mothers on the verge

Oh dear. Oh dear me. Oh deary deary deary me. Have just discovered that the teacher I thought was called Miss (w)Horeson is actually called Miss Hallsham. It appears that Firstborn has been pronouncing her name a bit strangely - or maybe all those years of bopping in front of great big speakers at dodgy gigs has finally come home to roost. There I was, feeling really sorry for the poor woman, thinking that it was such a shame for a young pretty girl like her to be saddled with the sort of name that makes schoolboys snigger (oh, ok, and mums old enough to know better). Or shall we say that I  did feel sorry for her... right up to when she loudly corrected me on my humungous mispronunciation gaffe whilst throwing me the sort of sad, pitying look I myself would reserve for a mad old bat who smells of wee. Oh. Well, that's not entirely fair. I'm pretty sure I don't smell of wee.

I did something a little strange on Saturday morning. Something a little unlike me. Something a teeny bit insane. Saturday morning. I got up. I put my trainers and joggers on. I went to the City and gathered with hundreds of other runners. Then I got dressed up in a gorilla suit and did a 7k circuit of the City of London for the Great Gorilla Run . I walked, I ambled, I limped, and then I finally ran in a suitably face-saving show-off manner for the last quarter of a mile. (But before you scoff, please bear in mind that over the past decade I have done nothing more taxing than run to the bus stop. I obviously had to keep my health at front of mind). I learned a few things: 1. Furry gorilla suits are unbearably hot and itchy, and not designed for anything more than a slow amble (especially on an unusually hot day in late September) 2. I am shamefully unfit 3. In fact, everyone else is in better shape than I am (especially all my colleagues who pelted, excuse the pun, to the finish li...