I was misinformed; the new job doesn’t start until next week which is good because now I get to spend more holiday fun time with Annabelle and the Teenager.
The Teenager really isn’t too bad as there are only a few reasons that he ever leaves his lair; to grab handfuls of food, avail himself of the facilities or to hook up with his crew (a.k.a – The Rural Massive). Other than that his time is spent in his laboratory with various keyboards and monitors, so other than a vague concern that the FBI will show up one day, it is fairly low maintenance parenting.
Annabelle, on the other hand, sings.
She sings from morning until night. She sings when she walks around, she sings when she is skipping in the garden, she sings when she is standing on top of the wheely bins in the garden (only then, presumably because it’s some kind of minimalist stage from where the neighbours can see her, she also adds arm movements and twirls). She sings to the dog, she sings along to other singers who are singing on the TV, if she is awake, she’s singing.
Another, rather annoying, habit that she has developed is following me everywhere I go. As she has now learned how to undo the bathroom lock from the outside I am frequently caught with my head in my hands and tears streaming down my face by her and the dog asking where the mini muffins are.
I accept that the dog probably doesn’t care about mini muffins but in his enthusiastic doggy manner he is pantingly (yes, I realise that isn’t a word) supportive of her mission, looking expectantly from one to the other of us hoping that there might be a little something in it for him, whatever ‘it’ might turn out to be.
A nice, quiet cell, at this point, isn’t looking like such a bad option so I swear before God, if one more person calls me Mummy, the next time you hear about me will be on the News at Ten when my brief reads out my voluntary confession.