I heard once that the cardinal sin of blogging is to write a post saying you have nothing to write. So that’s definitely not what I’m doing. But I’ve had a quiet few days – both inside my head and out – and there’s only so much you can say about having a five-pointed star in your uterus that spends all day appropriating your calories and all night trying to get out.
‘Can we go into sick wife mode?’ I asked Timothy a few hours ago. He agreed. He is good like that. He probably doesn’t even mind that I haven’t done any laundry for four days. You know, probably.
In case you are wondering, sick wife mode involves chicken-flavoured Supernoodles and Coke and retiring to bed with some emailing and ancient Buffy episodes. Buffy has been our eye-entertainment of choice this week, if you don’t count the first twenty minutes of The Lion King yesterday (we go until Mufasa’s death, because Henry asks for the ‘raa-raa’ film twelve times a week, and we are not masochists). Also 28 Days Later, during which I deliberately sat with my back to the screen, looking up only once to see some guy digging his fingers into some other guy’s eye sockets. EYE SOCKETS. I screamed, loudly, and dreamed about zombies.
Other things that have happened this week:
Tim spent two days in Gibraltar, being fancy (oh, ok: working). I got a hankering for a beach holiday, which we haven’t done in years. I am a city break girl till I die. But suddenly I wanted to be walking down a street at 11pm wearing shorts and a bad suntan, with sand in unfortunate crevices. Maybe even get my hair crimped. You know how flattering that is.
We bought a double pushchair on eBay, and Tim wrestled it home across two Tube lines at rush hour. It’s a Phil&Ted’s Explorer and Henry is in love. We can have a proper conversation about double pushchairs if you like, but here’s the short version of why we chose it: it’s as narrow as a single pushchair (in fact, it can be used as a single pushchair) and I already spend enough time clipping people’s ankles in shops; it has air-filled tyres, so it’s easy to push; it fits in the boot of our car; it’s the only Phil&Ted’s model tall enough to let Henry sit down without hitting the back of his head. Also, there is no perfect double pushchair. You choose the least annoying, and hope for the best. But we’re jolly pleased with this one.
While we were making faces in the Ashmolean Museum on Tuesday, I bought this.
Artists from A-Z, and a reproduction of one of their paintings with an analysis and biography. My mama had the big hardback version, back when I didn’t like art because it wasn’t cool (this attitude was a waste of time, because I wasn’t cool either). I feel like this will be the sort of thing that will comfort me on long winter’s nights. So I bought it in advance.
We just found over two hundred episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine on Channel Five. I’m not sure who is happier about this. No, I am sure: me.
Henry is now running around with Doggy – our creativity with names astounds me sometimes – saying ‘Ready…KISS!’ And then obliging. I know I sound exasperated with him sometimes here, but honestly, this face. He makes my life.