Non-news story

Gloria has another cold. Yipidee-doo-dah. Once again my smily chubby little cherub has turned into an inconsolable, snotty, coughing ball of misery. Add to that a new tooth on its way and you have someone very angry with the world. She is screaming as I write this - I am hoping she will go to sleep (she's also been up since 5am, which by my calculation, would make her tired. It's now 5 pm.)

I am annoyed for two reasons. One: she has had a cold on average, every 3 weeks since she was born and it seems rather unfair for her to have another one. Two: why is she so poorly when she is still being exclusively breastfed?

(Screaming update: still going strong. Action: nothing. Not yet.)

Every book I have read on the subject is very pro-breast. Some people would have you believe that breastfed babies are more likely to eat their greens, go to university, help old ladies across the road and generally heal the world. I think this is bonkers. But even the non-bonkers experts maintain that it gives babies some extra help with their immunity.

(Screaming update: waaah, waaah, waaah. Action: nothing. But wobbly.)

So why is Gloria's immune system so rubbish? She picks up everything that's going. In my mind it can either mean a) breastfeeding is overrated or b) my breastmilk is rubbish because it is actually Tizer in disguise. (This would also explain while she won't sleep at night.)

(Screaming update: see above. Action: sweaty palms. will go in a minute.)

I am wondering if there is something more serious wrong with her. One of R's doctor colleagues suggested getting her tested for cystic fibrosis, but I am 99.9% sure she doesn't have it as there is no family history on either side. But could she have something else? Maybe my mind is playing tricks on me and I am just sick of her being (ordinairily) sick.

(Screaming update: full metal jacket. Action: I'm off to give her a kiss and a squeeze.)

The Switzergent

Rob is going to be 40 tomorrow.

I have made him a card. I have bought him a present. The girls have too, and I am about to wrap all three. Emma and I have made him a birthday banner and stuck it all over with stickers and lentils and pasta. There is a birthday cheesecake chilling in the fridge and special breakfast - fancy muesli plus goodies from the bakery. I bought lilies on Saturday that I hope will stop being stubborn and open in the next 8 hours. I need to fiddle around with bluetak and pins and things and I am too excited to go to bed.

He is too many things to sum up, but I will have a go. He is my driver. My chef. My organic gardener. My personal stylist. My loyal morning tea maker. Handyman. Therapist. Artist. Computing trouble shooter. Sounding board. Bodyguard. Singing and dancing partner. Silly accent impersonator. Hot water bottle. Breadwinner. Best daddy of girls. Best friend. Endurance champion, as he is stuck with me until one of us is dead.

I am sorry I have only known him for 5 of the last forty years. I hope there is another forty in us both.

(Yes, yes it's all a bit Steve-Wright-in-the-afternoon, pass the sick bag etc etc but get over it, ok? Normal service will resume the day after tomorrow.)

Dramatic goings-on in the supermarket

I go to the supermarket every day with Emma and Gloria. It is usually a fun trip in a totally nightmareish sort of way. Fun for Emma, who saunters up and down the aisles filling her baby trolley with whatever she can reach; and a total nightmare for me, who puffs and pants after her getting very shouty and exasperated by the time we reach the till.

Today's trip started like any other. Emma playing with the nicely-reachable, perilously-sharp bread tongs, lugging around 1kg of polenta just 'because' and re-arranging all the packet soups. We got hissed by an elderly man when she left a 4 pack of yoghurt on the floor. (Usually there is more hissing than this. I am the only person I know who lets a 2 year old unleashed on the shop floor. I don't think it is a very Swiss thing to do.)

After casually discarding the polenta, the 7 concealer sticks, the plastic necklaces and 3 pack of men's briefs, we paid for our goods and prepared to go. I turned my back for a second: Emma was gone. "Emma!", I said in a voice that was firm, friendly and sort of loud. No response. I scanned the area - no Emma.

My throat went dry. I abandoned Glorymouse and the shopping and dived back into the supermarket, running up and down the aisles. I called out "Emma!" over and over again, loudly. Nothing. I came back, my heart racing: then ran into the opticians and the pharmacy next door. No Emma. She's under a car. She's been abducted.

By this time I was getting stared at by everyone, but wasn't in the mood for being culturally sensitive. I went into the other supermarket over the road and ran up and down the aisles shouting her name like a lunatic, and starting to cry. No Emma. When I got to the entrance, a kind person came up to me and said "Madame! We've found her." I rushed back to the original supermarket. There, in the arms of a buxom and friendly-looking lady, was my errant girl. She seemed very happy to be there, and rather upset that I had come to take her away from her new friend.

"She was in the restaurant, sitting quietly at a table waiting to be served," said the lady.
"Merci, merci" I mumbled, having suddenly recovered all my cultural sensitivity and wishing the ground would swallow me up. Emma was deposited into my arms. "Don't ever do that again," I said, or something like it trying to be very stern though my voice was wobbly. She had been gone for a maximum of about 10 minutes.

I left in a hurry - only to have to go back again, blushing and muttering. Little fingers had stashed away undesired and unpaid for items under the pram. (A packet of olives and a large cheese.)

The next time I go to the supermarket I will wear dark glasses and a large hat.

Things I am struggling with today

1. Staying awake
After a few happy moments this summer when Gloria slept through the night, she is now convinced at 8 months old that she is a newborn again and wants to be fed 2-3 times a night. I think she's teething. Whatever her excuse is, it'd better be good.
Emma also likes to rise at 5.30 and climb into bed with us - she always goes to Daddy so at least I can pretend it's not happening for a bit. After 10 minutes she gets bored and starts shouting "Breakfast."

2. Overeating
Partly because I can't stand wasted food but mainly because I am a greedy pig, I like to hoover up my children's plates as well as my own, usually before they've had a chance to eat it themselves. It was tuna/sweetorn/mayonnnaise baked potatoes today, slathered with butter. I think I ate about 5. This rampant over-consumption is all taken care of by breastfeeding for now, but when Glory tires of her special dairy products, those extra cals will pile on like an avalanche. Let's not talk about my sour cream and chocolate birthday cake, either.

3. Laziness
I have a week's worth of laundry to do and I'm not doing any of it. I have an in-tray bulging with tough decisions for which I have to unearth my ancient reading, writing and arithmetic skills and I'm not doing any of it. And the tax man is knocking, but I am not in: not today.

4. Daydreaming
I'd love to watch How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria. I love 24 but I don't think Kiefer Sutherland can act. What would Emma look like if I cut her fringe on the bias. How many calories are there in a baked potato.

5. Being shallow and inane.

It is my birthday this Sunday. I am going to be thirty-three. I would love to be more excited about it than I am, but after 21 I am not convinced they are that fun any more.

I have more than plenty of reasons to be cheerful, though: 2 x small, gorgeous female reasons and 1 x tomato-growing, floral-crown-making male reason being the main ones. As I write he is furiously mixing ingredients for my birthday cake. (I am not sure why he isn't gay.)

Tomorrow I am being whisked away on a day trip, just the two of us. This is the first time I will have been away from my princesses since Glorymouse was born. I am a bit nervous but very excited about it. But I have a sneaking suspicion they will be fine.

It's Patsy from Ab Fab

Good grief.

Did I look that rough? Did I look that old? Did I look that posh and horsey? (OK, I am quite posh - but not horsey. I like horses, but they scare me with their big teeth and hooves.)

This was taken at my best and oldest friend's wedding. I was her best woman, and Emma her bridesmaid. Brian - publicity-hogging little monkey - is obscuring her pretty white dress. There was a floral crown that went with it, made by her father who is a consummate flower arranger. Shame it stayed on her head for only two seconds. Meanwhile Gloria is eating her own cardigan. It was a brilliant day, the highlight of our summer holiday.

We went to London, to Portsmouth, to Dorset, to Devon; we saw friends, friends' babies, family babies and about 50 prize-winning rabbits; we picked blackberries; we watched hours of telly. We gorged ourselves on things unavailable in Switzerland - clotted cream, nice tea, nice toast, nice wine, Marmite, bacon. It was strange and comforting to hear everyone else speaking English.

There were some lows: my father-in-law's illness, our plane being cancelled, our mothership-sized suitcase breaking, getting scolded over the tannoy at Bristol airport, Emma undoing my halter-top dress seconds before I was meant to do a reading in church.

But it's nice to be back and to have things where I can find them. And if I risk any more Judy Finnegan moments, at least it's in the privacy of my own home.