Plastic Hayburners

I am not pregnant. Following several days of quite ludicrously acute PMT, the uteri have begun to wring themselves empty, leaving me drained of blood, hope and energy.

I can do without blood and hope, at a push, as I can pretend it isn’t happening temporarily fall back on my British stiff upper lip, but I could REALLY DO with some energy deigning to return. The house has reached that stage of major clean-up where it has become oh, so very much worse. Harry’s big IDS assessment is tomorrow morning. I have a friend coming to lunch on Tuesday. I am supposed to be having my perineum sliced about on Wednesday – which, given that I will struggle to keep the wound (such as it will be) clean during the current inundation, I will attempt to postpone. Thursday is my baby-group day, which I need to attend in order to give out party invites. Friday morning, the American in-laws arrive on the red-eye.

The washing machine is going full-pelt, I have birthday gubbins everywhere, I haven’t unpacked my stock from Saturday yet and all I see is a thick layer of crap. I can’t possibly get it all done in time, even if someone takes Harry away for the week and feeds me intravenous Red Bull.

Harry’s birthday is on the 3rd August (his card had to be with the BBC 4 WEEKS before the day!) and his birthday party is on Saturday 1st. I won’t go into the whole OMFG: TWO, lest I never stop. I have ordered him this bouncing pony

bouncing pony

because a classic carved wooden english rocking horse – which I always said I would get him – uses the exact same stomach/trunk/neck muscles that Harry has pronounced weakness of. He tends to fly off the back of them in spectacular John-Wayne-shooting-injuns-style. There is very little wrong with his thigh muscles, however, as anyone who has been on the receiving end of some of his latest kung-fu tantrum-kicks can testify, and bouncing dementedly up and down is his favourite. ever. game. I really, really wanted this one instead

radio flyer springing horse

and, although I am generally patriotically mildly disinclined to yield precedence to any other country, I have to admit that the US of A rules the world with their springing horses. (I am dismissing every other American individual and collective achievement as not germane to the issue at hand!) The UK hasn’t made springing horses since the early 1900’s, judging from the few pricey antiques I found. Why has only the USA figured out that horses actually go bumpity-bumpity, not rocky-rocky?! They actually go bumpity-bumpity-rear-buck-splat if I’m riding them, but never mind.

This little radio flyer chap looks awesome – the mane! the expression!  and I wasted half a morning desperately trying to find either a UK supplier, or a way to import one without breaking the budget. I did briefly consider getting the in-laws to lug one over and paying their excess baggage charges, but decided I was getting silly – Harry will like the inferior one just fine, and he can have the real thing next year if his balance is better. 

*off: Hubby screams in anguish*

I have to go. It’s all very well sitting here, but it’s not getting my housework done. Hubby is making going-to-bed type noises, and I need to head him off at the pass and make him get into the loft instead.

I am under the cosh. Send cleaning products.

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