No point crying over spilled eggs

I awoke this morning to the usual lilting refrain of my four year old son Teddy's plaintive wail, "is it morning time yet Mama?". It's 7:20 so yes, it is morning time, more's the pity and I yell my response of permission for him to enter the room with Jellycat, Mama Jellycat and a hot wheels car of choice which will proceed to blaze it's way across the bridge of my nose until I open my eyes and herald the day.

It's one of those days where Teddy's father collects him before 9am giving me the luxury of an extra cup of Earl Grey and a gesture of crossed fingers and a silent plea that I may, just may, have half an hour or so before the peculiar guttural growls of my nine month old daughter Kitty emanate from the nursery. Well, the badly decorated box room in which she sleeps.

It's Thursday, the day that my Mother kindly takes care of my youngest while I spend the only 'me' time (I hate that phrase) of the week putting myself through a cruel core stability class and an hour's run. It has to be done to avoid the mental rounds of self flagellation that take place if the requisite amount of calories aren't blasted away before any calories are consumed. Most of the time this works well: calories burnt, endorphins delivered. Sometimes it does not. Two weeks ago last Thursday saw me stuffing plain chocolate coated marzipan eggs down my throat at breakneck speed in Lidl car park; a dark day. Sadly today was another of those days where I just didn't quite manage it.

It was a spectacularly sunny day, so rare, that I opted to sit in the garden to consume my only partially deserved bagel while I observed the antics of my newly acquired ex battery hens pottering round the garden. It was all rather idyllic until I had to try and get them back in the run prior to collecting Kitty. A Benny Hill style chase ensued seeing me hairing around just nearly catching their tail feathers before retreat was sought under the nearest shrub. I got there in the end.

The day wore on with me managing, as usual, not to achieve any of the carefully compiled mental list of necessary chores: two baskets of ironing, outraged letter of complaint to the hospital, dusting, planting bulbs for next spring.

The undoubted low point of the day came, however, when the children were safely in bed and I was about to sample some simple cuisine of scrambled eggs, smoked bacon and delicious wholemeal bread. The bacon sizzled enticingly on the griddle, generous slabs of thick buttered bread lay waiting on the plate. I cracked three eggs gifted so kindly by our girls, touch of butter, ground black pepper, splash of milk and oops! There we have it. A glaze of uncooked egg decorates the floor, along with an upturned pan and a wooden spoon. I sit down, ironically in front of Masterchef feeling somewhat defeated and sore. Oh, and and my wine glass would remain empty tonight as I force myself to follow through with a very rare dry night. Hoping for a better day tomorrow.