It’s 12.45am and I can’t sleep.
I can’t sleep because, as it turns out, I’m not the sharpest tool in the box and the Teenager left a pack of, super-manly, pink Bic razorblades lying around.
Having spent an hour in the bath with Jack Reacher (for those who understand, no explanation is necessary. For those who don’t, none is possible) and been for the most part successful in drowning out the relentless racket being made by Annabelle and Small-For-It’s-Age-Kid, who were holding their annual Red-Bull-Wheelie-Bin-Drag-Race under my bathroom window, I was a walking advert for pamper-iness.
Fast-forward an hour and my ‘toe-make-up’ was done, my skin had almost completely un-wrinkled itself and I’d stopped sweating like a pig in a pork-scratching factory.
This led to some rather more enthusiastic and determined rubbing-in of the pea-sized amount of watery moisturiser left from last year than I was expecting, into a body that was currently sporting an attractive shade of what Dulux would probably call, ‘Run In With A Blow-Torch Red’.
Let me tell you ladies, I was feelin’ fine.
I slipped on a pair of summery cargo-pant short thingies, a surprisingly un-wrinkled T-shirt and, hair dried, mascara applied, I stepped back to survey the wonder that is me.
Oh yeah. Come to mumma.
It was when I was clearing up the tangle of mis-matched, damp towels that I saw the bit I’d forgotten.
My legs had obviously not actually been in the bath with me or I would have been absolutely bound to notice that they were busily giving the impression that I am half-woman, half-yetti.
I’ll be honest, when I initially caught sight of the hairy-beast-twins in the mirror, they very nearly fooled me.
I almost beat them to death with the toilet brush.
So anyway, did I then leap back into the bath and address the situation sensibly, with aid of shaving foam or soap?
Nope. I rummaged through the bathroom cabinet and, having discarded the first twenty-five razors I came across by muttering ‘Oh, gross’ and then throwing them back into the cupboard, finally came upon one where I could still actually see the blade through the gunked up soap and manky old hair.
In a bit of a hurry now as I could hear the opening strains of the Eastenders omnibus and pretty much ‘over’ the effort involved in my home-spa day, I dragged the rusty, tetanus-toting razorblade up and down my legs which are now, completely on fire.
And not in a long, cool drink-of-water, Elle McPherson way either.
Luckily, by rummaging around (yep, same principle as the bathroom cupboard) in the medicine cupboard, I just found some (circa 1997) stop-it-itching-cream, from when the Teenager had chicken-pox.
One time, a few years ago, I thought that Annabelle had head-lice and so, in a quandary, and with nothing else to hand, used the dog’s Frontline flea treatment on her.
Mum’s ear-piercing shrieks didn’t change the fact that Annabelle didn’t actually start barking, but her coat certainly did remain lice free (not to mention remarkably glossy) for around 10 to 12 weeks afterwards.
I hope this stop-it-itching-cream kicks in soon because at this rate, the blood-stained claw marks on my legs are going to prevent me wearing my summery cargo-pant short thingies until about May 2012.