Oh I do so love a good virus. A good old sicky, coughy, achy old virus. It makes looking after two young children (one teething and refusng to be put down for longer than ten minutes at a time, the other just being a generally grizzly little sod) that much more fun.

So tell me, who do I phone to call in sick? When I’ve had roughly four hours heavily broken sleep, after DB2 decreed it was a good idea to start singing and loudly practicing talking at both 2:30 and 5am? Hmph.

Still, rotten cold and excessive self pity aside, let us begin.

The weather is obscenely cold at present. We ventured out reluctantly this morning (DB1 more reluctantly than most, if the despairing howls of ‘no, I don’t want to go out’ were anything to go by) into temperatures that were definitely subzero, if not positively arctic. This of course, led to a hell of a lot of melodramatic wailing from DB1, along the lines of ‘I DON’T like the wind’, ‘I DON’T like the cold’ and, the simple but effective cry of ‘MUMMY, NOOOOOO!’

We had that all the way into town. And round the supermarket. And all the way home. I must confess, it became a little wearing after a while. Actually, it was fairly wearing about two minutes after leaving the house. We also had the fun of ‘I want to walk’ (said in a whiny falsetto, almost like a pantomime dame), followed five seconds later by ‘I want to go on the buggy board’, followed a further five seconds later ‘WANT TO WALK!!’, accompanied by a plethora of tears. This arduous routine was repeated continually the entire time we were out, much to my growing irritation. Sometimes it is very difficult as a parent to resist the urge to simply lie on the floor and start beating at it rhythmically whilst walloping ones head against the pavement.

Mind you, the general debarcle of the walk into town was offset somewhat by the hilarious bitch-fight between two OAPs in Waitrose. I seized the chance to queue at a till that looked conveniently near-available, apart from one posh old dear (think perfectly quoiffed hair, sprayed into a classic ‘elizabeth the second’ style and button up barbour coat.)

It was a bit of a mistake. Said old dear was having a few issues with her credit card. The poor girl at the till, who can only have been about eighteen, had to explain, gently, that the card kept being refused. Much to the old lady’s chagrin, as she protested in louder and louder horsey tones that it ‘worked perfectly well yesterday’.

Anyway, at some point, another person joined the queue behind me, a grumpy old arse with a flat cap and the broadest Dorset accent you can imagine. Who was getting steadily more and more irate with Barbour lady. The dialogue went a little like this.

Flat cap: (muttering loudly)Some people shouldnt have cards if they can’t use em.
(Barbour lady twitches visibly but ignores him)
Barbour: Look, I think perhaps it must be your machine. Let me try it again.
Till girl: but if you get the code wrong a third time, it’ll lock your card…
Flat cap: (muttering more loudly) Oh let ‘er bloody lock it. Perhaps at bank, they can show ‘er how to use the bloody thing.
(Barbour delivers him a filthy look. I squirm, literally trapped in the middle of the two of them. Till girl gives me a desperate look.)
Barbour: Fine. Fine. I might have cash. I’ll have a look. But i really do think the fault lies with…
Flat cap: With your ham fingers. (I myself wasnt quite sure what ‘ham fingers’ were either. But I really didn’t want to take up the issue with him.)
Barbour: (finally snapping.) Look, I’m ever so sorry to hold you up, but…
Flat cap: Well, I’ve got things to be getting on with. You’ve kept us waiting about ten bloody minutes now, messing around with cards.
(it was about three minutes max actually, but again, I felt it prudent not to get involved.)
Barbour: Well, I’m ever so sorry, but it really isnt my fault.
Flat cap: (after making a derisive noise). Ham fingers.

I managed to wait until outside of the shop to start laughing about ‘ham fingers’, thankfully. I think Barbour woman might have actually lobbed her patent leather handbag at me had I raised so much as a smirk in her presence.

On a completely different note… Whilst changing DB2’s nappy earlier, I managed to accidentally teach DB1 the expression ‘sore ballbag.’