21st October 2007

This week, I came down with a stinker of a sore throat, almost certainly picked up while rummaging through mountains of dusty old school records. We’re required to keep some of them for ten years, though judging by the cobwebs, a few have been with us since the Norman Conquest.

Jamie began the week commuting to London, often returning home well after midnight, looking thoroughly knackered. On the bright side, he did get a bonus in his pay packet, so all those late nights must’ve been worth it. Lara has started appearing again; perhaps she caught wind of the bonus (cash sightings in Jamie’s wallet are rare enough to cause a local phenomenon).

Sarah made a fruit salad at school and scored an A*. She brought some home and, I must admit, it was delicious. A salad that counts as one of your five-a-day and dessert.

Charlotte casually dropped the news that we’d be having a visitor next week. Turns out they’d booked a last-minute trip to Majorca and were flying from Stansted early Sunday morning. They arrived Saturday afternoon, suitcase and all, and we were promptly entrusted with the delightful company of young Lucas until Friday. They may struggle to get him back; we’ve grown rather fond of him.

Saturday evening saw us hosting a BBQ for the Rugby World Cup Final. Yes, a BBQ in October, slightly mad, and more than slightly cold, but spirits were high. Sixteen guests joined us, and a good time was had by all… except when it came to that try. IT WAS A TRY, AND THE REF WAS BLIND. Or biased. Possibly both. In a small act of consolation (or revenge), I let off a few fireworks after the match to rouse the neighbours. England’s footballers, meanwhile, continued their noble tradition of national disappointment by failing to beat Russia.

This week is half-term at school, so I’m swapping paperwork for nappy changes, pram-pushing, and finger-painting. I’d say it’s a break of sorts, but perhaps not the restful kind.