Ow. Ow ow ow ow ow. Apparently I have muscles loitering somewhere deep inside my legs and they're trying to tell me that jogging isn't a very clever thing to do. Meanwhile my head is making it's views known too.
You see last night lovely husband was away at a not very exciting business awards dinner, so I had full command of the TV remote control. I packed in an inordinate amount of viewing - 1 episode of Desperate Houswives, American Idol final, 2 episodes of Grey's Anatomy and 1 episode of House. (Which meant I missed the second Eurovision Song Contest semi-final, but there are only so many hours in the day). But having a TV marathon like that requires one of two things: snacks or wine. I opted for the latter, despite our no drinking during the week policy. I think I might have had a glass or two too many.
So this morning's 6am start wasn't pleasant. And I can't quite believe it - because it's not yet 7am - we've already had a fight about which way the bloody toast should be cut. Older son stood right next to me while I said: squares or triangles? He explicitly said triangles. If the fridge could vouch for me, it would. No sooner had I made the first fatal incision, his wailing lament began.
'I WANT SQUARES. I WANT SQUARES. I WANT SQUARES.' Of course you do dear. However, I still haven't quite figured out how to glue toast back together. Had he requested jam on toast, I might have managed to cobble something together. But he wanted plain butter. Luckily younger brother also had plain butter and hadn't yet had his toast cut because and I quote: 'The butter has melted in and I don't want it melted in'. So with my slightly thick and fuzzy head, I foolishly made the mistake of assuming it would be ok to give the unwanted uncut toast to older brother so that it could be cut into squares.
Let's just say it wasn't ok and it all ended with me being called a 'poopy pants'. Just when things where about to spiral out of control, younger beastie managed to trap his hand in a cupboard door - something he excels at doing on a regular basis. Lots of loud screaming ensued ending with a vital sticking plaster application (although there wasn't a scratch on him).
If only my head and legs could be treated with a pirate motif plaster. Things would be a lot more pleasant.
P.S. Wine producers should by law have to put labels on the bottles that say: If you're going to have to face a small child on all fours with his bottom waving in the air in need of a post poo wipe the morning after consumption, we strongly urge you not to drink this.