Out of sorts

We're all tetchy today. Squirrel burst out of her bed this morning shouting lungfulls of abuse at Tiger, who responded by hurling a bowl of bran flakes at Shark and pouring milk over the table. Squirrel then pulled my starry light-pull off the ceiling due to over-exaggerated arm movements; I shouted, Shark hid. Dig is complaining about the freecycle bags stacked up in the hall, and I'm complaining that I seem to be restricted to four messages a day on the freecycle list. I expect a call from Dosh later, complaining that the Agents have been complaining because of my glowering behaviour in the hall yesterday and the banging noises coming from our kitchen. He'll think it's a deliberate vendetta to stop him getting a tenant. Well, it is, but not against him. On the other hand, it would be great if he couldn't get a tenant and had to sell his flat to us, but yesterday he said he was planning his retirement in the flat and that he was going to put in a Stannah stair lift. Not if I've got anything to do with it.

I blame the lessons. they all start again tomorrow. And we're all tetchy. The one big disadvantage with home education is that we're hardly ever at home. French, Italian, ballet, swimming, trampoline, violin, gym, they've all got to be fitted in. Then there are the social engagements, the parties and the tea parties. Then we squeeze in trips to the theatre and trips connected to history, geography, and so on. It's not easy. And now I'm dense enough to be checking out Brownies and signing everyone up for the local kids theatre group.

Then I find the invoice for Squirrel's ballet lessons. Now for a moment I am not tetchy. I am smug. This will be the first time ever that Twig, the ballet teacher, does not have to re-issue the invoice because I've lost it. I am very smug. Then I realise I can't remember which day Squirrel will go to ballet this term because it always changes. Twig has told me, and I've forgotton. So tomorrow I have to go down to grovel to Twig about that instead.

Then there's the letter with the invoice. Apparently standards are slipping. The girls do not wear buns. I am certain this message is meant for me. I am certain Twig hates me. Squirrel does not wear a bun. In fact, Squirrel bursts through the door, five minutes late, with uncombed hair bagged up in a pony-tail, tutu round her backside, and inside out, felt-tip all over her fingers, tomato sauce round her cheeks, and wearing a leotard with last week's Strawberry Mivvi on it because I forgot to wash it. It is almost as bad as the time we turned up to the speech therapy department wearing no shoes.

Now we're all at odds with the whole world. Squirrel has decided she's leaving this family and has packed her bag. Even though we point out to her she's wearing a nightdress and is frightened of the dark, she's still leaving. Shark is howling on the sofa because Squirrel is leaving. Tiger says she doesn't care because she's also leaving tomorrow anyway, but not before she has shouted the word 'poopy' ten thousand times, obviously, which is what she's doing now.

And me, I'm going to bed with my ipod. Tomorrow is another day.