Well, the overall consensus seems to be that blogging doesn’t appear to have too many divorces to its discredit. Either spouses are fully consulted, show little or no interest, or the blogger is careful not to offend the blogee, at varying editorial cost to themselves.

So, it’s only me that trit-trots over the collection of hairy hammers that form the Hubby-toes, then!

Ummm. Have I just done it again?

Well, I think I can get away with it with impunity today, as he is currently curled up asleep on the sofa, snoring melodiously, having spent a fair chunk of last night patrolling the house trying to shake off the tummy cramps that have plagued us for days. I haven’t had a belly like this since returning from a stupendously dingy Caribbean hotel in 2006 (abdomen cramps are now colloquially known in Maison Hairy as Dominican Tummy) – after a few hours of groaning, the pain recedes completely and the world looks rosy again; cue opening of fridge for major grazing and making up of lost time. Another few hours down the line, however, and the Tummy reasserts itself. John’s innards are rebelling worse than mine, and once Harry’s persistent screams (also a bellyachy boy) scored him a 4am upgrade from cot to parental bed, disappeared downstairs to walk it off.

Hubby and Harry were chipper by breakfast, and it was my turn to feel temporarily rough as old boots again. We all ate an enormous family lunch with gusto at 12.30 (someone else was paying!), but by 3pm Hubby was at home shivering under a blanket. By the end of Top Gear at 9pm he had patently recovered hugely, and was able to take on the role of primary sympathiser when I damaged yet another of my (seemingly all moribund post-pregnancy) teeth whilst chomping a carrot for tea (in a vain attempt to even up the calorie intake from lunchtime). I have diagnosed yet another Piddle-imported virus, albeit a more subtle variety than the green-bogey-busters we usually get. There is, however, nothing subtle at all about the farts that we are all three emitting, virtually continuously. I can barely make out the TV.

But despite the fact that I am now officially commited to cooking Christmas dinner for the family, I am in a cheerful mood. My Christmas shopping is very nearly complete. I have this evening beaten off a hoarde of disappointed bidders in order to purchase the only blue wooden kitchen set currently for sale in the UK – it is last year’s model, and new ones are like hen’s teeth.


It has bled the Hubby wallet rather more than I anticipated, but given that he’s just blatantly spent money we don’t really have on yet another bloody Nikon, he couldn’t really complain.  Had he got to the delivered package first, I suspect the new item would have merged seamlessly with his other camera gear – much like a friend of ours whose sixth horse looked so conveniently identical to her fifth, that her partner continued unaware of the imposter. Caught red-handed, Hubby bleated plaintively that he was going to sell the lens part on at a profit (hah!) and actually, darling ‘it’s for YOU, really’. 

I already have a Christmas list. It has certain items priced for babies (Estee Lauder’s Beautiful, please, Harry. Daddy will pay!), for in-laws (Stephen Fry’s America book), for parents (ice-cream maker) and for Hubbies. This:


 for instance, I would very much like on my bedroom wall. It hasn’t a hope of hell in getting there anytime soon, as I am typing on my new laptop, and have just spent over 200 quid on gym membership. Nevertheless, a girl is entitled to a wish-list – particularly when the Hubby has a vaguely dodgy track record when buying off-piste. But it seems that even a much-hyped list is no insurance against being bought expensive cameras that are only nominally and spuriously yours.

Still, the festive mood is definitely almost upon me. The fabulous Famous Grouse adverts are back on TV, and everytime this comes on TV

I get so pathetically excited at the prospect of a new Wallace & Gromit film that I damn near wee myself. 

I probably need to get out more.

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