This morning, I waved Mog off onto the school bus, and had just finished nuking a bowl of pureed spaghetti for Little Fish's lunchbox when her preschool teacher rang to cancel preschool. Ah yes, it must be Thursday. Never mind, I was down to be a Lady Who Lunches later on, I can just be a Lady Who Lunches With Small Child. It's only a minor difference, and I'm sure the coffee shop will be happy for her to eat her pureed spaghetti - a dish unlikely to feature heavily on their menu.
The cats inform me that we have run out of cat food. I inform them they can eat what they've got and like it, and Goway starts picking holes in his fur. I promise to buy more when we go out, and sit down to check emails before washing my hair. All this takes rather longer than planned, and I realise that I have just accidentally fed Little Fish her entire day's feed in three hours straight rather than pausing after 300mls. Ooops. I change her and burp her and clean her up, and we are off.
We leave the house rather early
Arriving at our destination I make the always pleasing discovery that whilst I have Little Fish's lunchbox and school bag, I have no purse. A search of the bus reveals £3.07 in loose change, half a dozen wrappers from suction catheters, and a bumper pack of chocolate buttons.
Coffee, cake, and the ebb and flow of life with our children means conversation runs simultaneously so deep we almost drown and so shallow we can't stop laughing.
Hospital next, where Little Fish is measured for a post-hip op brace. We've called this brace a Toronto brace, since that is what the surgeon calls it. The orthotist informs us this is in fact a Maple Leaf Brace. This would explain why googling the Toronto Brace was unhelpful before Mog's surgery last year.
We get to the clinic with ten minutes to spare before the appointment. And find ourselves seated beside an elderly woman slumped in a giant hospital "don't even think about stealing this it weighs a tonne and is ridiculously uncomfortable and can't be pushed in anything approached a forwards direction" wheelchair. "Oh please, oh please, oh please" she mutters, "I am too big to fit into an ambulance, oh please, oh please, oh please no no more treatment". And holds her hip, which is taking her weight as the chair is too large for her to sit properly in "Oh please no, no more, I will be good", and then her nurse turns up and comforts her for a brief minute before calling once again to beg the Patient Transport service to send the ambulance quickly. She is told the Ambulance will be there at three, and returns to hold the woman's hands, whispering words of comfort and attempting to persuade the woman to talk about happier times. This fails, the woman is distressed to realise that she cannot remember why she doesn't live in London anymore. And then, thankfully, the ambulance arrives to take them back to the care home - and it is the ambulance which was parked across the road and had been there for the twenty minutes before they turned up.
Our turn, Little Fish is measured, and she will probably be big enough for a brace by the time she has her surgery. This is good news; if she can wear the brace she will need it for just six weeks. If she needs plaster, it will be three months.
And then home, and home in plenty of time to take Mog to Rainbows.
Hell is very possibly an eternity spent containing thirteen six year olds past their bedtime and high on sugar. And that's all I'm saying about that.
And now Mog needs me. She's currently holding four sachets of movicol (bowel dynamite). And counting.