Anne and Mila playing the ever-popular game, Let’s fling sand at each other.
Fingers up noses, people.
We’re on holiday. Heathrow has a soft play area next to the gate. Woohoo!
Why, oh why, do some cookery programmes persist in that totally contrived, I’m just dropping into the shop, I’ve got a date night with my husband, a teevee crew just happens to be there pretense? It’s incredibly grating. It’s so strained and unnecessary — I want to see food being prepared and chatter around that, not a poorly-acted scripted setup reminiscent of a porno.
Also, is it strange that I am less willing to look up and follow recipes supposedly devised by fat chefs, because their diets are clearly less than healthy?
I watch a lot of Food Network.
As I’m not truly bilingual (i.e. I don’t speak Mandarin unless I have to), I guess Anne won’t be ‘crib bilingual‘. She knows what 洗手 means, though. Guess I need to start or go to a Mandarin play group, so she at least has some exposure. If only my teachers and tutor could see me now. They’d be smug as hell.
While I’m glad Anne’s finally got through the phase where everything and everyone is ‘daddy’, I’m less amused that she is pointing at pictures and drawings of monkeys and saying ‘mummy’. You have got to be fucking kidding me.
I have a feeling my big achievement this week will be moving my PC from the spare room — where it’s been buried under stuff (baby carriers, photographs, Neil’s documents for filing) for three months — into the living room and connecting it to the television.
According to The Economist, interstellar travel is a very distant possibility (see what I did there). I am disappointed.
Or holding on to the baby as she insists on getting on a horse on the coin-operated carousel.
Used the basic recipe as seen here, and added 10 chopped-up prunes, a shredded conference pear, and 2 teaspoons of honey. No refined sugar. Anne’s asleep right now, but I hope she likes it as much as I do. Yum.