Keep plants where they belong

I finally got out into the garden yesterday to tidy up a bit of the boarder and introduce H to the delights of eating grass and daisies.You will be pleased to know that the magnolia has performed right on cue and the bargain bag of daffodil bulbs Steve purchased from Wilko's last Autumn has not disappointed - I can hardly see the lawn for yellow, and mowing is completely out of the question (shame!)

I note also that many of the patio pots are looking really, really ill. This is actually a good thing as they contain out-sized houseplants that I have been trying to kill for some time. The Mother-in-Law's Tongue, which indoors was so successful it burst out of its pot like some kind of tryphid, is looking decidedly dead and the weeping fig has wept its last. Unfortunately the Aloe Vera (kindly donated by my mother-in-law, incidently) has revived like a phoenix from the flames. Tempting as it is to douse it in lighter fuel to see if it will survive further torture, I'll resist. It's in quite a big tub and is rather too near the patio door, although if I no longer had a house I would not have to worry about disposing of its flora...

What has become of my life?

I think Steve realised that there is method in my madness when I suggested he aimed to leave the house at 10.15 to make it on time for the 10.45 jamboree that is Tiny Tune Time this morning. The venue is a 10 minute walk away, but when you have two essentially helpless people (one more deliberately so than the other) to escort, it is amazing how the 20 minute buffer time goes. They arrived just in time and Steve's comment - which I shall take as a compliment - was, 'I am amazed that you ever leave the house.' Thank you, darling, just call me Wonder Woman.

I had promised someone I would write about my weekend away. Think about weekends away pre-children: Too much to eat and drink, talk late into the night and recover with a long, slow and late Sunday brunch over the papers with the Archers omnibus gently playing in the background.

The new horrors of the weekend away: Someone falling out of bed and insisting on not only sharing a bedroom but a bed with you, an argument in hushed whispers over the folly of the weekend away to fill the 2 hours it took to calm down the faller-out-of-the-bed, repeatedly feeding a baby who every time she wakes up is confused about where she is and panics (loudly).

To cap it all, I was wiping breakfast off the floor by 7am. In the end I locked myself in the bathroom with the Saturday Guardian.

A night away with your small people? Don't do it folks!