I loved her song, her dancing, her look and her braveness to stay honest and speak up for human rights issues.

The contest, despite being another political hotbed, entertained us with magnificent illuminations and as always, interesting dance routines.

We sat down, as a family, with our score sheets and pens, some of us on pillows on the floor (there are too many of us, we can’t all fit on the sofa, it was OK when their bums were smaller, but they keep on eating, and thus growing). We agreed to: 3 if we loved them, 2 if they were quite good, 1 if the performance reached a mere OK and 0 if it was bloody awful.

It seemed like quite an easy-to-grasp score system to me.

But this house is full of rebels and when I quizzed around about how many points they’d allocated after each performance, minus numbers and decimal places started to creep in. Then during Macedonia’s entry the five-year old abandoned scoring altogether and attempted to write ‘evil’ in the total score section.

These were the high/lowlights for us:

• The female presenters took the opportunity to show us the entire contents of their wardrobes. While the man advertised his ability to take on as his next job a toothpaste commercial: he grinned constantly from ear to ear.
• What on earth are we British thinking? The Hump? Someone on the selection committee needs to be fired. Scrap that. The whole committee needs to go! There are so many brilliant artists in the UK. Shame on you!!
• Albania entertained us with a shrieker who had one of her dreadlocks glued to her chest like some kind of serpent. She was my husbands favourite?!?
• Bosnia and Herzegovina had the five-year old in a tizzy, I quote, “To me, her dress is stunning!”
• The Russian grannies were brilliant.
• Italy provided a pretty good singer but her downfall may have been that she dressed up as Amy Winehouse.
• We were highly entertained by Greece’s chorus, “You make me dance, dance like a maniac. You make me want your aphrodisiac.” (We don’t get out much).
• The Turkish group impressed us with their ability to make boats from capes.
• Spain said they couldn’t afford to win then taunted us with a stunning voice of Pastora Soler. They should really have taken tips from Ireland. I so hope that is the very last we see of catastrophe known as Jedward.
• I suspect that Ukraine’s ecstatic dancers had a wild time with Denmark’s euphoric drummer at the after show party.

Were you one of the 125 million viewers? Did you enjoy the show? Which county were in receipt of your “douze points”? What were your high/lowlights?

Last year we took it all a step further. As one of my 101 challenges we had a Eurovision party. My husband printed off score sheets he found available on the internet and friends contributed various foods from Europe. We had a great laugh and I forgot to take photos after asking all my friends permission to put their faces on my blog. (I blame all that European wine!!)

In the aftermath, I wrote the following informative article, which I thought might make a nice reblog as todays post because Eurovision hits our screens again tomorrow.

Doesn’t time fly?

The wonderful world of Eurovision

It has been brought to my attention that some of my readers do not actually know what Eurovision is. Now that’s not really surprising, if you look at my flag counter, it would seem that the majority of my readership is actually in the US. So, I thought I would write an informative piece on the phenomenon that we call Eurovision, but it’s taken me a while to do as I decided I’d learn a bit more about it myself and that meant I had to do some research!

A little bit of history

The Eurovision Grand Prix, as it was originally known, (actually, a lot of my neighbouring Germans still call it the “Grand Prix”) was first broadcast in 1956 and has consistently been transmitted every year since then.

A committee, the European Broadcasting Union (EBU), had been set up in the 1950′s in Switzerland, with the purpose of designing a “light entertainment program” to help to bring the countries of Europe together. Committee chairman, Marcel Bezençon, came up with the concept, based on Italy’s Sanremo Music Festival. His idea: an international song festival, whereby countries would participate in one program which would be transmitted to each of the countries within the union, simultaneously: LIVE.

Not only then, were the committee trying to rebuild war-torn Europe, but they were also attempting an extremely ambitious technological experiment!

Few Europeans had televisions at home in 1956, so most listeners tuned in by radio.

Seven countries participated in the first contest: France, Switzerland, Belgium, Germany, Italy, Luxembourg and Netherlands. Each country performing two songs. The host nation Switzerland won, a decision made by a closed jury.

This led to much speculation. Especially as the jury from the Netherlands had not been able to make their way to Lugano, Switzerland and so Swiss nationals were appointed to vote on their behalf. That and the fact that nations were permitted to vote for their own entry!

Lys Assia’s winning entry in 1956 remains the only song from a Swiss national to have won the contest.

In 1957 rules change

From 1957 each country performed only one song and each country gave their scores publicly, which were then added to a scoreboard. Nations were no longer permitted to vote for their own song. And duos, not just soloists were now allowed to perform on stage.

Three additional countries joined the ranks: Austria, Denmark and “Hello” the United Kingdom!

And so it goes on

Throughout the years the format has developed, the rules have been updated and the contest has grown.

Although the competition is called the Eurovision Song Contest, not only countries of Europe have taken part. The rule states that all participants must be active members of the EBU (as opposed to Associate Members). Thus, whether a country is geographically located in Europe or is a member of the European Union or not, is of no consequence.

Throughout the years, 51 countries have taken part in the show on at least one occasion, those outside of Europe include: Israel, Armenia, Azerbaijan (last years winner), Georgia and Morocco.

One of the rules that has stayed the same is that all vocals must be sung live.

The current format

With so many countries now regularly taking part, a qualification round in the form of two semi-finals, takes place in Eurovision week.  The ten top placed entries in each of the two qualifying rounds will then take part in the grand final at the end of the week. Along with the ‘Big five’: UK, Germany, France, Spain and Italy. The ‘Big Five’ qualify automatically for the grand final because without their financial contribution, the contest would not be able to take place.

Each qualifying country performs their three-minute song and as the entries are introduced the host country often shows a background video of sights to interest would-be tourists. Once all the songs are performed, an interval act takes centre stage while voting concludes and is subsequently totted up. The presenters return to the stage and each country (including those who did not qualify at the semi-final stage) presents its scores via a spokesperson (who is often sitting in front of a famous backdrop from their country ) through a camera-link. Votes 1-7 come up automatically on the scoreboard, then votes 8, 10 and 12 are read out for dramatic effect. The votes are reiterated by the presenters in both English and French. The camera switches to the gleeful faces of backstage contestants on their receipt of “douze points”. The performer receiving most points overall is declared the winner and must return to the stage and sing their song once again. (I have been known to cry at this bit).

There is no actual prize for winning: the prestige of having won is considered enough, although the songwriter normally receives a trophy and the winning country is invited to become the following years host (since 1958).

Hosting

Most of the expense involved with hosting the Eurovision Song Contest is covered by commercial sponsors and other participating nations, in particular the Big Five. In general, being the host of the contest is considered an opportunity to promote the host country as a tourist destination worldwide.

On five occasions the winning country has declined the invitation – four times: Netherlands (1960), France (1963), Luxembourg (1974) and Israel (1980) due to expense and once: Monaco (1972) due to no suitable venue.

The largest venue to date was the football stadium in Copenhagen, Denmark which held about 38,000 people in 2001 and the smallest in Millstreet, Ireland in 1993. The small town’s population being only 1,500, must have felt swamped by the up to 8,000 crowd that could fit in the local Green Glens Arena!

Due to the scarce availability of tickets for the final live show, tickets are often also sold by the hosting nation for the semi-finals and the dress rehearsals of the grand final.

Song selection

Each country submits one song of no longer than three minutes which has not been broadcast before an agreed date. They can select their song through any means they deem appropriate. Some are decided internally by broadcasters, others by countrymen and women’s public televote (national finals). The EBU encourages televoting for the simple reason that it creates publicity for the international show.

In some countries the national finals are as big, if not bigger than the Eurovision itself!

In Sweden, for instance, the ‘Melodifestivalen’ incorporates 32 songs over four semi-finals with the final show being the most-watched Swedish television program of the year.

In 2002, Spain started using a reality show, Operación Triunfo, to select Eurovision performers.

Voting

The voting system in place today is a positional voting system and has been used since 1975.

Originally, votes were cast by an internal jury, however, nowadays televoting is commonplace. The public can also use SMS to vote for their favourite act.

Studies have actually taken place with regard to Eurovision voting patterns which have identified that certain countries form ‘clusters’ by tending to vote the same way, affecting the final result of the competition at least twice.

So now, national juries have been reintroduced and represent 50% and the televoters the other 50% of the points given.

In order that countries cannot change their vote in a bid to influence the outcome, a scrutineer is given the results of the five last countries due to vote.

In 1969 with no tie break system in place, four countries (France, Spain, the Netherlands and the UK) all qualified for first place and were all announced as joint winners! The fallout was massive, in 1970 Finland, Norway, Sweden and Portugal refused to take part. So the EBU had to introduce a tie-break rule.

Since then there’s only been one more instance of multiple winners, in 1991, France and Sweden tied. The rules then stated that Sweden must be the winner, however, since then the rules have changed again, and if the 1991 contest had been judged by the current standards, France would have actually been the winner!

Politics and Eurovision

In 1978, as Israel’s Izhar Cohen and the Alphabeta sang “Abanibi” live in Paris the Jordanian broadcaster, JRTV, suspended the broadcast and replaced it with pictures of flowers. At first, they cited technical difficulties but as the voting proceeded and it became obvious that Israel would win, they pulled the broadcast altogether. Later announcing that Belgium had won (they actually came second).

In 2005 Lebanon had intended to take part in the contest, however, due to their failure to recognise Israel, they intended not to transmit the Israeli entry. As this breached the rules of the contest, they were forced to withdraw. Their late withdrawal resulted in them being fined.

To fame and fortune

The contestants may not win a prize, but their win often leads them to fame and fortune. The most successful winner of the Eurovision Song Contest so far is ABBA who won with “Waterloo” for Sweden in 1974.

Other participants who were given a hand up by the Eurovision stage are:

• Céline Dion who won for Switzerland (although she is Canadian) in 1988, with “Ne Partez Pas Sans Moi”
• Cliff Richard
• Johnny Logan
• Olivia Newton-John
• Lulu
• France Gall
• Dana
• Vicki Leandros
• Bucks Fizz
• Riverdance (an interval act)

Fascinating facts:

• It’s estimated that around 125 million people watch the Eurovision annually, meaning it’s one of the most watched non-sporting events
• It has been transmitted every year for the last 56 years making it one of the longest running television programs in the world
• Johnny Logan won for Ireland three times, twice singing and once as songwriter
• Ireland has won a record-breaking seven times!! Including three consecutive years from ’92 until ’94
• Before 1999 the host country had to provide a live orchestra
• Noel Kelehan conducted the winning songs five times
• Norway has come last ten times!!
• Bands were only permitted from the 1970′s
• Since the year 2000, viewers can also watch Eurovision over the internet
• Language restrictions have been laid and lifted on several occasions, the current rule (as of 1999) permits performers to sing in any language, since then both Belgian and Dutch entries have contained an artificial language!
• In French the contest is called: “Concours Eurovision de la Chanson”
• In 2008, a record number of 43 countries took part
• Only three women have ever conducted the orchestra
• 22 winning songs have been performed in English
• In the summer of 2005, Ukraine abolished its visa requirements for travelers from the EU, due to being that years hosts
• Actress Samantha Janus sang for the UK in 1991 and placed a respectable tenth
• The show has been transmitted far and wide to countries such as Japan, Egypt, China, Thailand, Brazil, New Zealand, the Philippines and Chile although these countries themselves do not participate in the contest.

Today, I finally managed to have a shower.

I’d bathed on Sunday in an attempt to curb the swelling.

That had not worked.

Then I was bandaged up by the emergency doctor.

My bandages were changed three times a day by people with varying bandaging techniques.

And on each change, no one mentioned the elephant in the room. The distinct odour hovering around my body parts.

As I said,  I’m not a complete minger. (Scots to English translation: totally disgusting person, sorry, I just couldn’t find a better word). I had scraped around with the flannel at every opportunity. I had doused myself in deodorant. Seriously. There were children choking. But neither can compare with a hot shower pounding against your skin.

No one refers to it. When you’re being bandaged up. The doctors don’t tell you how to climb in the bath without the use of your feet. Neither do they blow the whistle on how you conjure up super-powers, and stand up long enough to take a shower, when you can hardly stagger from the sofa to the loo.

In plain simple English: you are left to stink.

So, my wound being closed now (although I still have to adorn my legs with bright yellow antiseptic three times daily until Sunday, and I’m still going around with mummy legs), and my ability to stand up having immensely improved, I stepped into the most delicious shower and attempted to soap myself with my ‘new’ Naomi Campbell body lotion.

I say new, the bottle was in truth, part of a gift given to me for my birthday two years ago, by my son. He’d charmed the shop assistant while buying the perfume and had been given it for free.

I know all of this because he was so pleased with himself, he’d felt the need to give a full and frank account of the whole shopping experience.

I will admit that part of his character does come from my side.

I do exactly the same to my husband.

“I got you this present! And it’s especially cool because I got it for half price!”

I’m always more impressed in a gift that’s been a right old bargain. But my husband? He seems, somehow, less dazzled?!?

It took me some time to start using the Naomi Campbell body lotion because I’m often given shower and bath commodities as presents. I assure myself it’s because I have quite a lot of these bandaged up incidents. On top of that, if I’m honest, I’m not Naomi Campbell’s biggest fan.

Don’t get me wrong, I do think she’s pretty. In actual fact, I would say she’s one of the prettiest models I know of. Not that I know of many, as I’m not particularly interested in models. Quite probably because I have a serious deficit in the facial recognition area of my brain. I once watched the best part of a film, completely confused because I couldn’t tell Leo Dicaprio apart from Jason Bourne. I thought that only one of them was in it and the plot, thus, made no sense whatsoever.

But his bloody name isn’t Jason Bourne is it? *off to check Wikipedia* Matt Damon, that’s it.

Where was I? Ah, yes. Naomi.

In all truth, I went off her when she found herself unable to decide between wearing and not wearing fur. And her subsequent behaviour hasn’t helped her case.

So, should I have been the purchaser, I would have wandered off to another shelf and not even taken a whiff of the perfume that had her name sprawled all over it.

But the perfume was bought by my son. At a reduced price, he’d excitedly informed me. And then to top that, this tube of body lotion happened to be thrown in for free.

*Truth be told, the perfume actually smells quite nice and my son’s always pleased when I wear ‘his’ scent.*

This morning during my delicious shower I washed and conditioned my hair. Then squeezed some of the content of the Naomi Campbell tube onto my normally very effective bath lily and attempted to lather it up.

My first thought was, “This is one really crap shower gel!”

My second thought was, “It’s more like a body lotion than a shower gel.”

Then some kind of bell clanged in my head.

I removed the bottle from the shelf, held it two centimeters from my nose, as is needed without the use of artificial lenses, and deciphered B O D Y  L O T I O N.

Luckily my face couldn’t turn any pinker and even if it could have, no one could have seen it through all the steam anyway.

I can’t tell the doctors either.

It’s not that I was knocked unconscious.

It’s not that I was drunk and had a black out.

It’s just that I don’t know.

I worked steadfastly in the kitchen most of the day, cooking a special dinner for the men working outside in our garden.

I’ll just go over that point.

The manly ones spent around eight to ten hours slogging away outdoors, while I chopped and stirred and whizzed and peeled and ran backwards and forwards to the fridge (and to the shops for that matter, for forgotten ingredients). Then I went outside and planted in my newly built wall, for the best part of an hour, while the strongly ones rubbed their tummies and slugged on their beer.

In those eight to ten hours not one of the three gentlemen were injured.

Not one of the two children, running up and down the length of the garden with wheelbarrows and shoveling dirt, were blemished.

But in that one hour, something happened to me.

But I can’t tell you what.

Because I don’t know what.

I didn’t notice anything happening to me, that’s the problem.

I planted and I looked at my new wall and I felt good.

When I later went to bed, I had problems sleeping.

I arose in the morning and my heels itched like crazy and I noticed a couple of little marks. I decided that I must have been bitten by some evil creature – so I plastered it in anti-histamine gel.

But the swelling increased and it started to hurt.

My husband offered to call me a doctor. I (am trying to avoid doctors, seriously I’ve already over fifteen appointments, between the kids and I,  this month, so far) declined but took up his suggestion of reducing the inflammation with some raw onion.

The onion tried it’s best but failed. So I ran myself a nice lavender bath.

I rested my feet a bit and worked on a project for a while. Later on, as I tried to stand up the pain was immense. I stared at my feet and one ankle, frankly, looked as if someone had shoved a hard-boiled egg under the skin. I felt some concern and my husband appeared notably worried, but I waved off his doctor ideas and decided we should pop out for a bite to eat instead. (As all sensible people do when their ankle is drooping down towards the floor).

I headed towards the car but had to stop for a little rest. Feeling very sick from the pain, I started to entertain my husband’s ‘visit the doctor’ plan. I braved the two-minute drive to the restaurant then looked at my foot, which had miraculously grown again and finally, I admitted defeat.

The doctor saw me right away. She prodded and poked and inspected the now extremely red and bulging area.

“There’s something in it!” She proclaimed.

At first, she believed it to be ticks, but thank goodness, that was not the case.

In a few short minutes she’d managed to remove five foreign bodies from my heels. Two from one and three from the other.

I had no idea what they were or where they came from.

She bandaged me up and sent me to the chemist for antibiotics.

It’s healing well (I know because I’ve been backwards and forwards to my GP continually to have it checked out) but I’ll be bandaged up until Sunday.

I now look like a different type of mummy!

But I implore you:

How is it possible to embed five foreign bodies in one’s foot, while throwing a bit of earth in a pot and ramming in a few tiny plants? I didn’t use my heels as spades. I didn’t hammer the ground flat with the back of my foot. I didn’t roll around the grass and I didn’t go near any bushes. I had trainers and socks on. I used my hands.

???

Still, at least none of the men turned into mummies.

And:  I got to postpone my lady doctor appointment.

I roll the words of a five-year old around in my head for a few seconds. It takes me a while to make sense of them.

Then it clicks.

“Ah. Can you budge a bit?”

I force my approaching middle age (sob) body a few more centimeters across the bed.

The wide awake one corrects me, “I also said please!”

She climbs into my side of the bed and squeezes me with all her might.

I wouldn’t be exaggerating by saying she seems to possess a lot more might than I do these days.

Perhaps that is why the generous one did what he did.

He had read my fantasy full article I keep thinking and said, “Why not?”

It took me until yesterday to take him seriously. Then I surfed the net and found a couple of local, appealing hotels.

Still unsure, I quizzed him again. So he took the phone and booked me in!!!

My mini-break starts next Saturday at 4pm and he’ll pick me up on Monday morning.

Dear lovely, thoughtful, generous husband: did you realize that means you have to be up at 6am on Monday to organize the hyperactive one for school?

Sorry. You can’t take it back now! But at least you can look forward to your little daughter snuggling up to you at some ridiculous time bright and early on Sunday morning as compensation.

Thank you, lover. From the bottom of my heart.

Just to recap:

• I’m off on Saturday afternoon
• To a swanky hotel
• All on my tod
• That reads: NO CHILDREN
• Peace
• Quiet
• Tranquility
• SLEEP
• Someone else will be cooking breakfast, lunch and DINNER!!!
• I might go for a massage
• I could go for a walk
• I will go in the sauna
• I will officially be chillin’

Wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow wow WOW!!!

The other day is a good example.

I asked Mama what pigeons eat. I was a little worried. They come quite close when we’re walking through the town, hand in hand, and they sometimes have that I-would-like-to-bite-you look in their eyes.

Mama researched it on the internet for me. She told me they like worms (yuck) and insects (yuck yuck) and fruit (yum) and grains (what?).

I felt a little sick as Mama questioned me on what pigeons eat. It seems, I had good reason, not only do they eat worms. They also eat BRAINS!!

I responded, “Worms and insects and brains.”

I forgot about the fruit. To be honest, I was too busy thinking about how close to the ground my head is. It was alright for Mama, sat there, laughing. She’s tall. The pigeons would have to fly quite high to reach her…

“Grains not brains. G… G… G… Grains.”

“What’s grains?”

I noticed then the difference in the sound of the words and I can tell you I was rather relieved.

She babbled on about what grains are and really, I’m not sure what she was talking about, but I didn’t want to make that horrifying mistake again, so I said out loud to myself:

“Akasha, Akasha, Grains not brains. Grains not brains.”

Mummy laughed again. But she seemed to be crying too. How could she be happy and sad at the same time?

Today, on the way to Kindergarten nursery Mama asked me if I’d told my teacher what pigeons eat. I hadn’t. So she asked me if I remembered what pigeons eat.

I told her, “Worms and cranes.”

I realized my mistake straight away. I shook my head from side to side and corrected myself, “No, no, that’s the building thing. Grains not cranes.”

I think my Mama is quite a happy person. She laughs a lot of the time…

I let my five-year old stay home from Kindergarten today, as this morning, her cold seemed to have swallowed her voice completely. In all honesty, a mere whisper troubled her.

Now, you might suspect, if you’re not a mother, or if you have normal children, that that would mean a quiet morning for me. But you would be wrong.

Not only has she been attempting to chat me to insanity, she’s also had me running backwards and forwards to the kitchen.

At 8:15 she ate (not just through but) a whole slice of bread with Nutella. But she was still hungry.

At 9:32 she sucked on a spoon of propolis honey which had been freshly bought, at the beekeepers, by her adoring and concerned mother at 9:16. Her eyes lit up like Pooh bears do when he walks past a hive…

After some squeaky persuasion, at 9:47 she munched her way through a bowl of honey pops, drenched in milk. But she complained, that she was still hungry.

At 9:59 her mother caved in and fed her a large,  juicy strawberry.

Followed by a small tomato at 10:01.

Then at 10:15 she gulped down a glass of fresh orange juice.

Tormented by the jar of honey, she twisted her mother’s arm encouraged her mother to spread her another slice of bread with the throat-healing cure. She chomped through that at 10:28.

Between 10:47 and 11:08 she munched happily on not one but five physalises.

At 11:12 she swigged back a glass of water.

At 11:15 she demolished a Guinness Record Breakingly large banana.

At 11:29 she gnawed her way through some cheese. But I suspect, that she was still hungry because at 11:45 she was already querying, “What’s for lunch?”

I think my hungry caterpillar is broken.

She isn’t getting any fatter.

Nor is she complaining of a sore tummy or feeling sick.

And quite frankly, there’s no evidence of cocoon building.

Unless, that is, you count her putting up the pop-up tunnel in the lounge yesterday…

I keep thinking if I checked into a hotel, I could, at last, put together my stories in the form of a book, because I would have peace, perfect peace, to sprinkle my bits of paper all over the mattress and tap away on my netbook.
I wouldn’t have to dash off to the nursery and pick up a little person. Or break up a fight. Or taxi anyone to the doctors/party/shops/rehearsals. I wouldn’t have to make lunch. In fact, I could laze around work hard on my paper strewn bed, and intermittently dial ’0′ for reception and request the delivery of lunch. Or a hot chocolate. Or a piece of cake. Or a glass of prosecco…

I keep thinking how nice it would be to have a whole weekend, in a hotel, to get some solid work done. I could spend hours writing without interruption. I wouldn’t need to join in a game or load the dishwasher or answer the telephone or take in a parcel for the neighbour or run to the chemist or debate the weather with the clouds and try not to get caught out at the last minute, by a downpour soaking my almost bone dry washing.

I keep wondering: what kind of hotel?

One with a pool, perhaps. So I could swim each morning and feel refreshed.

Naturally, I could also swim in the afternoon. And in the evening too. Just to make the most of it…

One with snuggly bath robes, perhaps. So I wouldn’t have to waste time dressing. I could just work in comfort on the bed. And have a little snooze every time I felt the need…

One with a great chef, would be a plus. So I could feed my tired body and exhausted mind.

Maybe it could have a sauna to sweat away my worries, oh and a masseuse to relieve my aches and pains…

I am starting to think, it would be beneficial to stay there for a long weekend…

After all, then I’d get a lot more work done.

And more use of the pool.

And perhaps, I could catch up on some sleep.

And do that book review I promised.

And catch up on a few blogs.

And swim.

And order hot chocolate.

With whipped cream.

And a flake.

And banana slices.

And marshmallows.

The chef would be so highly talented, he would be able to balance all of the toppings on the surface, without any of them running down the side.

The porter would be so highly balanced, he would deliver the entire artwork to my room, without spilling a single drop.

All, while I cuddled my pillow, in my extraordinarily comfy bathrobe…

I’d take my hot chocolate – into my jacuzzi – in my en suite bathroom.

A perfumed smell would permeate the room…

After a long soak, and three more hot chocolates, I could consider going to the in-hotel beauty consultant and having my hair done.

That would, of course, include a head massage.

And a complimentary facial.

Then, looking my best, I’d head down to dinner.

Be poured wine by a good-looking, friendly waiter.

I’d eat, drink and be giggly.

Then I’d wander to my massive water-bed all alone. Put on the provided over-sized plasma and settle down and watch a romantic comedy.

I keep wondering, would it be too presumptuous to book my hotel for a week?

Except, it seems, he’s just too darn snuggly, and after only 25 minutes, he noticed I’d already nodded off.

That’s funny in itself, he exasperated, I started snoring precisely 25 minutes in last time we tried to watch exactly the same movie.

He gave up on me and decided he’d watch a film he knows I wouldn’t like. I didn’t feel like going to bed. The children had only just gone quiet so I lay my head against his shoulder and tried to block out the sci-fi sounds blasting out of the TV.

It didn’t work. I suddenly felt half awake. And cold. So I decided I’d have a bath with some relaxing bath salts. Mmmm…

I climbed into the tub before it had even finished running. So alluring was the water.

I felt the heat and I lay and I thought. And it soothed.

No wonder I was so tired! The five-year old had woken me at 7am (after I’d been writing until 2am) to remind me: today was the day of the birthday party.

One of the things you can guarantee in life, is that young children will always wake you up early at weekends and in the holidays, even though you have to raise them from the dead on a school or nursery morning.

And if you’re an optimist like me, you’ll convince yourself every Friday and Saturday night, that it’s the weekend, and that that means a long lie.

Tired, I arose from my bath, swathed myself in a soft towel and opened the window slightly to aid the room to return to its former bathroom look. Rather than remain as the steam room it had become.

I thought I’d just sit on the bed for a minute, but I felt dozy, so I tossed the quilt over me even though I was still in my towel…

“Mum, Mum! You left the bathroom light on and the window open!” A teenager awoke me.

You’re waking me up from my lovely and much-needed sleep to tell me that, I thought, but I couldn’t say as sleepiness engulfed me…

“Sarah, Sarah, wake up! You left the light on in the bathroom and the window open. Are you alright?” My teenager, worried, had disturbed her father from his film.

You, too, are waking me up from this lovely and much-needed sleep to tell me that, I thought, but I couldn’t say as sleepiness engulfed me…

I awoke this morning with a cheery five-year old in my face wishing me a “Good morning!” And I thought: what was all that about? OK, I left the window ajar, but the heating isn’t on and the mosquitoes aren’t here yet. And, actually, the normal bulb in the bathroom has blown, so I probably just switched the wrong switch off. The bulb over the mirror, is one I rarely use, being a person who generally avoids mirrors…

I trudged off to the bathroom for my morning pee, opened the door and saw…

… Trousers and socks and underwear and shoes thrown around the bathroom like a mini tornado had briefly entered the room and had a field day with cloth stuff.

What the hell happened here? I wondered.

I have an image of myself in my head now.

Undressing and swirling individual clothing garments around my head and then flinging them off into the yonder.

It’s not a pretty image.

It’s not a true image.

But I have no other idea as to how my clothes and shoes scattered themselves so freely.

On the bright side, at least I’m not the only one wondering: what’s going on?

I haven’t forgotten you.

I promise.

I haven’t fallen off the Earth.

Or drowned in a puddle.

Seriously. Once I did almost drown in a puddle. A long time ago. I kept wading. And thinking how deep can this puddle actually go? You have to picture a twenty year old me. In a long hippy skirt. Bum deep in puddle. Swinging my shopping bags somewhere near my ears. Soggy hair stuck to my head. Telling myself: I still have my dignity. No one is around. No one has seen me.

Seriously folks. I thought because no one else was crazy enough to be in the flooded street, at that exact moment, that meant no one had seen me.

I put two and two together and made five.

The following week a handsome young man, who had been shyly admiring me for some time, approached me and said he had seen me the previous week. With my shopping bags. Looking like a drowned rat-ess. Battling a puddle.

His adoring look had changed, unsubtly, to a why? You mad freak!

I tried to woo him back with tales of how I would have swum had it not been for my full shopping bags… That they would have sailed away… But he scarpered.

So.

Anyway.

Where was I?

Oh yes. Right. I’m sorry I haven’t been around much the last couple of weeks. I have been spending time with family and friends. And doctors. Of course. I managed not to embarrass myself at the internist. For the first time. I did feel the need to tell the nurse that she was very efficient. Several times. After they spiked me with the truth drug. But I didn’t do anything like this.

I am beating the door of forty and finally I have a reason to be proud of myself.