I am writing this post from the hell-pit of despair. While on the verge of realising the man-cave of my dreams a great calamity – caused mainly by me – burst towards the sky from the fertile ground of eye-bulging excitement, like a magic beanstalk, but crashed to the ground, dead and dry, before I could even climb one branch towards the basket of golden eggs.
“Individually, we are one drop. Together, we are an ocean.”
Reservoir Mum and I have spent all of Sunday afternoon dismantling beds and traversing the hall with dressers and clothes and boxes of toys – s-bending and u-turning our way around kids while meeting their eating and entertainment demands, reprimanding here and there and patching over a few falls and mishaps – as we rearranged the boys rooms for what is a momentous and emotional occasion centred around the dismantling of the cot for the very last time.
If I was addicted to gambling, the most worrying thing for me right now would be how easy it is to bet on… anything. I can pick up my iPhone right now and bet on anything from horse racing to when Alien life will be proven; from the outcome of a football match to which member of One Direction will leave the band first (hopefully the last bet will become null and void and they stay together forever!)