I have a lot of catching up to do.

I have been rumbled by Minnie, who observes that my posts are usually a week late.

This is true, Minnie. I have a chronic lateness problem. I will endeavour to catch up and live in real time for a few hours. Although if anyone looks back over the blog, no-one will know whether I was late posting or not. Oh dear, speculating on time dimension is overloading my brain connectors. And we have not even started to explain to Tiger why her time machine will not work.

I will complete some of my dues instead.

About a hundred years ago, Brad suggested I might like to think about this:

'Books are scarce in the world. They are illegal in some provinces. They are not easily replaced, if not impossible to replace if lost in many if not most circumstances. If you can replace a book or buy one, it is usually through the black market at astronomical costs that you cannot afford. Yet you have been able to maintain one of the best collections in the world. If your entire library was about to burn up (think of the firefighters in Fahrenheit 451 invading your home) and you could only have one* book to take with you other than the Bible, what would that be and why?

I have racked my brains over this. I really have. I have finally decided. It has to be the Thomas Cook Overseas Timetable.

Actually, I have struggled with my soul between the choice of the Overseas Timetable and the Thomas Cook European Rail Timetable. Both seem to offer satisfaction in the required department that with my chosen book I could imagine just about any scenario in any place and at any time. (And the decisive scheduling offered by both books might help too with that timing problem I have.)

After that, I could do Retired and Crazy's task. Here it is. I must blab on the blog six juicy factoids about what it is to be a Grit. Well, in these parts I am known as the triplet mum, so we'll start there.

1. People usually find not very subtle ways of asking. 'Are they natural?' 'Are they normal?' 'Was it successful?' These are questions complete strangers have asked me in public. In Waitrose. In the High Street. In the park. If the questions are not bad enough, then there are the reactions of strangers. 'Poor cow' is not too flattering, but the man who stood in front of the triple buggy, blocking the way, gleefully shouting, 'Here comes trouble. Triple trouble' stands out in my mind as deserving a good kicking, if only to prove his prophecy true. Not surprisingly, these types of experiences have brought out my bolshy side. I'm sure you can't tell that though, from the blog. So Grit factoid number 1: She is a grumpy, bolshy cow. With triplets.

2. Our wonderful and kind Egyptian baby doctor who told me endless jokes about pyramids and kings said there was about a 1 in 10,000 chance of naturally conceiving triplets. Thus it has been one of the little rays of happiness to respond, when faced with an ill-advised comment from some cosmopolitan thirty-something with a made-up face and a career, about how rather you than me, that it could very well be you, so think on't. Oh dear, Grit factoid number 2 sounds a bit like factoid number 1. I will change tack.

3. I like chocolate. Posh chocolate, so don't get me any rubbish. In fact I have worked hard and made a considerable investment in getting the children to like posh chocolate too. I want them to eschew the brown lard that passes for chocolate here in the UK. Indeed I have done my best to put everyone off the concoctions at the local newsagents by declaring loudly that it is actually dog chocolate, in wrappers.

4. I am an ill disciplined thinker. I could witter on endlessly, seamlessly and chaotically, probably about any subject. Writing is a good discipline and an excellent means of organisation.

5. I wish I could be like the woman I saw this morning in the Co-op. Six inch heels. Nipped in waist. Push up bra. Face like a car crash. Seeing this winning combination made me realise that women who give up are destined for Damart. Sadly, I suspect I am one of them.

6. I have a terrible memory. Really bad. I make lists, endlessly, to remind me about everything. Then I forget where I put the lists.

Now I've started, I can't stop, and for that see factoid number 4. And this is despite learning that self descriptions are very dangerous. For example, I once made a throwaway remark in an assessed session on literature, something self-deprecating and meant to diffuse awkwardness at that moment, like 'This poem is about, um... um... expression... um like I am having trouble expressing myself!' and this came back in an end of year report as something like, Grit has trouble expressing herself. Which is so evidently not true that even twenty years on I could take that tutor and shove several million written words right up his nose.

And did I mention the irrational angry outbursts? Perhaps not. And that grudge thing? Oh dear. Anyway, you probably know those.

Now I am supposed to pass these on. I cannot do it, even though I enjoy creeping around in blogland, reading your answers. You see I hate to inflict pain. Except, obviously, for the bloke at number 45. So I can only say if you have not done either of these little tasks, and would like to, I'll soon be over to read your thoughts.

Grit is now exhausted and going to have a lie down.