It's taken me a few weeks to recover from spending a week in Egypt in 42 degree heat and then returning in a freshly de-iced plane to the UK. Oh well, it had to be done. We had a spectacular holiday in Sharm el Shag as henry likes to call it, except for the insect bite that made my hand swell up like a giant puffer fish. And the broken Fendi sunglasses, oh and losing an immensely precious diamond ring that belonged to my late mother. But even with all that, it was a really really fabulous holiday. Snorkelling, sunbathing, lolloping about, eating, occasional but very gentle walking – all the things you need. Could have done without the eyebrow threading man attacking my moustache (especially as I didn’t realise I even had a Brian Blessed type hedge on my chops) but when in Rome as they say….

So, got back expecting my car to have been delivered all shiny and without the smashed up bits. But no, yet another calamity had meant that the car was still in the body shop. So I spent a day or so having lengthy and rather terse quality conversations about 'WHEN PRECISELY, YOU BUMBLING FOOLS, CAN I EXPECT TO SEE MY FLIPPIN CAR? YOU'VE HAD IT FOR ONE MONTH. AT THIS RATE IT WILL HAVE DEPRECIATED SO MUCH THAT IT WILL NEED TO BE WRITTEN OFF. AND IT’S ONLY 2 YEARS OLD.’

It arrived 2 days later with a large bouquet of allergy making flowers that I gave to my neighbour. Cut flowers in this house mean a big antihistamine frenzy so it's just easier to look at them and give them away. She was chuffed to bits. Hmmph.

So back to work and once everyone had got over the extremity of my slightly scarily dark tan it was back into the usual stuff. It's only a job - the holiday memories and the plans for the next one keep me going.

Then last Saturday, having wept and wailed about losing the ring, I went to a jewellers and commissioned a copy of it whilst kicking myself hard about what my mother would be saying about my carelessness. The ring was bought for her after she was published in the Times for the first time and blew her fee on xmas presents. Dad found out, and bought the ring for her. So it meant alot. But not enough clearly for me to put it somewhere safe - so some self loathing peppered my week.

Saturday also saw the great powercut incident. Before we went away. Mr PR had been muttering about our huge electric bills and had decided that we needed some kind of new meter. I didn't take much notice to be honest, but he was pleased when the man came and fitted it. Well, in terms of reducing the bill and power consumption the new meter got off to a spectacular start as we were plunged into darkness at 5pm.

'This is great' I said in the gloom as we ate half cooked shepherds pie by candle light 'our bill will be hardly anything!'

After a few phone calls we were told someone would come out in 'about 4 hours' Oh. my. god. As i had predicted, the inital excitement of the darkness for the kids came to a rapid end when they realised that the TV and all the other things they like to play on weren't working either. Mr PR went out to buy more candles (all very bizarre as our entire street was fine) and the boys and I eventually resorted to singing sound of music songs on the sofa.

And then rescue arrived. The whole main fuse had blown and a very clever and very busy man fixed it. Thank you god, another chorus of doh a deer and I'd be ready to stick my head in the oven if only it had power, or just stick it in there anyway to escape the moaning of the bored 21st century offspring.

The next day I found the ring. I actually found the bloody ring. I was rummaging through the first aid kit for Henry’s willy, well not for his willy but I’ll explain in a sec, and there it was, wrapped in gauze, and carefully stowed. I have no recollection of doing this. None whatsobloodyever. The relief of finding it was therefore tinged with concern that I am in fact getting senile.

Back to Henry’s willy. He has this habit, like many 3 yr old boys presumably, of resting his er, thingybob on the rim of the loo while he does his business. The loo seat has always been a bit hormonal, and last Sunday it decided to crash down on Henry’s appendage and cause him to howl in a way that probably only another man could understand.

Sometimes you just run when kids scream. Sometimes you pour more wine,or roll over and go back to sleep, but there’s a scream in every kid that makes parents run over hot coals to see what’s happened. Henry used his and as I reached the top of the stairs there was lots of blood and a wailing that went like this

‘my wigggleeeeeeeeeee. Bleeding!!!!!’

It needed someone who has a wiggly to get a grip of the situation. Doug appeared behind me and took control because a) he is a highly trained trauma care person and b) he has a wiggly so Henry felt safe. Me dabbing about with baby wipes was terrifying him even more. So that was the parental bit, Charlie’s singular contribution was to sway dramatically and declare

‘Oooooh that’s godda hurt. That’s really godda hurt. Cheeseburgers... that's godda really really hurt’

‘Yes’ Henry confirmed ‘it really does hurt’

So that was how I came to be rummaging in the first aid kit and found the ring. Lucky eh? Well, for me at least, not for Henry’s equipment.

He’s healed now, and very very wary of toilets. Not a bad philosophy to have really.

Today we did the new school shoes shopping trip. This is always a heart warming and purse emptying experience in your local packed Clarks shop. But the shop was empty by some miracle, leading me to feel things were too good to be true. And I was right. First of all, some snotty cow barged up to the girl who was serving us and just about to get Charlie’s shoes from the store and demanded that she be given something or other because another store didn’t have it.
Clearly, she was far more important than silly old me, patiently sitting waiting for the shoes. Eventually, when asked by someone else if I was being served I loudly took the opportunity to vent my anger

‘Well I was, but then, would you believe it, some ignorant woman rudely insisted on being served ahead of me, actually followed your colleague into the store, and now I don’t know what is going on. But I do know obviously that some people think that courtesy and manners are not important when their small not-even-walking-yet brat needs the latest yo-yos. Thank you for asking.

I then got a surly apology from the snotty boden clad one, but was too far up my moral high grounded ass to acknowledge it. I hated her with a passion - end of story. She could have offered to buy shoes for a year for me and it would have made no difference. Shoe rage. Only I could invent shoe rage. But shoe shopping, as any parent will tell you, is stressful enough without that kind of intervention.

Then it all went horribly wrong, Henry was fine, but because the red patent leather trainers that Charlie fell in love with didn’t fit properly and he couldn’t have them, we are now 3 hours into a torrent of anger from him and it’s not a pretty sight. I am thinking of hiding in the garage, or I may put him up for adoption. Obviously he comes without trainers, because the ones that fit him that I think are perfectly cool, have already been flung into a cupboard never to be seen again. But other than that he is in perfect working order and could probably fit up a chimney or two.