Happy Holidays!

Today I am missing the live-in help. By that I am referring to the Hubble and not a nanny I had to sack for stealing my très expensive face cream (lard. I swear by it) and rubbing her mangy little foot up and down my beloved's leg during dinner.

Papa Smurf went back to work this morning after four glorious days off at home during which I sat on my piggy wiggy boco and oinked my way through a glut of chocolate eggs and shouted such demands from the sofa as:

"Feel. Thirsty. TEEEEA!"
"Remote. Lost. FIIIIND!"
"Choc. Egg. Finito. NEEEEXT!"
and
"Nappy. Pooey. CHAAAANGE!" (ickle bickle's you understand, not mine).

I know, I know, it sounds like he is my man slave. Which he is. But he gets treated pretty flippin' well the rest of the time. It's just bank holidays when I get to dust off my crown and poke him with my jewel encrusted sceptre, scweaming for the odd cuppa and peeled grape. Besides, he is really starting to like his gimp suit now.

I freakin' LOVE April and May. Littered with bank holidays I find myself skipping about the house like a Spring lamby, drinking entire cups of tea (Yes, really. A WHOLE delicious cup. Before it gets cold. Piggin' ACE.) and sleeping in until, oooh I don't know, at least about 6.30am. Yippee.

The only thing that would make these months better in fact would be that my birthday could be relocated to say, Easter Sunday? If you can change your name by Deed Poll why can't you change your birthday eh? Might make Chrimbo a bit of a nightmare I spose with all the fruity loops opting for December 25th and pretending to be the baby Jesus. Yup, maybe that's why.

Bank holidays are not even marred by the fact that as self-employed people both Hubble and I do not get paid for these imposed vacations. No, I am quite happy to lose a few squids here and there, even paupering it up good and proper by adopting a gimpy leg and contracting a few weeping sores for effect if need be, just to have my sweetheart home and some bleedin' help with button bum.

For nobody warned me that once tinky winks start crawling, they literally don't stop. NEVER FECKING EVER. I reckon, just like the pooch chases pesky wabbits and bites postmen in her slumber, Boo crawls up Everest, across burning coals and along the full length of the Great Wall of China. Of course in his bestest dreams the Great Wall would be littered with all manner of electrical wires for him to chew on and rickety bookcases for him to climb.

No-one warned me how fast the little tinkers go either. Once Boo gets up his pace he whizzes across the floor as if some bugger has snuck in, given him a Weetabix laced with amphetamines and stuck a firework up his bot. Even getting the dog to lie strategically in the middle of the lounge to act as a speed hump is no deterrent, he simply clambers over her and keeps on truckin'. Speed kills dontcha know Boo Boo? Mummy mainly. I may need an iron lung if he keeps up this sort of lick.

So, basically, I am pooped. Running around after Boo is exhausting and no amount of baby-proofing allows for smidget stuffing the hound's paw down his throat and sniffing out my mobile to speed dial my bank manager and blow raspberries down the line. Fortunately I couldn't have phrased my feelings toward my bank manager better on that occasion. However, constantly hunting chimpy bum down, rescuing him as he attempts to abseil off the dining table and fishing fluff and oomska out of his gob is a wee bit wearying.

To make matters worse my hoover has blown up. Beyond repair. I have even tried shouting at it and kicking it but it remains on the fritz. I am not just relaying this incredibly tedious piece of information because I fancy a reet good whinge, which I do, but also because it means the carpet now appears to be generously sprinkled with Shrek's gruffnuts. So, until the clever wee Doozers from Morphy Richards turn up to shout at it a bit more in a language it understands, my little sproglet has a veritable feast laid out in front of him at every shuffle. *Neurosis shifts up a gear into 'twitchy'*

Thus to have Hubble home and enjoy the advantage of another pair of paws to help block Boo's path of destruction has been lovely. But alas, the long weekend is over and it is back to being a two person race between me and mini to see who can get to the crusty looking unidentifiables on the rug first.

Thankfully however, it is only a three day week as Willsy Poo and Katiekins (oh yes, we're very close and even have pet names for each other. You may curtsey now) have decided to tie the knot and as such, we have another bank hol. But of course you knew that.

What you didn't know is that Watie planned the timing of their nuptials around Boo Boo finding his kneesies and getting his crawl on. Knowing that I would be pooped and in need of either a clone of myself or Hubble to be present in the moments that I am on the bench catching me breath as a result of pegging it after my wickle Thundercat, the Prince and his missus decided to make their engagement a short one and get married at the time when I, weary old Mumsie, need a siesta most. TRUE STORY. *Crosses fingers and waits to be dragged snivelling to the tower for beheading over treasonous claims*

If I wasn't planning on sleeping all day Friday and leaving Hubble to run the gauntlet with Boo you know I might have organised a street party, gravy browned me legs, made bunting out of old undercrackers, baked a rock hard Victoria sponge and broke into a medley of Roll Out the Barrel / God Save the Queen for the occasion, you know, to show my gratitude.

Thing is, I'm just too chuffing cream crackered. Mahoosive thanks and all for the extra day off though Mr and Mrs Windsor, oh, and congratulations (although it should have been me obviously, am clearly Princess material). Your fondue set is in the post.

NOTE TO MUMKINS: If you would like to sign my petition to the palace to wangle a day off every time someone of royal affiliation goes up the aisle, including the Her Maj's third favourite Corgi (I have heard a rumour that it got amorous with a roguish Beagle and now they may have to wed to avoid a scandal), please leave your name, if you're not too tired to remember it or type it, in the comments section.