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.

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