what’s the name of that book again?

These days I’m holding my breath. My eyes must be bugging, my cheeks puffed, numb and tingling, my lips turning blue from the outside in.

Somebody get a pin. Or tickle me. Or something.

onward and upward

Or: Why I will never be a theatre critic. Or have tea with the queen.

Since about this time yesterday afternoon, Mol has been 10. Double figures. One of my kids is in double figures.

The shock called for high culture, and high culture was got.

I might be thirty-five; I might bristle to the touch, be a bit tough to chew and a little wizened around the edges, but when the banging and knocking had finished and the cloth was lifted, my sensibilities roared and my gut donkey kicked


OH MY GOD! IT’S CHITTY CHITTY BANG BANG!


FUCK ME! SHE’S FLYING!


Chaps, I had a tissue up my sleeve, secret-like. I am crap.

But, fuck me. Chitty Chitty Bang Bang