I realise that me going on about work is generally of little interest to anyone except myself, my colleagues and my clients, but I just can't help myself. My job, while pretty full-on, usually involves a host of mundane stuff - namely dreaming up ways in which to fill the blank spaces in powerpoint presentations and calling it strategy, placating clients, drinking a lot of Diet Coke and sneaking outside for the odd crafty ciggy. So the fact that I am slap bang in the middle of a couple of really odd weeks seems quite fascinating. To me, anyway.
Upon uttering anything to do with work at home, Alpha Male's eyes immediately glaze over. There is one notable exception - last week's 'naked boobie shot'. This was one job where he was suddenly and inexplicably keen to discuss the exact technical details of exactly how the strawberries were balanced on the model's breasts. (As I explained to him at the time, I don't really get his Sapphic love obsession; if I decided to switch my affections to the birds rather than the bees, then it would leave him somewhat redundant, and no, I wouldn't be inclined to let him watch.)
Anyway, I digress.
So last week was naked models and strawberries. This week the bizarreness centres on a giant ice cube landing in the middle of Canary Wharf, the thrusting heart of London's wheeling and dealing business community. No, we're not trying to inflict harm on a gaggle of pinstripe suits - the purpose of the exercise is to launch Vittel natural mineral water's new shape bottle in the most visible way possible. There will be bottles of Vittel embedded inside the ice cube, and visitors can have a good old hack at the ice to be in with a chance at winning prizes. So if you're in Canary Wharf tomorrow (anytime between 7am and 7pm) then come along - we'll be right outside the Tube and I guarantee you won't be able to miss us.
Which somehow leads me to potty training. We are in the middle of a battle with the Small(er) One. While she has suddenly decided that wearing a nappy in an unparalled evil, akin only to being denied chocolate or the right to bear tantrums, she hasn't quite grasped the concept that doing a poo on the floor in an antisocial act - especially when the crime is perpetrated in the middle of the cream rug - and guaranteed to put me into a bad mood. Or maybe she has, which is why the poos land anywhere other than the potty nine times out of ten.
Firstborn responded well to chocolate bribery (see one of my previous posts for the full story) but the Small(er) One views chocolate as a God-given right rather than a mere reward. Extravagant praise on the rare occassion when she does manage to deliver her call of nature in the proper receptacle, while well received, doesn't seem to make much of a lasting impression. The bestowing of a 'clever potty girl' sticker, ditto. And if I decide that she's simply not ready (which I suspect is the case) and stick her nappy back on, then the Small(er) One goes into a on-the-floor-and-rolling-about rage and takes the darned thing off as soon as my back is turned.
Back to the drawing board; there must be a method out there that will ensure I don't have to use industrial strength carpet shampoo on a daily basis. All advice very gratefully received.