I was going to write a long lenthy post about how the last few weeks have flown and how on the two occassions I had two seconds to rub together, that I did actually write something but then bloody vista kicked me out, losing everything.

But on a much more important matter, I've rearranged the kitchen with a travelcot so that mini-hd can remain in the room without roaming to pastures new, like the wine fridge or the cooker. Which means Sim the barefooted chef met with one of the dining chairs tonight and stubbed her second in middle right toe.

And God - it hurts.

It swollen to the size of my thumb and I can see the beginings of a lovely purple bruise. Although you can't really claim you have a bruise until you have at least two different colours. On a good note, I did have a moment to paint my nails so the fact that I have to slum it around in sandles all week. On a bad note, storms are predicted this week so I'm going to look like a right pleb pushing a pram in the rain in flip flops.

It's that time of year again - reality tv has hit the screens once more, and whilst the cats nuzzle up to us seeking attention after getting over their banishment and flea treatment, Britains Got Talent has hit the screens again. And once more, sweet little childen have joined the masses. And unlike the Cheeky Monkeys last year, whom I found particulary irritating, some of the child acts this year did stand out but the one act tonight who made it to the final judge decision vote broke my heart, as I knew that this terrified yet hopeful 10 year old didn't stand a chance against the impecable dance group, making me queston why young children should be allowed on such a show. And as the vote came in and the judges made their final decision, you could see her hope fade into tears as realisation kicked in.

Then a voice chimed in from the left, quoting that famous South Park episode with the heartless words

"Can you taste the tears Scott??"

Scoot forward three seconds and Girlpants realised what he said, turned to me and realising that he was going to go to hell. Both that coupled with the strong possiblilty that I was most definately going to fulfill my threat of using henna to write the word "twat" on his forehead.

On a good note, it will take about three weeks for Girlpants to scrub the offending word off his head and therefore will have to go to work with a bandana on. And on a brucey bonus note for Keith and Bart, Peter Coghlan aka Mamma Trish will be performaning as Beyonce. And if you're really lucky boys, in a leotard!

Girlpants and I are quietly doing the Eurovision this year. There's a bit of leftover mouldy brie, some sausages from the Polish shop, chorizo and pasta (even though Italy didn't quite make it) on a platter on the table, just to get into the spirit. Girlpants has my old pink beret perched on his brow and I've found some clogs that not only look the part, but stink to high heaven and are a pain in the proverbial to wear. Mini-hd is wearing red, white and blue and is blissfully snoring her way through the voting, whilst Sir Lloyd Webber waves the flag for Queen and country and our Graham is salivating his way through the songs.

As did I. And can you blame me?

What people?! I'm married - not dead!

Mini-hd is now 33 weeks old. Thats over half a year and she's taken over already.

The living room is a carnage of toys, cushions and foam play mats as she's now rolling and moving backwards in a moonwalk shuffle. And it's taking all my time to chase her and keep her safe, wreastly with stair gates, fireguards and taking the scratches when she pulls clumps of hair out of the cats. Housework? Forget it! I just manage to stay above the washing loads and cooking as she only sleeps for 30 minutes twice in the day, so the rest of the house has gone to pot.

Preening time is something of the past - my eyebrows look like that they've been backcombed, my hair hasn't been cut in 10 months, and forget about moisturising. I'm lucky to be able to slap on some Oil of Olay in the morning. Think Yeti with a tan. I used to feel awful at the Yummy Mummies with their perfect hair, nails and clothes chatting about how their babies all sleep through the night, never cry and are as god as gold fitting into their lifestyles and routines, and whereas this first got me down, I now know that they are, quite frankly lying.

What on earth did I do with my time before? Breakfast in bed is something of the past, and I have no idea how I managed to get out of the house and ready for work by 8:30 each morning. I also have no idea why I almost killed myself working all the hours for a job which effectively ended when I started maternity as effectively, it's not that job I'll be reminising about at the end of my life. Why on earth did I not relish the time I had to myself as now, the 2 occassions I've gone out to the pub, I've felt as guilty as hell. I sense the need to look as mini-hd's schedule and my own and try and make some logical sense out of it with time for me. It needs to be done before I lose my sense of self in a mountain of wipes, cotton wool and dribble. I'm loving the suggested champagne Thursday although I get the feeling that once a week may be deemed to much at the moment - well, until term is over. But then despite my whinging  I'd rather have a happy monkey who interacts at groups and plays than still having the same old routine and making her fit.

But the gin tasted good and it felt ike I was a teen sneaking out for the night.

I've just spent the last 30 minutes writing a long blog explaing absence and parenthood whilst reflecting on my own childhood. And the blog broke.

Must be because I forgot to use it regularly...

For some reason, I thought it a wonderful idea to give up something glorious for lent. Not that I had to, but because I thought it would do my character some good. My beloved gin. that's right - I've extended my tipple ban to the end of lent on my favourite drink. This does not however exclude wine, vodka or cocktails unless they are gin based, however we're not long into 40 odd days and I'm already pining.

This is somewhat remarkable as I've not had a gin since last January 2008. You would have thought that I would have gotten over it all by now however the fact that I am now allowed alcohol kinda rubs the salt in the proverbial wound as well as the shallow papercut.

When I was younger, I wouldn't necessarily binge drink but I would indulge inthe 3 units a night which the Government is currently running a vigorius campaign to dissuade women from a large glass of wine a night. And once a month or so, I would have what I would call ribenia week, where no alcohol would pass my lips. Maybe now in my more mature outlook on life, this is now what I'm partaking in. But only with gin. A decision I now regret but will stick to. Promise. I will really try. Right after some Langage Farm pseudo G&T ice-cream.

Give a girl a break - I've already had a year off...