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I was feeling very guilty last week about not taking much time off for half term. It's always a balancing act between how much time you take off on any one holiday and how much time you're going to have left for all the others. Of the actual time I did spend with the kids this week quite a bit of it was passed on the phone to my internet service provider. The new computer isn't working. I think it has been eaten by a dreadful virus within days of entering our house, despite me putting an [I'll admit it] basic anti-virus programme on it almost immediately. After several long conversations with Keith in India, I have now moved to immediate "second level" support [this is probably reserved for 'really annoying customers']. I have also got to have a long conversation with the computer manufacturer some time this week so am steeling myself and warning the family about possible stress reverberations.

Working from home is great, but I think I need a full back-up team. Especially on accounts which I am also trawling through very slowly. Anyway, my guilt hit its nadir on Friday when bonkers daughter asked me when I was coming home and then when I said about an hour she asked how many that was to count. I had visions of her counting every second until I got home.

The whole week has been the usual patchwork of my mum, my partner and me covering the days. The weekend has brought some respite, but I am now trying to create a Viking extravaganza outfit for goth girl. She has some Viking Day project at school next week. We have been told she must come dressed in a long dress, a cape, an apron [back and front], beads, a headscarf and a broach. I saw the other year's Florence Nightingale efforts and they looked fearsomely realistic so I have decided I must try my best to make her look as Viking-like as possible. In a bid for authenticity and after consulting her encyclopaedia of Britain [which has one brief mention of Vikings and pillaging and, sadly, no word about clothes], we headed for the nearest charity shops. I had thought that the material section - sheets in particular - would be a good hunting place for Viking costumes, but the sheets all had Winnie Poohs on them. Not really authentic Viking.

After a few shops, I hit gold dust: a set of fawn curtains. Goth girl said her teacher had noted that Vikings wore dark clothes. Not in my book. I consulted with the person at the charity shop and we both agreed that Vikings were very likely to wear fawn curtain material. I have done most of the sewing over the weekend and we also made a Viking broach [okay, it's a bit of cardboard coloured in swirls. I think it might actually be more Celtic than Viking, but it's kind of all around the same time, isn't it?].

Goth girl is now refusing to wear said costume on the grounds that she'll look silly. She's never liked dressing up whereas you can't get bonkers daughter out of some form of costume or other. This evening she decided for some unknown reason to dress up in my bra with socks stuffed down it. Such is her enthusiasm that toddler daughter and goth girl both followed suit and decided they wanted to sleep in the bras. I fear bonkers daughter is actually in love with my breasts. In fact, I fear that bonkers and toddler daughter love them better than they love me.

I had some mummy and bonkers daughter time today. This was because I took goth girl to swimming the day before so had promised her some time. It was only five minutes for going to the corner shop - on her bike and, boy, is she speedy. However, it was enough for goth girl to throw a jealous tantrum and say that 'since I've had my time I guess you won't care about me for the next week'. Toddler daughter was also cuing up for attention. It is very flattering to have your attention craved so much, but why is it that their father seems to be able to come and go at will and has no-one bearing a potential life-time grudge against him for a five-minute trip down the road?