Update

This week I’ve been inundated with porn. Last Saturday my phone beeped at 8am. It was the friend who lent me 50 Shades of Grey, having read my article about being a few beats behind the drum when it comes to fashion and contemporary literature. It read: “Don’t you want the second and third 50 Shades book before you start The Hunger Games trilogy? The second book is better than the first.”

When I said it only took me a week to read, I was talking about one book, not the trilogy – I did say I’m a slow reader after-all. I was also still finishing it off Saturday morning and was most disappointed with the unhappy ending.

“Yes please, I replied. “The Hunger Games can wait. That book didn’t end on a good note - most unsatisfactory.”

Next minute my email’s beeping with a message from another friend: “I’m off to the beach but I’m leaving your porn on the back deck.” She was referring to books two and three.

I just need to clarify that this subject matter wouldn’t usually be my thing but I do need to find out what happens in the storyline (and I’m not just saying that in case my mum and nana are reading).

So The Hunger Games has been shunted further down the pile as I embark on my painfully slow (to most) journey through book number two.

Anyway, that’s hardly a topic related to anything remotely childlike or chaotic so I shall change the subject:

You know you’ve had a good Christmas when Master Four repeatedly refers to the non-existent baby in your tummy and keeps patting it.

“That’s not very nice,” I say, feigning a sad face.

“Sorry mummy.” Then, as an after-thought he walks back: “And sorry baby,” he says patting my tummy one more time.

Apparently I need to start running again.

And that’s about all I’ve got to say on that topic too.