Hello! Again. Here it is:

1. My FACE! My face is very normal. See:

My hair is less so. That is because of this:

Moroccanoil. It is supposed to make your hair look like a luscious Middle-Eastern belly-dancing queen but it makes me look a bit bald. It also smells of claustrophobia, decay and hippies. Up close:

Lank, dry and you can see my scalp. Which brings me to the next point:

2. My tooth. It got worse, it got bigger and redder and I cried, and so I was packed off to the emergency dentist for a bit of devil-may-care Sunday morning lancing with a scalpel and some suction and no anaesthetic. I am still too scarred from the gum-trauma to go into too much detail, but, frankly, birthing the 11lb babies hurt MUCH LESS.

3. Noah turned 5. We had two cakes. A plastic spider one:

and better-looking cupcakes:

On his actual birthday, cruellest of cruel twists of fate, it was Sports Day. He runs in slo-mo. He runs as though he is underwater. It was painful to watch:

He is not in that photo. He is still intently staring at his shoelaces at the starting line. Welcome to the rest of your life, Dear Son-of-Mine.

And he gave away almost all of his birthday presents. Attached to nothing, bothered by nothing, interested only in TV, sugar and lying upside down on the couch. Preferably without pants on.

Like this, but even more vertical, and even more naked.

However, the party in the garden was lovely. See my lanterns, my bunting, my friends:

So as you can see the garden is looking exceptionally fine, and conspicuously empty, seeing as all of the regulars are off on Euro-jaunts and French farmhouse stays. Bastards. So we practically own it, and we are both weeing in the garden and jumping on the frail garden furniture while we can.

4. We bought Woody Allen’s movie that he made in London two summers ago, using the garden and a flat a few doors away as locations. It was called You Will Meet A Tall Dark Stranger and it was teeth-grindingly dreadful. Do not buy. But you knew that.

5. The baby has done something mysterious with the La Pavoni coffee machine handle. It cannot work without the handle. The baby refuses to answer my questions about where he has put it. He, conveniently, maintains he DOESN’T SPEAK YET. We are at loggerheads. I am caffeine-free, and I don’t like it ONE BIT. A new one is coming in the post, and it cost £60. That baby is going to pay, someday.

6. Mark’s osteopath came around for cannelloni on Tuesday night. He launched into a story about his detox, which I only heard snippets of because I was doing parenting things. But I heard him talk about a 6-inch long clay-based ‘evacuation’. Mark wants to try. Not on my watch, dude! It made the cannelloni much less appealing.

6. I went a bit mental in the sales. I have (among other questionable purchases) a pair of apricot patent leather Miu Miu raffia sandals which, as you may be able to ascertain, are awful, and some very high and heavy wooden pleather Stella McCartney wedges which will be most excellent in Istanbul in September. You can’t win them all, as they say.

And I shall leave you with this.