Resistance is futile

Mum, I wanna ast you something. Mum, Mum, Mummy Tia, I need to tell you something. Um, I would like a likkle pizza please. Please, Mummy, it would be very nice and I am a bit hungry. You order one, pleeeeeeeese, Mummy, a pizza with the man bringing it in a box and we can eat it. We could ave one Mummy, we could. I would like one it is my favourite and my best it is.


Anyone care to explain how one small child can eat her own bodyweight in pizza with no I'll effects and yet choke on pasta, gag at the sight of a bread crust, and refuse to allow anything green within three inches of her face? How can h
she retch on a banana milkshake (tubed) and have space for slice after slice of garlic bread? And why are cheese and ham on a plate something to cry about but cheese and ham on a pizza something to celebrate?

Do Dominos make cauliflour and courgette pizzas? Oh, and why is pizza in a box from a man at the door her favourite and her best, but pizza from my fair hands and pizza from the freezer both objectionable?

Readers, we ate the pizza.

Long day today. Up early, and for once LF consented to eat her breakfast (1/2 a slice of toast) in somewhat less than 30 minutes. Smart clothes all round; matching dresses for the girls to LF's delight and Mog's displeasure. All dressed, hair brushed without tears for once, polished shoes, ironed tops, and a reasonably clean house too.

Off to church where for once we managed to be early. Girls delivered to their various spots and I to my semi regular slot into the next-but-one-to-the-back-of-the-rows-in-front-of-the-door aisle seat. It's a comfortably safe spot. Close to the exit if needed by crying child. Or if the church should suddenly burn down; an unlikely prospect but important to be prepared and ahead of the Zimmer brigade . Within smiling distance of several housegroup friends, handshakeable distance from the earnest brigade, and shoulder polishing reach of woman whose name I am now resigned to never remembering. A safe distance from the drums and out of wincing range from the speakers; a spot nicely placed to give a good view of most of the rest of the church whilst still being able to read the words on the screen in front. And for once, feeling reasonably smug - not late, no toast crumbs or coffee stains, proper shoes and even a skirt- and a skirt which i had tied in several different ways in front of a mirror before leaving the house to ensure it was neither inside out nor at risk of unwrapping itself and revealing a pasty white leg during communion.

And then the service started, and I put my hand up to my collar, to loosen off my tshirt. And then my fingers found a label, and I realised my tshirt was on back to front. And then I wasn't feeling so smug any more.

I am not cut out for smart.
Tia