Apparently, Ned has been having disagreements with his little five year old buddy at school. Often, they concern things of a lofty religious nature, like who is right – God or Allah – and they get all het up and shouty and then spiral downwards into some sort of ‘you’re going to hell’ mudslinging, and the teachers come and tell us to have a word with the both of them.

Ned comes home and grumpily tells his side of the story, which never makes a lot of sense, and we give a gentle pep talk about not worrying too much about what other people believe, because we all think differently and that’s ok.  His little friend’s mother came up to me on Thursday before Easter breakup and said WHAT ARE THOSE TWO ON ABOUT? And I said I didn’t know, but not to worry, as they also argue a lot about whether gorillas wear shirts. This topic seems to cause Ned the most anguish anyway, and he mumbles about it quite a lot. He is determined that gorillas don’t wear shirts ever, but O refuses to agree, and they drive each other mental with the primate-clothing-conundrum. He told me today that they usually end their fights by blowing ferocious raspberries at each other and then swearing off their friendship for good. Religion, gorillas – it is all a bit awks.

BUT LOOK! The new generation of makeup destroyer is laying waste to my collection of overpriced beauty products!

The baby has found my lipsticks, and he gouges them out with his fat fingers when ever he is let loose into the bathroom or anywhere near my bag. He smashed up a Barry M one and smeared it all over the toilet cistern, but I didn’t mind that, because they cost about £1. The Tom Fords are obviously a different story, and though it has been happening to me for years, it doesn’t feel any less painful when the newest and cutest member of the family learns the joy of soft highly-pigmented vanilla-scented tubes of overindulgence. Nothing is sacred.

The worst affected is Cherry Lush, an essential punchy blue-red, though in my advancing years, with the eyes sinking a little deeper and the skin looking a little like other people’s mothers did when I was a kid, a bit tarnished and worn out, like homework paper that has been in the bottom of a school bag for a few days, yellowing and with bits of food crusting the corners, I think Otis has done me a favour. Cherry Lush is for the young. Cherry Lush is for the hopeful, for those whose horizons still shimmer with potential career triumphs and unstained teeth. Cherry Lush is munted, frankly, and no longer works properly. It cannot glide over my lips – instead, it is like applying mashed potato to your mouth, soft and crumbly and RUINED. Like my stomach and my hair.

Here he is, the Bad Baby, stuffing a massive Easter egg into his mouth with no sense of shame.

And here are our eggs, softly boiled in vinegar and water, and eaten really fast because the idea of hard boiled eggs sitting around in this spring warmish weather for days made me feel a bit food poisoning-y. But they looked good, and I thought it might show the children that I care about handicrafts.

Then on Easter weekend we drove to Oxfordshire to Lasso, the reclamation place, and the kids tried to push over massive plaster columns and stuff, and we ate fried ox tongue and chips, and felt like we were properly in the country. Buoyed up and enthusiastic, we followed the yellow signs to the Thame Country Fair, and spent about £50 getting in, and then it hit me how much I really hate those sorts of things, with the jousting and duck decoys and the stalls of tweed caps and indoor displays of special kitchen equipment that you really wouldn’t ever need, not when you have a knife, and rows and rows of portaloos. Noah went in and fell out of one, and told me later not to do any ‘ureen’ if I went in, because it won’t be heavy enough to push down itself, and I would have to shove my hand down the toilet to release it. I asked him if that is what he did, and he looked a little bit shy and went quiet. Here they are at Lasso, giving me heart attacks with the casual climbing and touching and vampire-impersonating:

And the awful country fair. Hot, boring, full of people who like watching ax-chopping competitions:

And this week, Casper has had to wear his uniform and attend Easter school, so he can be more awesome at the SATS exam. All week. So the rest of us have been playing in the park and frequenting cafes for San Pellegrino and reading red tops. Tomorrow, we are going camping, which may break me.