"Silver Linings...In There Somewhere"

It doesn't look as though the Fat Baby is going to cease and desist his random fridge raids anytime soon.  We've lost probably fifty quid's worth of Haagan Daz in the past week alone (what we were doing with that much ice-cream is another issue I suppose) what with the seal on our fridge now irrevocably broken and the freezer compartment buggered from being left slightly ajar several times throughout the day (sigh)...

a common sight in our home

On the home front, last week's hopeful jubilation has been replaced with despair and premature defeat. After having spent hours scrubbing up this place in the hopes that someone might walk in and fall immediately in love with it like we did several years ago, the feedback from the agent about the two viewings we had on the weekend was lukewarm at best.  I have faint recollections of yelling downstairs to the husband to not forget to clean our huge lovely drawing room windows...but of course we forgot, and the agent was quick to point out that we had neglected to show off one of the most appealing features of this flat to its best advantage.  Oops.

So now, much like a rejected model on her first two promising castings, we now feel like we'll never grace the cover of Vogue, but rather end up asking, for the next thirty odd years, "Do you want fries with that?"

Last night was a tough one actually, so perhaps that's contributing to this rather negative train of thought.  Squit broke the nib off of the husband's beloved fifty quid fountain pen, got his hand caught in the clips of the battery charger for the camper van and managed to re-graffiti the bespoke white cupboards we just paid a handyman £100 to repaint four days ago, with impossible to remove oil pastels no less.

As if that weren't enough, I diverted near disaster yesterday on the tube when I foiled Squitty's attempt to chuck a set of our rental flat keys onto the tracks when it emerged that he'd somehow squirrelled them away in his 'pocketses'.  But the REAL disaster is that the Fat Baby has managed to lose our ONLY set of keys to the back terrace. Which is currently steel bolted shut.  So that means that should we be lucky enough to have further viewings of this place, the estate agent will sadly have to gesture to our huge back terrace with a flippant wave of his hand and say, "All this could be yours..." but I'm afraid I can't show it to you today.

Saying that, you know that old saying, "Beneath every cloud is a silver lining"?  Well thanks to various members of my beloved family all mucking in self-sacrificially, it emerged yesterday that this year, as a one off, the husband and I get to venture to Glastonbury alone this weekend.  I can scarcely believe it myself.

Of course it also means that my sister and her husband, soon to become parents for the first time later this summer, have put a humungous deposit in the Bank of Tomorrow by way of ensuring that at some point in their parental future, should they desire a weekend sans bebe, they have merely to deposit their little sprog outside our door (probably here, where we'll no doubt still be living), ring the doorbell, and bugger off.