh look! You've got a text from Grandma!" Small Boy shouts, waving my phone in the air. "Shall I read it?" The Aged Ps did make it on holiday to Greece, it transpires, but not before managing one last disaster en route: "Yr fthr st alrm 1 hr 2 L8. Thght w'd miss flght but it ws 3 hrs L8."
"What does that mean?" Small Boy asks in alarm.
I take a deep breath and give thanks that the Aged Ps are now in a faraway country and thus unable to call me from the two house phones and simultaneously regale me with their two differing versions of what actually happened. "It sounds like Grandpa set the alarm wrong so they thought they were going to miss their flight," I explain. "But luckily the flight was delayed so it was all OK in the end."
"Oh no. Poor Grandpa," says Daughter knowingly. "I bet Grandma swore at him all the way to the airport."
"So THAT'S where you get it from!" Small Boy exclaims with glee. I glower at him in the rear view mirror. He is looking thoughtful. "I wonder if Grandma thinks that Peterborough is the *&%$£>?! Arse End of the Universe, too?" he muses.
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