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Apparently I am a brilliant cook, according to my daughter.This is even though my best dishes are tuna pasta bake and hot chocolate.
Yesterday I decided to venture into London. I had not, however, bargained for the fact that the way to the tube station is paved with ice and it’s all downhill. Not a particularly attractive option if you are pregnant. It took about twice as long to get to the station and I was already, inevitably, running late. My whole life is spent running late at the moment, mainly because I am trying to fit too much in. Yesterday the reason was that at 2am I was woken up by bonkers daughter, complaining her head [which was punched by a demon child yesterday] was stinging and that she needed to go urgently to the hospital. I took her to toilet to do an assessment. She didn’t feel sick, but the bruise was quite big. I asked her if she was dizzy or confused. She replied: "I am confused, Mummy. I just don’t know why he did it."
We retired to her bed, but, after previous experiences, I took the side away from the wall. I knew it would mean clinging on to the bed, but it was better than sleeping with my head thrust against the wall all night. We had a long conversation about life in general. I told her, I don’t know why, that some people thought my cooking wasn’t too great. "But you and daddy are fantastic cooks," she replied in wonderment. Aw. I also told her that a boy had told me he loved me when I was 10 and I had cried because I knew he was lying. She looked at me very seriously: "I think you’re lovely, Mummy," she said. What have I done to deserve such devotion? Not enough, I figured, so I slept in the bed all night and, naturally, overslept as there is no clock there. Hence we were running late from the offset.