I’m useless about these taggy things – I get them, I think nice warm things about the tagger, and then I forget to actually do them. Both The Surprise of Unfolding and WishingWaitingHopingPraying have kindly tagged me for this one, so here goes. If you feel like a go yourself, do feel invited to do so.

1. Where is your cell phone? Umm. Good question. Pass me a phone and lets find out!
2. Where is your significant other? Snoring on the other sofa. GnARk! HrRAark! SnNARcKK!
3. Your hair color? Dark brown. Peculiarly, the wifey locks have gone rather darker since pregnancy.
4. Your mother? Short. Feisty.
5. Your father? Tall. Sweetheart.
6. Your favorite thing? Babies don’t count, yes? Laptop. Bed. Contact Lenses. Food.
7. Your dream last night? Distressing, but utterly forgotten after child had trampled on my head for a bit. Almost certainly strange and surreal.
8. Your dream/goal? Still flailing about aimlessly without one, thanks. A small tribe of healthy children would be ever so lovely – but just as we are is good.
9.The room you’re in? Lounge. Warm! Nice…
10. Your hobby? Cake decorating, sewing, playing the guitar badly, photography, blogging. And I wither and die without my books.
11. Your fear? Flying. And drowning. Airport ’77, Titanic and Das Boot do not constitute a good evening’s viewing for me.
12. Where do you want to be in six years? My own business would be nice. As would size 10-ness.
13. Where were you last night? Sat right here, vegetating.
14. What you’re not? Patient. Good with money. Meek.
15. One of your wish list items? A new wallet. My MIL bought my current one 5 years ago, and the card slots are still so sodding tight, they give me Visa Wrist from all the tugging.
16. Where you grew up? Warwickshire.
17. The last thing you did? Drove to Chipping Sodbury to Nom Nom Nom on a tiny baby.
18. What are you wearing? Black jeans and a top in quite an odd shade of green.
19. Your T.V.? An ailing behemoth with legs like an oil rig. Hubby lusts after a bigger one, but is reluctant to unbelt for it.
20. Your pets? A fat spaniel. A thin collie. 3 goldfish. 1 young tortoise. 7 hens. 3 geese. 
22. Your mood? Unusually placid, apart from some degree of bladder urgency.
23. Missing someone? Nope.
24. Your car? Land Rover Freelander with several funny (i.e. ominously expensive) noises.
25. Something you’re not wearing? A watch. Haven’t owned one for years.
26. Favorite store? Mothercare. I still adore the fact that I shop there.
27. Your Summer? Fuckin’ soggy.
28. Love someone? Several someones.
29. Your favorite color? I want to say red, but I appear to live almost exclusively in brown.
30. Last time you laughed? I laugh all day at Harry. He has squarely hit the Mischievous Monkey stage. And Hubby made me snort with laughter in the car earlier, but I can’t remember why. I shall ask him when he stops snoring.
31. Last time you cried? Watching the news this week. It’s such a beautiful planet – covered with the evil that men do.

And speaking of news – the American election is nearly… nearly! over. Those of us not directly involved (although we’re fairly invested in a Democrat result here at HFF Towers) have suffered excessively from the media overload. Our election campaigns are fabulously short affairs – a couple of months is generally considered ample. Really, you should try it! And WHAT is with all the queues to VOTE? How large are your electoral wards? Our village hall generally has tumbleweeds blowing through. 

I have a busy week ahead. I am organising a coffee morning in aid of Bliss, the premature baby charity this coming Saturday, It’s one of those things that could go badly astray catering-wise – I could get 15 turn up, or I could get 50. I really dunno: people say they will come  – deserving charity, friendship, conscience, yadda yadda yadda – and then forget. I’m charging 2.50 (Pounds. I can only find a dollar and a euro symbol on the keyboard. Meh!) for tea & a slice of cake, and having a vague stab at a raffle, too. Hubby is, unsurprisingly, keenly offering to dispose of left-overs.

I need to clean the house before embarking on this manic and mammoth baking session.  I spent the weekend wielding a hired carpet cleaner that left me completely exhausted and numb-fingered, but I have to admit that (after initially disappointing results, followed by hugely exceeding the detergent dosage and extracting most of the pile through over-use of the brushes) the carpets are most spectacularly improved. I now live in fear of spillages on my pristine, fluffy golden acres, and Harry’s nappy-free time has been summarily cancelled for the duration; although, in truth, it has lately merely consisted of the Benny Hill-like footrace around the room between the squirming removal of one nappy, and his determined evasion of application of another. It’d be beyond hysterical to watch if it was happening to some other mother. Being the one roaring incoherently with indignation takes the edge off a bit.

Hubby’s oft-expressed gloomy prediction of being shuntled out to live in the garage has never been closer to fulfillment. It’s not just that he comes home admirably filthed – he also has a (thoroughly blokish, and not entirely endearing) zero ability to spot potential leakage from glasses, dinner-plates or babies, resulting in his being perpetually surprised by the overspill. Danger! Danger!


If you are passing, do drop in. I promise to only try to sell you one strip of raffle tickets.

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