Saturday 30th July

I’ve been getting a bit of ‘heat’ from Friend-Matt.

Friend-Matt lives in Manila where he works for a company that do something or other that requires the ex-pat presence of a significant number of Brits.

I’m not entirely sure what he is up to over there apart from playing snooker, drinking beer and moaning at me, but over there he is.

He tells me that I am developing quite a following amongst his ex-pat community and that I should stop being such a slacker, start writing more consistently and keep in mind, not to sound too ‘mafia-tastic’ about it, that people who are living in self-imposed exile from their homeland, enjoy reading about ‘back home’.

Mea Culpa.

In my defence, it is the summer holidays.

My kids are not at school.

They’re at home.

With me.

They show no inclination, whatsoever, to take Timmy-The-Dog, pack up some anchovies, ginger beer and a tent and fuck clear off to Famous-Five-Island, where they can spend the summer sleeping on beds made of heather and befriending kindly gypos.

Not once have they asked if we own a compass and on the one occasion, since the summer term ended, that I was actually sober long enough to find the only remaining pen that Annabelle hasn’t already lost, I even tried to draw a treasure map that detailed the hiding place of a bumper pack of Haribo that was secreted, by pirates hundreds of years ago on the Cornish Coast; they just asked me if I’d ‘be a doll’ and pop out and get it for them.

Now you’d think that I’d enjoy the idea of spending six weeks complaining about my offspring but, since every other female writer in England is busily doing the same, I’m going to take a firm ‘what-she-said’ stance and move swiftly on.

Anyway, this gin-drip isn’t going to re-fill itself, so I’ll be off now.

Tomorrow’s diary entry: Mothers who turn their bedside table into a mini-bar.

Thoughts please.

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One thought on “Saturday 30th July

  1. Haaa, haaaa … choked on my toast and spat tea out laughing so much reading this. Lost track to the amount of previous summer hols that I’d planned adventures with the kids that have ALL ended in some sort of disaster. Why do they still have 6 weeks off anyway. Ain’t it to do with kids back in the ‘olden days’ helping out on the farm to get the hay in, etc etc?? How many people these days have the pleasure of living on a farm and having kids who are willing to help? Surely it’d be better use of everyone’s time by keeping them in school? Only 5 weeks to go …

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