Saturday, October 13, 2007


This morning I woke up with the sort of yucky feeling that can only be produced by a late night and an excessive amount of alcohol.

Monkeys, I have found, are distinctly unsympathetic to this particular brand of poorly.

Try as she might, Monkey Senior is incapable of regulating her volume. Her energy levels, while incongruous with mine on a normal morning, are completely polarised on the days when the only way I can stop my brain from falling out is by keeping my hand pressed to my temple.

I may get up at 7 but I would choose not to speak, think or move until around 9. Monkey Senior opens her eyes and slips straight into top gear. She is terrified that somewhere in the world there is fun to be had and she is not getting her slice.

This morning, we launched straight into plastic high heeled banging and clacking ('tap dancing') and a 'concert' involving drums and whistles. This all happened before 7:10.

My pleas for her to sit down with her other mother (Playhouse Disney) were met with a look of total disgust. If we were gonna get this concert right, we had to start practicing now.

Monkey Junior spent the first part of his morning screaming for food and throwing everything that was offered to him to the floor.
Why can't he appreciate how hard it is to open the pantry and be faced with so many awful, vomit inducing foodstuffs?

Why can't they understand that, while we all need bacon, mummy's to sick to cope with the 'fridge smell'.

I can't help longing for the days of old, when Saturdays were spent drinking chocolate milk, eating Georgie Pie and watching movies with Julia Roberts in them.

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