Excuse me, is this the right way to Buckingham Palace?

Why is Daddy's drill more noisy than mine?

This is what happens when Bob the Builder has to be involved in the smallest task in the house, like putting up the canopy for the new baby's room.

The most romantic thing he's done

While watching an afternoon talk show over channel 4, I laughed so hard I peed in my pants! (I shouldn't have mentioned this but if you think the following story is not at all funny, then blame the incontinence on the pregnancy.) One of the guests, a comedian (I forgot his name), mentioned that northen men (like K)are not particularly romantic. He went on to tell a story which made me think of my parents-in-law.

Husband: I'm going to the pub. Put your coat on.
Wife: Am I going with you?
Husband: No, I'm turning the heating off!

***

Talking about (un) romantic men, I thought, What could be the most romantic thing K ever did to me today?

So unforgettable really.

He prepared my tea: Homemade bread. Bacon. Egg. Baked Beans. And milk. Yes, milk!

Typical northerner.

What honesty

K took Zak to playschool and having a rare afternoon to myself, I decided to straighten my thick wavy hair as I haven't done it for ages. When they came home, Zak noticed my hair instantly.

Mummy, your hair looks great!

My heart oozed with joy again, but then he continued to declare...

It's a wig!

When a child is not at playschool

What happens when your toddler tells you out of the blue that you're beautiful, a queen, and that his daddy is a gentleman?

You touch your chest to make sure that your heart is not bleeding externally; you howl in guilt and start running to the kitchen to fetch some chocolates and milk to give to this child who at an early age already knows that to compliment his mother is the only way to get the box of chocolates hidden by his father on top of the cupboard way above his mother's reach.

What's blogging got to do with hormonal imbalance

I’ve been trying to write for over half an hour but nothing happened. So, for inspiration, I looked at:

▪my ripped-off night-dress (not that it’s been ripped off by someone although the idea sounds foxy);
▪the “scabs” in my belly which are actually stretch marks but it’s just difficult to point that out to Zak;
▪the face of Maggot at the guest gallery of BBC radio 1;
▪my soggy weetabix;
▪the week by week guide to pregnancy (this makes me feel sick now); and
▪the state of Zak’s bedroom.

Still my mind and fingers didn’t work. Could it be that I read too much of Chantelle while having my precious bath time? So I listened at:

▪Chris Moyle’s show online (I turned it off after 2 minutes);
▪Karl shouting from the kitchen asking me to throw his Canon EOS down the stairs (I wish I did);
▪the irritating humming of the external drive;
▪the subdued conversation between father and son in the kitchen—ah the wonder of fried eggs with ketchup! (I mean, ewww!).

Still, nothing…

So I thought, why not close the blog and write my £1.50 for Euromillion tonight instead of forcing my brain to work when it obviously can’t?

But then again, there’s only 1 in 70 million chance of winning. I better try to write again and keep my £1.50 somewhere safe. We never know when it’s needed by the milkman.