Monday 31st May

Awoken early this morning by the shrieking of another birthday girl, only this time the girl was my Mother and she wasn’t by any stretch of the imagination shrieking with delight. My Father, it seems, had made the rookie mistake of attempting to buy her a present that he thought she would like.

Why, my Mother demanded, would anybody think that she would like a fridge for her birthday?

My Father, his confusion evident, claimed that he had listened to her constantly moaning and bitching (his words, not mine) about how old, ugly, decrepit and small the current model was. He had resolved to both surprise and delight her this year, with a demonstration of his ability to stealthily cater to her every whim.

After 40 odd years of marriage, I would have thought that my Father would have cottoned on to one very simple fact. Where my Mother is concerned, whenever she is heard expressing a desire for something, the chances are that she has either already bought it or is currently hatching a devious plan to go ahead and do so. The only way to successfully get in on the process is to provide her with the means of purchase mid cycle.

In other words, give her a gift token for John Lewis and let her get on with it.

As I tried to explain to Dad, kicking the fridge on Christmas Day because she can’t shove the remains of the turkey into it isn’t a hint for him to turn up on her birthday with a new appliance and a red bow.

Narrowly averted further bloodshed by persuading Dad that, however much she may love gardening centres, taking her for lunch on her birthday in one wasn’t a good move.

In the end we all headed off to see Russell Crowe, man in tights (yep, second time around for me). Worked out splendidly due to the unassailable fact that where women are concerned, Russell thundering around the countryside on a huge, white charger, truly is the gift that keeps on giving.

Sunday 30th May

Quite unbelievably, Jolly-Nice-Craig emailed me yesterday to say that he would, in fact, like to have a second attempt at a date.

I must admit that this turn of events has left me a little lost for words as the people that write the informative and helpful ‘how to’ sites on the internet led me to believe that getting tanked up on a first date was rather frowned upon. Happily though, Jolly-Nice-Craig must be a gentleman of the understanding and kind sort which, as far as I am concerned, is a massive plus point given that I, at the best of times, am a little bit bonkers.

The Teenager has been spending a great deal of time with the Shiny-Pretty-Girl who has presumably not held the falling in the river fiasco against him. The house, as a result, permanently smells of Lynx and this morning he actually asked where the ear buds are kept, a development which, for the second time in twenty four hours, rendered me totally speechless.

I had no idea that he even knew of the existence of an item that could spring clean his ears but as he seems to garner most of his life management skills from The Simpson’s, I can only assume Bart must have found himself a bird too.

I am taking Annabelle and Little-Friend-Phillipa to see Robin Hood today which means that I will spend two hours running backwards and forwards from the toilet as Annabelle and her pal develop the mysterious bladder weakness that assails children when they get within ten feet of a cinema.

Still, at least I will get to stare at Russell Crowe for a couple of hours and to those derisive (and I should imagine green-with-envy-male) media reporters, his accent is irrelevant.

Who’s listening to him anyway.

Friday 28th May

Friend-Laura turned up unexpectedly yesterday evening.

Brandishing a large bottle of Absolut and gulping back tears she pushed past me and headed for my sitting room. Colour me wary but I was definitely sensing that all was not well.

Friend-Laura is not cruel nor is she in any way thoughtless, unkind or inconsiderate. What she is, in my opinion, is a little bit gullible. She has been involved in an on and off kind of relationship for five very looooonnngggg years with a chap of the MiMMo variety, which is to say Middle aged, Married and Moaning.

MiMMo’s are something that when we were idealistic young things, we told our mates loudly and confidently that we just wouldn’t put up with. They share the same ranking in the top ten desirable qualities of a luvver as muggers, thieves and traffic wardens.

Like Chickenpox, however, it is inevitable that all women will, at some point in their lives contract MiMMo sickness. Granted, some recover quicker than others but where most of us get it once, discover that it itches like hell and in addition leaves rather unappealing scars, unfortunates like Laura keep re-infecting themselves over and over again.

Now, to the uninitiated, spotting a MiMMo is easy. They are about 40 years old, are married and they moan a lot.

Unlike the rest of us however their moaning is disproportionate to the action taken. In other words they can bore you senseless about what a bee-atch their miserable, psychotic, boring in bed wife is for hours, days, months, years on end but they still have the holiday booked for the next year.

They do absolutely nothing to resolve their problem and that, ladies and gentlemen, is your first clue because you can bet your arse that if their car got jacked they’d be on the phone to the po-po’s quicker than you could say ‘You’re a cheating bastard’.

MiMMo’s moan, they complain, they play the victim, and they expect a great deal more than any one human being could possibly give them. They are boring and self centred. The human equivalent of Bounty kitchen roll they lap up all emotional offerings and I hope, I pray, that Friend-Laura will see sense this time.

There is a part of me that wishes that this MiMMo’s wife would show the guts and character Cheryl Cole has recently demonstrated because life really does go on.

I love Laura and I hate to see her like this. I feel empathy for the MiMMo’s wife and I am aware of the misconceived ideas about the home wrecking ‘other woman’. But let’s be clear here, there is always one common denominator and in mathematical as well as scientific equations this is known as a catalyst.

The catalyst in this equation is a weak, gutless tosser who thought that he was a little bit more special than he actually proved to be.

So, move along, nothing to see here.

And that’s all she wrote.