Thursday 5th May

Spent last night scouring the search engines to see if Nigella Lawson has got any useful tips on ‘100 interesting ways to serve moths and other bugs’.

Nada.

I got pretty much the same response when I despondently googled ‘why is my life so shit’ and ‘why am I such a loser’.

The entire worldwide web is silent on this point. Nobody seems to know. 

I am also beginning to feel some empathy for Messrs. Cameron and Clegg, as my recent introduction of austerity measures have also been received poorly by the free-loading spongers. Obviously in my case the free-loading spongers are my kids, not the electorate that kindly voted me in, but hey, potato, patato.

What really seems to have tipped them over the edge, (the kids not the voters, although maybe there’s a link there too) is the lack of goodies in the cupboard.

They seem content with crawling along the back of the sofa when the rent-man’s-a-coming, but try explaining to them that I didn’t buy any mini-muffins and all holy hell breaks loose.

In a manner reminiscent of my sister’s response to the death of John Lennon, the Teenager locked himself in his darkened room and refused to speak to me.

Annabelle took a slightly different tack and, simply ignoring the fact that we’d already had this conversation, just kept listing every chocolate covered treat she could think of, and asking if we’d got that instead.

Well, actually she started with Jaffa Cakes but having discovered how entertaining it is when your mums ears start to bleed, gleefully moved on to asking if we’d got totally ridiculous stuff.

What is a crabby-patty anyway?

Not content with the fact that she’d driven me to lying on the sofa with a wet flannel over my eyes, I then heard someone shouting ‘Not four pound. Not three pound. Just two pounds for this chipped statue of Santa Claus’ at the top of their voice.

Dragging myself in the direction of the front door, I discovered that Annabelle had set up a yard sale in our front garden and was cheerfully attempting to divest Lily, our three year old, pig tailed, scooter riding neighbour, of two buttons and a bit of fluff.

Having given Lily back her scooter and hustled Annabelle back inside the house, I heard hysterical laughing coming from the direction of the Teenagers lair.

Intrigued, Annabelle and I followed the hiccups and ‘Oh my gods’ and found Mr Teenage-Rebellion himself, doubled over and holding his stomach.

Having shown us what he was laughing at, we all crowded around his TV and spent the next hour running, rewinding and re-running, the new VW Passat advert.

Darth Vader.

Quality.

If the TV is right, Britain might not have any discernible talent but Germany sure does.