As the world continues to mourn for Michael Jackson (an event on which I am decidedly neutral despite having bopped along to Thriller at numerous school discos in my heyday) I am sitting on my front porch enveloped in a humidity blanket, sipping a fortifying glass of red wine and attempting to sit with the correct posture to alleviate the annoying pain in my neck. No, Alpha is nowhere to be seen, this is a literal pain in the neck brought on by a strain in my shoulder girdle - and no, I didn't know I had one of those either until I strained it. The pain was in my right arm but has now shifted to my neck, a bit of a relief as it means I can now type and drive again without too much wincing.
Firstborn reaches the grand old age of seven tomorrow so today was her birthday party, foolishly held at home (under the mistaken belief that having enough space for birthday shenanigans would make the whole affair easier). 15 small girls consumed huge quantities of sugar, Firstborn had an emotion-fuelled meltdown and Alpha narrowly missed being whacked in the goolies during a frenzied pinata session (little girls can be vicious in the pursuit of candy), so I feel confident in saying that the event was a resounding success.
This will probably be the last party Firstborn will have where a game of Pass the Parcel is an acceptable pursuit. Next year I expect her to demand a PA by Paris Hilton (currently in Dubai at the moment in search of her Best Friend, some drivelly airheaded reality show she's whoring herself for... yawn... which has sparked a frenzy of debate in the Gulf News), a feast of caviar and her own recording session, so I'm determined to enjoy the innocence while it lasts.
Viva pre-puberty. I'm all for it.