Half-term is all but over.

Diggerland lived up to expectations. I’d even go so far as to say it exceeded them. I’m thinking of getting a licence for a JCB.

Beamish on the other hand? Well. Pah. The old trams and buses were cute, except when they were full, and I learned that British LSD (pounds, shillings and pence) was the last currency in the world still to be based on the Latin monetary system, (lira, something and dinarae). The staff weren’t as good as at Diggerland, even though they looked rather dapper in their period costumes. Many of them just couldn’t be arsed. And it reminded me of Chuck Palahniuk’s book, Choke. 

Yes it was fun taking the boys on an adventure to the North East (of England), and I even got a first glimpse of the Angel of the North which *is* awe-inspiring , but I was shattered. And a trip to Carlisle the following day to watch Shawn the Sheep pushed me over the edge. Or so I thought. It wasn’t an edge though. Not properly. It was simply a hillock.

The Angel of the North by Anthony Gormley

As you see, I then I realised what I’ve got on my metaphorical plate this week coming and basically I am up shit creek. Aaaargggh. But tonight I have wrestled out a menu for the forthcoming dinner party I’d arranged weeks ago. And created shopping lists and lists of what needs to be done when. Cause you see, it’s not enough simply to host a fancy dinner party for the first time as a Proper Adult. Oh no. You need to make sure you are running a second-hand uniform sale after school the same day. And that you are doing a three-hour first aid refresher at a venue 45 minutes away the night before. And that you have a party to cater for on the Sunday – 40 children no less. And a birthday cake to make for THIS Monday,  And a book to read before next Monday. (For book club – Oryx and Crake). And extra crockery and table linen  and placemats and coasters to buy. Hurrah.

But it’s now 2am. I’ve bought table stuff online. I’ve even ordered a grocery shop to be delivered too, (on top of the separate order of quails’ eggs because it seems you simply cannot buy quails’ eggs in West Cumbria). Tomorrow we are off food shopping early. I need to tidy the house a bit. Then the grandparents are coming over with the sons who are staying over tonight (there is a God). And I am going to be a little more organised, but still shattered.

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And tomorrow…….Diggerland

The boys have been uber helpful and good today, all because tomorrow we rise early in the morning to cross the (thin end of the) country and get to explore Diggerland. Wooohoooo. Wooohooo.

Earlier they were musing at other possible tourist destinations. “Spiderland?”. Erm, no. “Motorbike land?”. Sorry. “Trainland?” (He must have been thinking of York.) Just goes to show the level of genius for whoever dreamt up the concept of “Diggerland” in that it a) makes sense and b) sounds good.

Our eldest son is a competent reader and riding this wave of helpfulness, we got them to wolf down their pancakes and told them that come 8pm, rain or shine, (or in pyjamas or not, more to the point), we would be sat infront of Holby, all parental rights abrogated. I managed to oversee toothbrushing before the witching hour, and assisted the younger one a wee bit in getting his pjs on and then removed ourselves from the shared bunk beds as eldest son had organised Thomas the Tank Engine stories on the stereo and had started reading ‘Supertato’ (our current favourite library book) to the wee one.

Hurray for tomorrow.