Mrs S was on a mission, and ordered a bottle of Prosecco prior to even walking into the pub. In between chatting, laughing and eating (thank you Red Lion, Cholsey) the two of us managed to down another bottle, while the husband chose to drink something marginally more manly...rhubarb gin with ginger ale. Actually, this isn't that manly a drink as it has a straw and some fronds of rosemary and rhubarb delicately draped over the glass. The 'manly' part of it was that he managed to drink around eight of these and remain coherent.
So fast forward to yesterday morning at 5.27am when the two fuzzballs started scratching at our bedroom door. In my alcohol-fuelled daze (four hours' sleep just isn't enough) I schlepped downstairs to let them out into the garden, where they spent a most enjoyable fifteen minutes pooping in my newly dug over flowerbeds. This is because, in my infinite wisdom, I gave them a bone each on Friday afternoon. Why I never remember what happens every time I give them a bone, I shall never know. Ten minutes with one, and the two of them can do a passable impression of a Play-Doh Fun Factory.
So when daughter number two let herself in yesterday afternoon, I had been stretched out for an hour attempting a bit of shut eye. This had been hampered by Reg, always so needy, who decided that lying on my head would be a good way to get my attention. The husband then came in, put the rugby on, and passed a pleasant forty five minutes shouting at the television. I think I managed about four minutes of sleep in the end. Quite pathetic really.
So after dinner with son number two and ELL (they hear that bloody oven go on) there was just enough juice left in my tank for an hour with Tom Hardy and then an early night..
Could be worse I suppose.....