Ultrasound at 9; NB will escort me. No food allowed overnight, sitting here with a brutally black coffee. MP & Little B asleep upstairs. Sometimes, rarely, I get what I wish for: I slowed down yesterday. Rested on the sofa with my darling nephew slumped against me, clutching his milk bottle, watching the Tombly Womblies lose their trousers In the Night Garden..
Innocence is ever bliss. For Little B, a tube journey is an adventure with Underground Ernie of such magnitude, he's practically wetting himself. I foresee crowds, heat and fighting for a seat.
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A second well-meaning innocent added my name to the bookworm chain letter currently doing the rounds. Have you seen it yet? Send a book to the two names at the top, add your name to the bottom, send to six friends...
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But won't I end up making 96 begrudging journeys to the sorting office to collect a representative sample of Britain's best sellers (chick lit, Stephen King and misery memoirs - all of which I loathe)? Or will someone surprise me with a Keats calf-bound first edition, or a signed JK Rowling (good for cash-in value if nothing else), or all ten of my Amazon wish-list? I am not pessimistic by nature. But the statistics are against me on this one. Letter straight to bin.
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Which twisted mind authored the 'how to' section of 'Get your Crochet On'? All these years, I never knew a crochet hook could be broken down into its named constituent parts. How am I to focus on Maltese lace making, knowing I'm balancing in my sweaty hand, not just a crochet hook, but its tip, throat, shaft, thumb rest and handle?
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Sometimes I sit in bed, forcing my eyes to stay open, head nodding, because I have to write.
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Looking forward to a decent lunch when it's all over. That table-setting looks naked - where's the booze?
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