Man flu has struck, but it is worse. It is man-rash, and it has taken over my husband’s entire body and has made him waft about the house in giant terry towelling robes looking a bit Hugh Hefner-esque and a teeny bit predatory. And it requires him to lie down in the dark, in the quiet, but in our house, these things are simply unattainable. So, well, stink for you, dear, but We Must Carry On.

Meanwhile, I have been beavering away (phnarr, phnarr) helping to make polyester approximations of costumes for the School Christmas Play. I have made this majestic list thus far:

1. Angel wings with the help of a glue gun. Glue guns are, quite frankly, more fun than any other thing I have ever played with in my whole life. If they didn’t cause 3rd degree burns and pose a choking/poisonous plastics digestion hazard I would TOTALLY buy each of the children one for Christmas. Although, they would DISRESPECT the magic of glue gunnery and, instead of making proper crafts, would stick inappropriate things together, like my glasses to the fireplace and my driver’s licence to my baby’s forehead.

2. Lamb’s ears stuck on a woolly headband. These involved needles. Not nearly as much fun. Custard was the model, and as he is two years old, and the lamb’s ears are for children from four to seven, I predict there may be a bit of a ruckus at the dress rehearsal on Wednesday. Sorry, The Kids, in advance for the tight elastic uncomfortable feeling around the scalp, but I cannot think of EVERYTHING.

3. Robin redbreasts sewed up the side in big fat unwieldy stitches.

4. Beards for all manner of men, including The Wise ones, Joseph, some elves and, of course, Santa himself:

5. Robin’s feet with wraparound polyester gladiator-esque tie-ons.

It turns out my craft skills are ABUNDANT.

And while I was ferreting away with pins in mouth and scissors in hand, the baby went and ate up all of the old biscuits on the floor in the swept-up-rubbish pile. Look at him:

The shame of it. AND he is in a faux-fur hood. He, of course, has never had a better time in all of his life, and must have made his way through about 17 types of old biscuits, as well as 3 tubes of glitter and one tinsel wreath. See his glee at being left alone in the secondary school resources room while his mother was being some sort of Crafting GENIUS:

“Ha ha ha” (says the baby) “I LAUGH in the face of old-biscuit-germs! I chortle at choking hazards! I guffaw at sharp-pieces-of-cardboard-ingestion!”

And that, fellas, is how you do it. How you do four children five years and under. You just don’t worry too much about anything. You only look up from ipad/glue gun/Grazia magazine if there are severe choking sounds or proper wounds.

Ahem.

So, we are in the throes of end-of-year school stuff, and buying presents for the chilluns and getting ready for our second annual Christmas Eve Party For The Geographic Orphans. If you miss your mum at Christmas because she is actually in another balmy hemisphere, and you are here, cold, and miserable, then you can come! There will be lots of champagne, but there will also be about 12 children, which sort-of cancels itself out.

BaByLiss Big Hairs have been purchased for just about everyone, the children have a Sylvanian Family each, (in the hope that they might become less feral and more nurturing if they have small plastic meerkats to look after) and dear rashtastic Mark has nothing at all, other than a Steve Irwin CD. He is a bit tricky to buy for. He really only wants a boat, a bach in Mangonui or sharp tools – none of which I am much help with, and so crocodile hunter documentaries and calamine lotion it will have to be.