December 19th 2012

You know you are losing the plot when:

1. You drive out of your daughter's nursery and think that the car mechanics who work opposite are being really friendly as they wave at you and you wave back with a sense of satisfaction that even though you look rough after a day at work, you can still pull off the yummy mummy look. However, when you realise that they are not waving at you, they are in fact pointing at your dilapidated old car to stress that something is wrong, that's when your face turns a lovely shade of crimson; you feel like crummy mummy. Things go from bad to worse as you realise that nothing is actually wrong with your dilapidated car, it's what's on top of the car's  roof that's the problem: your child's pump bag; their nursery log; their lunch box and a letter asking you to bring in old cereal boxes so that your child can have the opportunity to make bags the next day. (Side thought - what is this? A nursery or a sweat shop where all children under three are obliged to make fashionable items to sell???)

2. You can't find your mobile phone which really annoys your husband as he swears he can hear it ringing somewhere. You're too busy to care as you lay slumped on the sofa, a glass of red in your hand, armchair judging as Revel-Horwood gives a measly 6 on Strictly. Meanwhile, aforementioned husband is running around the house frantically like he's on some SAS mission, telling everyone to be quiet as he senses where the noise is coming from; you get cross because that means you have to pause Strictly just as Bruno is about to give his score. Suddenly, the tension the sound is off the TV, even you can hear your phone ringing...even you (much to your annoyance) are wondering where the little blighter is (I mean, who is daring to call whilst I watch Strictly - do they not know me at all???? Side thought - maybe I need to re-evaluate the relationship with this persistent ringing offender. Hmmmmm...) "Found it!" he says, as he triumphantly walks through to the lounge with the phone held high and a triumphant smile on his face like Indiana Jones when he holds up that really hot stone in The Temple of Doom. You ask,  "Where was it?" He replies, "In the microwave". No wonder it was hot.

The former happened nearly two years ago, the latter happened four nights ago and I have a whole host of incidents in between.

We finally managed to see Father Christmas at a very posh food hall nearby. I expected it to be a lavish affair with his elves serving mince pies laced with cognac and wrapped in filo pastry whilst handing out cups of home-made mulled wine. I was pleased that there was going to be a wee bit of alcohol involved as this would help me face the shame when Bethan screamed at him like she has done for the previous two years. However, no such luck. The poor bloke was made to sit in a corner under the stairs; it was as if Jo Frost had told him to sit on the naughty step. There was no elves, no mince pies and no booze. In fact, I got a right bollocking off some manager woman who had great pleasure in telling me and my pram to move away from the door as I was blocking the entrance with my pram. Right on Sherlock! There is no bloody room because you have put Santa in the tiniest corner under the stairs. Who are you expecting to visit him? No one??? At this point Bethan is writhing and shrilling as Rob tries to get her to tell him what she would like for Christmas; I have my own request for Santa - a Christmas miracle - that Bethan would stop putting the potty on her head and actually use it properly. I know that is asking for a Christmas miracle but I can hope.

Fortunately, this Father Christmas moved us to a position that wouldn't cheese the 'up her own arse' manager off. He must have had this problem throughout the day, bless him. Unfortunately, that position was in front of the toilets. James' wee face said it all.

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