Typing blog posts on my phone is not something I enjoy, but I have no choice.
Liam has reclaimed his netbook, he's well into social networking now.
I'm lying in bed with cold feet and a bloated belly from binge eating. I'm from the John Prescott school of eating disorders.
Along with my mum, I looked after my niece and nephew today. I returned to a mother and toddler group I thought I'd left behind 2 years ago. Margaret, 80, was still there. Margaret is a no-nonsense sort of lady, efficient and thorough. If you forget to pay your £1, cor blimey, you can guarantee she won't forget.
Tea is served in bone china cups with saucers. One gulp and I've finished.
Cath runs the group, her husband is a parson (is that the right word? He takes services at the Chapel. Too fiddly to Google it using phone mid blog post).
Cath used to teach maths at my high school. I hate mathematics, hurts my brain and makes me feel inadequate.
I was treated to 40 minute run down of all the activity I've missed over two years, including the lead being stolen, twice, from the roof.
I felt I'd never been away.
A new pensioner had joined the throng of helpers. I didn't catch her name. I'd say she was in her 70's, and that sartorial elegance is not something she is known for. Jade green jacket (short sleeved, gold buttons, mock breast pocket with floral trim), floral skirt which skirted mid-calf, white socks pulled up, revealing about an inch of blueish hairy-skinned leg. White trainers.
I was transfixed, she's quite a character - chasing the toddlers, singing and clapping very loudly and suddenly, darting about like a lead theif.
Babies, toddlers, young mums, older mums, grandparents and great-grandparents. All sat together.
I really panicked when I thought how quickly the time could pass between now and me being one of the grandmothers.
And how soon I could be sporting an "I don't give a shit" outfit.
Then it dawned on me.
Nothing is going to change!
Out of interest:
What was your favourite job?