Probably back to normal

A geological time period of a day in which many small things happen, but very slowly, and with no visible reward. As in the following:

I did three hours typesetting work, then lost it all thanks to inexplicable forces taking up residence in my monitor. Result: zero.

Shark went to the beach brandishing pencils, papers and rulers to 'measure waves'. I remained behind, rapt in wonder, sure she had made a great leap forward in her mathematical brain functioning; I assumed she really had been swotting up hard in her bedroom late at night, and not, as it merely appeared, playing endless Dad's Army DVDs. She was back two hours later. I asked how measuring waves had gone, to which she answered, 'I couldn't do it. The water kept moving'. Result: zero.

Squirrel spent the day flat across an armchair reading fairy trash despite being reminded several times that there are hundreds of authors out there worth reading, many of whom would give her a lollipop if she increased their library circulation and, what's more, I would buy her an ice cream. Result: zero.

Tiger instigated a game called Unicorns Fighting to the Death, involving a household broom, a stick and a lot of running about on the roof making a noise that sounded like gagagahhh. I said it was a bad idea. Result: one broken broom. (Less than zero.)

But it has not all been ordinary family misery of a normal Sunday variety. There are always bright moments to cheer us on our ways to the dark, dark night, falling coffin black about our ears.

Dig has been off again, flying about the planet, burning your oxygen and destroying your forests. But we can all feel good because Royal Jordanian Airlines forgot to give him his dinner. Apparently there were only six of them in the cabin, so it was doubly unforgivable. After being prompted, the stewardess brought him a menu card and told him they didn't have much left now because the five other passengers had already eaten what was on it. Result: satisfying.

I looked out from the top floor of the house to see the loose wandering dog (who I think belongs to the neighbours) just about to deposit his innards on our scrubby bit of soil left by the Abandoned Women Therapy Group (see yesterday). I quickly filled Squirrel's water pistol and let him have it, just above the tail. The dog jumped up and shot off in horror. He was clearly far too stupid to look up and clock me. Thus I both gave him the hebejebes and I got away with it, scot free. Result: Warm feeling of oneupmanship and superiority over a dog.