It’s that time of the week when I try to remind myself what’s happened. One day my daughters will be bored rigid by this diary but hey ho.
1. Paul has discovered a natural aptitude for exercise. I, despite having been to the gym twice, have not.
2. Tilly has received her first piece of homework which is due in on 22nd September and is not obligatory. We get home at 3.30. She’d finished it by 3.45. Apparently if Red Riding Hood wrote a shopping list it would include “Bread, Cake, Wulf Kiler, Strong Gloves, Stones, Fresh Flowers, Red cloth and a needle”.
3. Phoebe has started preschool and is extremely grown up. She is amassing new friends at a rate of knots. She can also write “3” and “7” unaided, and knows about five letters, although if you ask her one she doesn’t know she says it’s a “P”.
4. Tilly is a bit sad about playtime. Mostly if she can’t find her best friend. I need to have one of those conversations with the teacher where I try not to look like an emotional muppet.
5. We have still not picked a builder, but we don’t think we’ll pick the one who quoted £20k more than the others. He was very professional and lovely but I’m flippin pleased we didn’t get his quote first or I would have had a heart attack.
6. James Corden is hilarious and it is extremely healthy to go out with your best friend. I must do it more.
And finally next week? Well on Monday Paul and I are 36.
I think 36 is a crap age. The worst so far. It means you have to tick the next box on census forms. Ugh.
At least “life begins at 40”. Nothing begins at 36 apart from several weeks of extension based mess and an emotional child going to preschool related breakdown. Unless of course you are Paul is which case “extreme exercise begins at 36”.