Hmph. I have my disgruntled hat on today.
I don’t want to be spending my week in the grey cavern of air-con talking to grey-clad people about IT projects. I want to be sipping a cold beer in a lavender field in Provence. Alas, now that Jim is both evil and dead, there is nobody to fix it for me.
Lately I keep coming across articles like this that attempt to de-bunk the negative perceptions of only-child families… however they always seem to start by listing all of the supremely negative things about being an only child.
Never mind. Apparently you rock… or something. And your selfish parents will be marginally less poor. (But then they will go senile and die and you will have to deal with it all by yourself. Hooray!)
Anyway James needn’t worry – I appear to be growing him a sibling gollum made entirely of cheese, lard, wine and butter. So that will be attractive. (On the plus side, it won’t ever need potty training and is unlikely to pin him down and punch him repeatedly with his own fist while saying “stop hitting yourself!“)
The Microbe told me this morning that he feels sorry for me because my pants don’t have animals on them. I agreed with him and asked if he would like to buy me some animal pants and he said “Yes, but you will have to wait until Christmas, now, mummy”
*adds parsimonious to the above list*
In cheerier news, I had an excellent birthday, which managed to stretch over multiple days. We started early, booked a babysitter and spent most of Sunday consuming delicious seafood and wine and crepes in Richmond, then loafed all evening in our friends’ garden, doing things like this to the boy…
Then we did it all again on Monday night. I even managed to squeeze in a peaceful visit to my mini-allotment – just me, the squirrels and a flock of stunning parakeets – before coming home to some lovely presents and dinner at our fav Italian local.
(I suppose I should stop being such a moaning cow, then, shouldn’t I?)