Catch Up

As usual the passage of time has been all too fast with all too little of significance baring testament to it's passing or indeed existence.

The hole The Dog left is still immense, the grief is a docile creature that rests within us now, awakening every now and then with a quick nip that makes the eyes water.  It's the little things really, like having nobody to hoover up when The Toddler tries to feed his lunch to the floor and being able to enter the house without him rushing to see us.  I miss him in so many ways that they each have their own jagged shape that have yet to find a place to nest into without discomfort.

Spring is upon us and yet outside it's snowing.  Yes, snowing.  I do rather hope The Easter Bunny has thermals and bollocks of steel.

It's day one of The Easter Holidays and already i'm dreaming of gin o'clock as my befuddled mind tries to remember whether it's the gin or the children that constitute the old adage of Mothers Ruin.

Typically Things One & Two have bloody gone and grown, how very dare they.  This of course means that the few pennies we could have used whilst they're off school are now all being utilised in the bloody boring task of buying new school uniform, I do rather resent having to fork out for the ghastly things.

No sooner do we get the trampoline up, we get another pseudo-monsoon followed by a house full of ill.  Poor poor spawn.

It's still snowing, yet it's that terribly useless snow that doesn't actually do anything.  Where are the bountiful mounds of white fluffy goodness to play in?

My nights are still filled with The Toddler night feeds and the mental torture that is the Candy crush Saga and that insipid resolution of starting a diet, tomorrow.  The regaining of weight that depresses one towards the direction of cadbury's cream eggs to commiserate continues and I still haven't succeeded in absolutely destroying my hair, small mercies people.

Seeing as it's the school holidays, The Mothership and Father dearest have typically fucked off to Spain, nothing if not predictable, so The Spawn are bloody well lumbered with us  for the duration.  Poor sods.