Sunday 3rd June. No River For Old Ladies

Having spent the morning unsuccessfully attempting to scrub the graffiti off my wall, I spent the afternoon unsuccessfully trying to stay awake through the Thames boat extravaganza.

Annabelle, who has a bit of a girly-crush on Kate (as indeed, if I’m honest, do I), insisted that we, along with the celebratory flotilla, muster our sterns in forelock-tugging-readiness to witness, for about the tenth time in the last eighteen months, history in the making.

Other than the fact that Kate and William were on the menu, the draw for me was that Camilla-Park-Her-Bum was going to be there. As we know, at last year’s royal wedding mistakes were made, and golden opportunities to pop a cap in her arse lost, but this time, crucially, she was going to be near water.

Camilla on a slippery boat deck?

No way I’m missing that.

As it turned out she didn’t slip off anything although there was an amusing bit when the Queen tried to stuff her daughter-in-law’s massive, attention-getting hat out-of-the-way and into the cabin of the Britannia Barge, but old Camilla is made of tougher rhino-hide than that and a bit of a head-popping tussle ensued.

Having resorted finally to firmly planting her foot on Camilla’s head, the Queen regained control of the situation and the festivities (and yes I use that word very loosely) continued.

As the hours ticked by, Annabelle and I, in an attempt to stifle our yawns resorted to a game of ‘Shout-If-She-Smiles’ – which is a Queen based, ‘history-in-the-making’ hybrid of i-Spy.

After a couple more hours, I had one point and Annabelle had none.

I’m not even sure if my point was gained entirely honourably, Annabelle said it was just another royal grimace and The Teenager insisted that it was an inevitable facial reaction bought about by a turbulent river related, stomach upset.

Another hour went by and one of the commentators mentioned something about a 41 gun salute down at Tower Bridge.

Stray bullets and an extremely large Camilla-Hat-Target?

Talk about keeping up the suspense.

It was just then however that my Sky Satellite Signal stopped being received which it does every time there is a bit of light drizzle, so after all those hours of keeping my fingers crossed and my eyelids open with match sticks, I’ll never know how it all turned out Camilla-wise.

I am, however, confident in reporting that now I’ve seen one thousand-boat pageant.

I’ve definitely seen them all.

Saturday 2nd June. American Tom-Boy

Spent last night engaged, mainly, in two pleasurable activities.

Delightedly hollering “Four days off” at anyone who attempted to ask me what time I’d be cooking dinner, and planning what to spend my 92 million Euromillions windfall on.

I opened up an Excel spreadsheet and, having spent an hour and a half scouring sites like Rightmove and What Car, have a shortlist of houses, cars, boarding schools for Annabelle and military academies (sadly all in the USA) for The Teenager.

All was fine until I realised that my preoccupation with wealth planning had left a vacuum in the ‘Annabelle-Stop-It-You-Moron’ area of my responsibilities.

Whilst I’d been weighing up the pros and cons of a bed that turns into a TV versus a gold-plated, Cinderalla styl-ee four-poster to go in my castle, Annabelle and Little-Friend-Aiden, fresh from this week’s episode of The Apprentice, had been busily playing ‘Create-A-Luxury-Brand-Aimed-At-The-Youth-Market’ in the garden.

Their brand involved the majority of Annabelle’s new summer t-shirts and a set of felt tips.

‘American Tom-Boy’ is the name of their concept, although to be honest, I had to rely on their furiously nodding heads for my gleaning of that fact, as their graffiti style writing was completely illegible and, indeed, on at least four of the never worn tops, they’d run out of room for the word, ‘American’.

And ‘Tom-Boy’.

Just go get your wheely-suitcase and get in the taxi.

The boardroom will only slow you down.

On another note, Work-Friend-Emma’s cake, despite being officially domiciled at my parent’s house, has taken on legendary status. Whenever I ask one or the other of The Freeloaders where the other one’s gone, “Getting a slice of cake from Nanny’s,” comes the reply and so it was that, at about nine-thirty I was leaning against the kitchen work-top listening to The Teenager, on his return from another successful ‘Cake-Getting-Mission’, giving me a detailed and slightly surprised description of the big hairy penises that someone has drawn in chalk on the road near the bridge (I feel an uncomfortable conversation with my girl-child coming on) when Annabelle burst in.

Grabbing my hand and telling me to come and see, she hurried me up the stairs.

American Tom-Boy was graffiti-ed all over my bedroom wall.

“And look,” she said proudly, “We got every single letter in.”

Stunned silence.

Fuuuuuuuuuuu-hhhhuuuuuu-hhhhhuuuuukkkk No.

Friday 1st June. Big teeth & Birthday Cake

Yesterday was Mum’s birthday and, as ever, Dad bought the wrong present.

I’m not entirely sure what went wrong as, by the time I arrived singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and proudly brandishing a proper fancy Apple & Cinnamon birthday cake that Work-Friend-Emma had baked for me (she needs to set up a website, she’s flipping brilliant at makey-bakey), my mother and father appeared to have passed the ‘acknowledging-each-other’s-presence’ stage of the proceedings.

My dad kept telling me to ‘ask your mother if she wants me to lay the table’ to which my mother would respond with stuff like ‘tell your father that he’s a total prick and I’m leaving him for sure this time.’

Cake anyone?

After three-quarters of an hour of cutting both cakes and tangible tensions, I wandered home wondering why The Teenager hadn’t shown up for the ‘party’.

Teenager locked in his bedroom.

He had, he bellowed through the door at me, been playing a game of ‘Police-Dogs’ with Hector.

It involves The Teenager holding his gun (empty toilet-roll tube) above his head and shouting ‘You’ll never take me alive’ whilst legging it around the house, intermittently leaping out of hiding places and tapping the investigating hound on the top of his head before, once again, disappearing up the stairs.

Apparently, after about half an hour of this, the dog decided that it would be much, much easier to actually catch the ‘Crimin-ager’ if he removed one of his limbs. This strategy, he doggishly decided, would render further attempts at escape futile and ultimately assure him of a toilet-roll related victory.

The Teenager, apparently on the verge of saying “My, what big teeth you suddenly have,” sensed correctly  that the mood had abruptly changed and, dropping his gun, hurled himself into his bedroom and slammed the door so hard that the handle got wedged into the door-frame.

When I got home I discovered a Dalmatian lying at the top of the stairs, jealously guarding a little pile of chewed-up cardboard and a cantankerous teenager with an extremely full bladder.

It’s a trip.

It really is.