Today was a good day for many reasons. Firstly, the absolutely rubbish recycling company that the not-very-intelligent West Berkshire council selected to pick up our recycling stuff (as part of their new, improved going green initiative), finally managed to pluck their heads out of their butts and collected our stuff. Hoo-bloody-rah! We haven't had it collected since the end of May. Four calls to the council later and finally, our recycling bins are empty again. Just as well as my efforts to be green were going seriously off the rails. However, I can now dutifully wash out the sticky peanut butter jar again. Lucky me.
I also had a remarkably successful day at work. There are some days when the term 'fannying about' springs to mind when you work at home on your own with just the snack cupboard for company. But today was not one of those. I powered through a mountain of stuff, had a number of press clamouring for a client story with very little effort on my part, got asked by a REALLY, REALLY, REALLY BIG company if I'd like to be considered in their search for a new PR agency (yes please but also oh shit) and feel as though I am finally starting to feel as though I might be able to make some money to pay to Sainsburys soon.
What's more, today I tried my hand at face painting. I'm not particularly good with my hands. Which is why I leave doing the edging of walls when painting to my husband, the cutting of our children's hair to my husband, the sewing of name badges on clothes to my husband and indeed the making of our wedding programmes many moons ago, to my husband. Yet, in the privacy of my home with no-one to laugh at me, I painted my children's faces. One was spiderman. One was a tiger. Admittedly, spiderman looked like he had been mauled by the tiger, but my customers were happy. And now I feel virtuous and in need of a shiny good mother badge.
My children ate their vegetables and actually chose fresh fruit for their pudding. They managed to bath without soaking the entire bathroom. And by the sounds of it, have actually gone to sleep without asking for a drink, another soft toy, a bowl of cereal, a song, a book or to do a poo.
I should celebrate this glorious day with a bottle of champagne. Except that I do have to work tomorrow and I'm not supposed to drink during the week (although ever since husband has been away, I've been slightly less strict on this particular rule). And I need to iron. My ironing pile is a teetering, wobbling mess that will collapse into chaos any second now. And ironing and alcohol are not brilliant bed fellows. Not unless scorch marks are in fashion. But perhaps a glass won't hurt...