Sunday 11th April

Relaxing weekend as Annabelle was collected on Friday by ex-husband-Andy.

Due to his incessant pleading of poverty I was labouring under the misapprehension that his recently acquired employment was of the ‘would you like fries with that’ variety. He, nevertheless,  arrived to collect Annabelle in a 2009 Mercedes E Class, I then discovered that it is unlikely that he really needed the tenner he borrowed from me a few weeks ago as he has been in full time and well paid employment since the middle of last year.

Made mental note to definitely call CSA tomorrow and shoved painted elephant at him in a less than gracious manner.

Placed a bet on the Grand National on Saturday as I got a hot tip from Friend-Kate. The only things still at the finish line when the horse in question finally got there were two dogs with bibs and cutlery. Remembered someone telling me once that it’s impossible to predict the outcome of the National (remember Devon Loch) and shelving dreams of foreign holidays and sports cars, ruefully threw my pound each way ticket into the bin.

Went to shop this morning to get the paper which, from where I live, involves a five mile drive. Got ten yards into the excursion and realised that the thumping noise I could hear was not the bass on Lady Ga Ga but a flat tyre. Debated changing tyre but opted for going home and reading the paper online, turned Lady G back up and put the car into reverse.

Spent the afternoon mowing the lawn.

Incredibly impressed with myself as my gardening skills are about on par with those of my arts, crafts and car maintenance. As my front lawn is joined to both of my neighbours and in a cheery ‘what a lovely sunny day it is’ mood, I offered to do their front strips too.

This foolhardy act of neighbourly generosity backfired slightly as one side subsequently asked me if I had noticed that I had ‘balded’ their lawn and the other side treated me to a lengthy sermon about where the boundaries and correct parking spaces are on our street. The speech was complete with maps and highlighter pens which, whilst thorough and well researched, left me none the wiser as to whether she wanted me to continue past her boundary (as it were).

Constant interruptions this evening, every male on the street has come by to tell me I have a flat tyre, tried looking helpless but nobody thus far has offered to change it for me.

I think the fat lady might have sung on that plan.