Sunday 29th May

The Teenager slept in a field last night.

He was out with his chums for most of the day and popped home at about a quarter-past-Doctor-Who to ask if he could extend his eight ‘o’ clock curfew until 10pm.

Eyes firmly glued on those terrifying, jaw-stretching ‘Ganger’ crittures, I replied in the negative.

Mutter, mutter. Shout, shout. Door slams.

Annabelle and I had just turned to look at each other with ‘To-Be-Continued’ induced excitement, (turns out that Amy Pond hadn’t been Amy Pond for a long, long time and as a result of this The Doctor had no choice to zap her with his sonic-screwdriver and turn her into an Amy sized Pond of mush) when Annabelle obviously decided that now was as good a time as any to tell me that she thought she might have broken her vagina.

Why wait until tomorrow to give your mother the embolism you can just as well give her today.

For the tenth time this week my baseball bat was out and I was ready to roll.

Disaster, in the form of my upcoming twelve-stretch, was averted in the nick of time when she, arms gripped around my ankles as she rugby tackled my exit, squeaked that she’d broken it on the see-saw.

When the black dots had receded from my vision and I had finally got her securely and safely,Velcro-ed into bed, I realised that the other half of my juvenile-dream-team had failed to show.

Twenty to ten he strolls in.

He hadn’t even bothered to prepare an alien slash zombie related excuse.

Just headed in the direction of the microwave and his nosh and calmly stood there ‘getting his eat on’.

Having spent quite a lot of Friday and Saturday watching old re-runs of Dr Phil, I was determined to answer the question currently on the table of who, precisely and in fact, was the daddy around these parts.

Seriously, all I was missing was a stool, a ‘tache and a receding hairline.

His response to my attempts at a calm, reflective discussion on the reasoning behind his now being grounded for a week, was to snort derisively, remove a half-eaten lamb chop and some peas from his dinner plate, stuff them into his pocket and slam out of the door.

As a parting gift, he flipped open the letter-box and shouted at the top of his voice: “And how’s that working for you love”.

Apparently, not just me that’s been soaking up the Dr Phil-isms then.