I crawl out of my foxhole like a soldier in a very battered tin hat, accessoried with khaki netting, my bayonet still raised to ward off any stray pink hearts which could still be circling, ready to attack. I feel my military metaphors are hopelessly tangled, but you get the idea. Thank God Valentine’s Day …
It’s Valentine’s Day. Sniff. The children are with Mr X. The only post was from the Inland Revenue, demanding £793. But am I downcast? Well, der, as Child One and Two would say in unison, if only they were here. My cast is definitely down. However much one steels oneself, that naughty little worm, hope, …
As you know, after listening to my sister-in-law’s CDs of the Secret, I have been keenly awaiting the arrival of a Louis Vuitton handbag as, to summarise the Secret (and save you from listening to 4 CDs), if you expect something hard enough, it will turn up. Well, nothing to report on the handbag front …
Oh, the bliss! The Treasures’ ludicrously expensive schools are shut, shuddering at the thought of a single snowflake sullying their immaculate tarmac, and we have spent two days at Brockwell Park, whooshing down slopes on my least favourite tray from Peter Jones, emblazoned with an unpleasantly photographic rendition of a passion fruit. There was some …