I regret that this is going to be yet another short entry.
You will be pleased to learn that this is not because I am intoxicated. We have had some frantically busy days and when I realised that I was falling asleep over my cheese and crackers this evening I thought it was high time to give in to the Overwhelming Force Of Nature, and go to bed.
Thus, at half past eight I am writing this in my dressing gown, with occasional breaks to yawn and rub my eyes.
It has been a nice day, though. I have made some biscuits that the children will eat, and some fudge, and in between I have been writing things in the synopsis of my story.
Tuesday is always a bit of a write-off because we have such a late night on Monday, and as soon as we woke up I scampered round to the bank to contribute another mite to the repayment of our overdraft.
When I got back I discovered that the post had been, and in the true tradition of Mothering Tuesday, there was a card from Ritalin Boy, which touched me immensely even though I am not his mother.
It said: Tog ranny, and the address on the envelope said: The Bitter North, which seemed entirely fitting because today the sunshine has stopped and my washing got wet. This will be a lesson to me not to take the Weather Gods for granted, it was sunny when I hung it out.
I have done quite well this Mother’s Day, all of my offspring remembered except Lucy, who doesn’t do things like that. Oliver sent an email, and Number Two Daughter sent a text, both of which reached me a bit early, being on Monday instead of the usual Tuesday. I feel thoroughly remembered, and very pleased with them all.
At this point my eyes have started to hurt so much I am going to give in.
I am going to sleep until the alarm goes off at six tomorrow morning to alert me to dash over to Yorkshire for Oliver.
Bonne nuit.
