'Mia is the oldest, then Orla and then... *Big fat pause* ...the baby.'
Not to be put off by my lack of attention to detail Zak pursued this with:
'I'm sure she didn't just call her 'baby'.'
No Zak, no she didn't but Mummy has forgotten the poor child's name, okay?! I responded with:
'I think it is something Greek, Cassandra? No, that's not it. Oh well never mind, I'm sure we'll find out over the course of the morning.'
Sophie hadn't even got through the door before Zak yelled from the top of the stairs:
'Mummy can't remember what you called your baby.' Great. Welcome. (It's Juno by the way which is most definitely more Roman than Greek.)
That afternoon we took a trip to the cinema for them to watch 'Angry Birds the Movie' and for me to have a little nap. This is definitely the onset of old age but ticked all boxes. The kids were entertained, we were out of the house allowing Stu to work without chaos around him and I was indulging in my favourite past time. Well my favourite past time when there aren't any open bottles of champers around anyway.
Wednesday I had to go to Chelsea for my eye appointment. (All good news - meds are working - I'm back in contacts.) I decided to combine this with a day out with the boys and booked lunch after at our favourite restaurant, Heddon Street Kitchen. Zak was disappointed that my Professor didn't have crazy white hair and that he wasn't mad, but he warmed to him after he let them look at the back of my eyeball. I wasn't quite as keen on them 'helping' when the Professor said to Sebi: 'Don't drop that will you? It's worth 6 and a half grand.' Maybe he was mad after all...
Having refused to go to the loo at the hospital, Sebi started clutching his willy at Sloane Square tube station, which I'm sure is not the done thing at all in that neck of the woods. The furious willy grabbing and hopping from one foot to another became rather frantic by Oxford Circus so I decided we needed an urgent pit stop before we got to the restaurant. Like an Oasis I saw a public pay-as-you-go portaloo on Regent Street. I was just scrabbling for my 50p (50P4APEE!!) when I was approached by a friendly local drunk who told me I didn't need that and let me in with his key... (Who gave him the key...?!) I was hurriedly grateful and went in and Seb plonked himself on the toilet. I (STUPIDLY) left Zak in charge of the electronic door and he pressed the button to shut and lock it and then pressed every other button so soon it opened again; permanently. Apparently Sebi was not as yet finished so was now sitting in his glory in the middle of Regent Street. I was busy bollocking Zak when my new tramp friend came back to tell me we needed to exit as the thing was about to self-disinfect. Cue Sebi: 'But I TOLD you, I HAVEN'T FINISHED'. I'll gloss over the next few unpleasant minutes and 15 minutes later we were ensconced in the restaurant, obviously via another toilet en route.
The ice cream bar in this restaurant has to be seen to be believed. One small scoop of ice cream in a bowl with ten thousand jars of sprinkles and sweets for the kids to help themselves to. I think I got to Zak each time before he put a serving spoon full of sweets straight into his gob but I'm not completely sure. Safe to say you couldn't see any ice cream on their plates by the time they had finished loading. Two deliriously happy, sugar high boys charged around Hamley's and then their distinctly-less-wealthy-than-the-start-of-the-day Mother decided it was time to head home.
On the second traumatic tube journey of the day, Zak decided he was about to puke within about 20 seconds. I'm normally a big fan of anti terror measures on the tube but I really could have done with a bin that afternoon. There was no way in the world he was puking into my Ted Baker handbag (it's all about the lining!) so he managed to hold it in. I think he was just a bit hot and full of sweets but was still a distinctly odd colour by the time we got on the train home. 'Air' started escaping from the other end to ease his sore tummy and even with me subtly opening windows we managed to clear a whole French family and their suitcases from our carriage. I think I've now learnt how to say 'disgusting smelly English boys' in French now, should I ever happen to need it...
I had an amazing PT session with my friend Elena in the park yesterday. She obviously chose the bandstand to do it in so that we were literally centre stage. All of our boys took great delight in swinging high enough so they could see me over the hedge and hurl abuse at my efforts.
'YOU...*swing*...LOOK...*swing*...LIKE...*swing*...A...*swing*...DOG' sang my eldest. Personally I haven't met a dog that can plank with its feet in stirrups but I obviously need to get out more.
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