The milk

I have left out a note for the milkman, cancelling the milk while we are away in Kent. I am very pleased about getting milk deliveries, even though we have only been getting them for two weeks now.

Getting a milk delivery is all part of my plan, in case I die, unexpectedly.

I have a phobia about dying without letting anyone know. Partly because members of our family have done just that and then lain inside the house for three months while the police peer through the letter box and say 'Well someone must be there because the gas fire's on' then when the gas board come round to investigate why no-one's paying such an enormous bill, they actually spy a dead body on the stairs. Well, enough of that.

It could be a phobia prompted by the fact that Dig's always off somewhere or other - Sri Lanka for two weeks when the children were barely six months old was a whoopdeedoo - but of course unlike a single person I have added responsibilities of triplets and no nearby friends because we have triplets.

So it's not surprising I have developed a phobia about this, and it gets worse everytime Dig goes away. My worry is this. That actually no-one would notice if I did die. No-one stops by, no-one phones, we have very little in the way of a routine and Dig's not here to notice. I do worry a bit that he might be here and not notice, but I reckon he would cotton on eventually.

Anyway, say I die without warning. After a few hours Squirrel, Shark and Tiger would look round and wonder where dinner is. Then they would help themselves to some cereal, sit down in front of the computer and squabble over who gets to push the cartoon characters into Slither River. Then they'd go to bed, quietly pleased with themselves for managing to miss the bathtime bit and someone nagging them about boring things like teeth and wee. They'd probably do that day after day till Dig got back from wherever he'd been.

So I got the milk delivered. I reasoned that if I did die, the milkman might notice that the milk wasn't being collected, and buzz. Then Shark might come out, the ambulance would be called and I might just be saved by some miraculous happening, even though I'd been dead two days.

Then Dig of course pointed out that my plan is rubbish. He says of course the milkman would not notice because the children like to bring the milk in, so of course it would not stack up on the step. This worried me for a while. But now I feel much better. Because the children will get a constant supply of milk for their cereal, so if I die, they won't starve.

Anyway, the milk's cancelled, so if I die or not, there's no milk. Because we're not here. We'll be in Kent. Now that's a problem. I'm sure cancelling the milk delivery is a dead cert sign for the local burglar.

Huh hmm

Happy Wedding Anniversary, Dig.

Get ready for learning

We are preparing for our week in Kent. I would like to say holiday in Kent, but as a good home educating family, we never take holidays. We engage in appropriate learning experiences. So, for the school-attending families amongst you, here are some rules for a home educating experience.

If, on the morning we set off, mother starts to mutter loudly to herself about the cost of petrol at the Tesco filling station, we are doing Maths.

If we get lost on the way and mother is shouting at the Sat Nav lady for leading us into unchartered countryside where there is a single track road with pot holes the depth of the Grand Canyon, absolutely no passing places for 20 miles, extraordinarily high hedges so we cannot see over and feel trapped and doomed forever in the Villages of the Damned, and with no phone masts for miles around so we cannot dial 999 or ring the RAC, then we are doing Geography.

If mother has a breakdown and starts to sob uncontrollably, we are doing PSHE.

If we get there and mother has to drink heavily and say she is never coming back, enjoy the week, reflect upon it, and call it History.

When we finally start to enjoy ourselves and determine to spend a few hours on the beach, we are not playing. Oh no. We are assessing the physical properties of wet and dry sand, and sand with bits in it like nylon fishing thread, old crisp packets and dead crabs. This is physics, natural sciences, biology, chemistry and possibly palaeontology when mother says 'Go and do some digging. Over there. As far away from me as possible because I am trying to read a book. Now push off and look for anything. I don't know what. Try dinosaurs.'

And if we build a sandcastle we are not just mucking about. Not at all. We are doing architecture. We are extending our project work to think through the practicalities of making our city environment out of sand, a few pebbles, and some shells. Then there's the sociology of the built environment. Put a dead crab on top of your building, and speculate how office workers might feel if they had to spend all day commuting backwards and forwards to a building with a dead crab for a roof.

If we go off for a walk through the dunes, the shingle, the marsh, or along the roadside because the car has broken down, then we are of course doing science. Science in schools these days seems to be anything from 'Can you spot an earthworm?' to 'Is the M20 natural or man-made?' So that'll do for us.

When we get back to the van after a full learning experience of a day, mother will want to watch Big Brother to see who's getting evicted this week, not that she watches that, not at all. Never ever. That would be much too gutter. Draw a picture while I cook the pasta and shut up because I am trying to listen to BB. There you go. Art. We could all listen to the accents of the contestants on Big Brother. That sounds like English to me. Listen hard! You might hear some Welsh. Languages.

So there you have it. From the core curriculum to the social and moral education we all need, apparently. A week away is just what the home educating Grit family needs.

Make a list

Dig is off today for his not-holiday in Asia. As usual, when Dig goes, I become ulta-focused and make a list. These are the things that are on my list.

1. Pack for Kent.

2. Clear up the kitchen.

3. Buy food. We have nothing to eat in the house except pasta and frozen bread.

4. Buy a season pass for the summer events in the parks which are run every year for children and which are fab, but when I ring up the parks department to ask if there are any tickets left for the event in August am told 'That event is fully booked'. Strange. So I will buy a pass and then they cannot stop me.

5. Vacuum. The TV licencing people might call. They have been threatening to for the last three years.

6. Make some more lists with things on them so that I remember what I am doing everyday. When Dig goes, I usually get involved in child things and I can't remember what else I could possibly do all day long.

Day off

Before he heads off to South-east Asia, Dig is overcome by a need to spend some daddy-daughters time. He volunteers to take Shark, Squirrel and Tiger off to the kiddie theme park while I catch up on some work. Strangely, he seems to have already acquired a season ticket for himself.

Grit is a Good Wife

I am doing Good Wifey things. I'm helping Dig sort out his shirts. No, hang on a minute, I'm sorting out Dig's shirts, while he's in front of the computer, sorting out his travel.

While I'm not sure exactly when I acquired this job of clothes attendant to Dig, I know that I did take it off him. Quite frankly, it's a job I had to have for my own sanity. I became unable to bear the consequences of his annual visit to BHS to stock up with cheap, navy blue, brushed cotton shirts that dye everything else lavender, look terrible after the first wash, and break out into a rash of strange pobbly bits.

As an aside, I should say that taking responsibility for Dig's shirts is not because I am a clothes horse. My clothes are a mess. They're ancient, torn, stained. I can't bear any of them, even when I'm wearing them. But I don't have to stand up in front of people telling them where to put their commas. I have to get down on the floor and mop up paint. And if other people's reactions to Dig's BHS shirts have been the same as mine, pity them.

So I'm sorting out Dig's shirts in preparation for his not-holiday. First, I pile up all the shirts with holes in. We need new dish cloths and floor mops. Sometimes Dig looks at a dish cloth strangely and says things like 'Didn't I used to have a shirt like this?' and I'll say 'Don't be silly, we've had that dish cloth ages.'

Next, I remove the shirts with coffee and red wine stains. Some of these may already have done battle with the Vanish stain remover and the stain won. I screw those up and throw them in the drawer I've mentally labelled DIY clothes. Most of my clothes are already in it.

The next bit is most satisfying today because normally there aren't any shirts left for Dig to pack, and then I have to get the DIY shirts out again. But this time Dig is organised, thanks to Good Wife Grit. Last month at the RSPCA shop I fell upon a dozen shirts, all Dig's size, fat around the tummy and stout around the neck, and I got the lot for £30. Two Valentinos, one DKNY, one Jaeger, two Ralph Lauren and not a BHS in sight. I considered trying to bargain the old lady down to £25 for a job lot, but reckoned that was probably a bit cruel and the extra fiver might help a sad kitten.

So Grit is a Good Wife today and is feeling very pleased with herself. I hope it's being appreciated.

There's just one part of the story I'm wondering about, and that is how a batch of perfectly good, expensive shirts, all the same size, style and colour, arrive at the RSPCA shop, just like they'd been levered out from some man's wardrobe.

Let's hope there doesn't arise a cause for them to go back there.

Telephone manner

Swimming is off. Fish is ill. The awkward Jelly on reception tuts down the phone. She snaps that Fish's lessons are cancelled. Her voice is as sharp as the spikes on a cactus. Then she says 'OK?' and puts the phone down. I can't exactly rearrange our lesson then. She may well have finished with 'Stop bothering me. Now push off'.

This is the second week we're missing lessons and I'm getting huffy puffy about it, considering the disruption they cause and what I have to pay for them. And I can never get past the awkward Jelly to do anything about it. Soon I'm going to drive to the leisure centre and lie on the floor in the reception until we get it sorted out and we get our lessons back. That sounds like the sort of peaceful protest I could do, being a non-violent sort of person, although I slam the phones about a bit when I hear awkward Jelly's voice spiking at me through the earpiece.

Jelly puts me in mind of Gristle, another telephone slasher. Gristle was the receptionist for Da, the boiler man we used to get in whenever the boiler broke down, which it did do, often. Gristle was horrible. I hated calling Gristle on the phone. I would rather die in a freezing cold house surrounded by ice than phone Gristle and ask her when Da could call.

Gristle's answer to my half-started question 'Could Da call-' would be a curt 'Sorry' which meant 'I'm bloody well not sorry'. Then she would skewer out the 'but' which meant 'Don't think you're getting your ruddy boiler mended. I've got Da's diary. And you can put the wailing kid down because that's got no effect on me'. If we got as far as arranging a date she'd spit it out with 'Do you want it or not?' If I said 'Um' I'd get back 'It's booked' and she'd put the phone down.

My first encounter with Gristle was when the children were four months old. And the boiler broke down. 'We have babies in the house!' I cried. 'Sorry.' I'm sure Gristle didn't even breathe in to say that. 'Triplets!' I whine. 'Sorry' stabs Gristle again. She's probably holding a cleaver over the telephone wire. I try wheedling. 'Don't we get a priority above the single bloke in Never Hill who's always out at his girlfriends?' 'No' snaps Gristle. Then, 'Da is busy. Until November. He can't come out. First date. November 13th. Do you want it or not?'

Now we like Da. Da is nice. Da has never electrocuted himself on the boiler and ran out of the house to hide in his van like that other strange boiler man we once got in desparation. And Da has serviced all the boilers here for years, or at least did do before the psychotic Gristle moved in and severed all access.

So every time Da came I gently inquired about Gristle. 'Oh she's gone' said Da last time. Probably to work for the doctor or the bus company or the gas board where her telephone slasher manner can be properly appreciated.

I'm rather hoping Jelly does the same. Except that I'd meet her there next time I rang up to complain about the gas bill.

Thursday

What a Thursday. Breakfast, laundry, dishwasher. Rush off to Mele's for French lesson. Rush off to the Gym and Trampoline lessons. Rush off to Tesco to grab lunch to take to the kiddie theme park brandishing the newly acquired season tickets, or rather, the letter that says they owe us season tickets, then rush off to Drama Club. If it was the first Thursday in the month, we'd be rushing from Drama to the kiddie RSPB meeting. So that'd be out of the house from 10 in the morning to 9 at night. Typical home ed life.

Just in case there's anyone from the Local Authority reading this and might be considering asking us the question, 'Do the children ever go out?'

A day in a field

Well, after one of the most fun days Grit's had of late, along comes another one. This time we're off to a field and a wood with a theatre company to muck around as fairies and workmen from A Midsummer Night's Dream. The weather is hot, the sky cloudless, the kids are ready, and in a fit of preparation I've put petrol in the car.

The only slight problem is in finding the right field, located somewhere outside Pretty Town. One field looks much like another field to me. And the sat nav lady is of course no help once we get to the actual field level. So I'm following emailed instructions from the organiser.

'Take the first left at the roundabout'. Well that bit's easy. I'm on a single track road with a bit of dodgy tarmac and some plants growing through it.

'Go through the gate on your right. It is about a mile down'. After about a quarter mile there's a gate, on the right. There's also Mimi, in the car ahead of us, destined for the same home ed drama workshop as us, turning round, looking not sure. She leans out her car window and shouts. 'I think this is it!' 'The instructions say a mile down the road!' I shout back. 'I can see cars!' says Mimi. And she's right. Just beyond the edge of the field, there are cars on the horizon.

'Park at the barn' say the instructions. I don't see any barn. 'I'm going in!' shouts Mimi, and off she drives, through the gate into the field.

Now I don't know if you have seen the film Clockwise, but as I watch Mimi disappear over the field, I'm thinking, 'That's a field, Mimi. And the barn might be just over that hill, but what if there's no tractor to get us out the mud? What will we do then? That's just the sort of thing that happens to Grit, so I tell you what, I'm not following.'

So off I drive, sure Mimi's right, down the narrowing single track road which gets narrower and narrower and narrower.

Success! About a mile further on there's a flapping bit of paper nailed to a fence post. It reads 'Home schoolers', and sure enough, there's a gate, a stony track, and a barn, in a field, at the edge of a wood.

We're late, of course, but there's Richard Gere, heading off down the field with the home ed kids jumping and running and skipping behind. He certainly looks like Richard Gere. He's definitely got the haircut. And since he looks like Richard Gere I check my coiffure in the portaloo, just in case.

And while the kids are pretending to be fairies, and I've had an eyeful of Richard Gere in his shirtsleeves, out comes the picnic blanket, the flask, the biscuits, the book, and a proper day loafing about in a field can begin.

And an exhausted Mimi turns up too, probably worn out with all that driving about in fields. So I don't need to call out the AA, RAC, Emergency ambulance, police, or a man with a tractor.

Now that's about as faultless a day as it can get.

Workshop rules

We go to a workshop on renewable energy, held in the offices of a wind turbine developer. This is a hoot. It is possibly Grit's best day out for absolutely ages.

For those people who keep up with Grit's life but don't home educate, here are some of the rules that have guided today's workshop. Some rules will be applicable to workshops in other locations, such as museums, art galleries, zoos, Sainsbury's behind the scenes tour and the Planetarium.

Adults:

1. Arrive at the workshop at any point. Very early, just on time, late. It doesn't matter. Wander in and out as necessary. Fetch bags from the car, carry toddlers about, use the staff toilets, demand jugs of water, rearrange the chairs or break into the cupboard where the staff keep their coffee.

2. Hover and commentate as required. Grit is good at this. 'Sit down' says the education officer to Squirrel. 'Sit down' says Grit, and hovers in a very tender motherly way. Or in an irritating nuisancy way if you're the education officer.

3. If possible, immediately zoom in on the education officer to (a) extract as much information as possible including any freebies and (b) show off about the virtues of home ed while the kids trash the room.

4. Waft the children in the direction of the increasingly beleaguered education officer and, when they're safely in her care, ignore everyone and everything to chat continuously to Sandra/ Sarah/ Sasha/ Sally/ Sonja/ Silverbell-Moonbeam whom you haven't seen in absolutely ages.

5. Get out a flask of tea / a packet of biscuits whenever you feel like it.

6. If you are asked to make a pinwheel and can see the model that's been carefully made earlier and placed on the desk, take the model apart to get at the cotton reel so the Grit family becomes hopelessly lost because their instructions don't work and there's no model to follow either, except for the one that's just been dismantled.

7. Steal Michelle's model. She has also made a good pinwheel because no-one dismantled her model and her instructions work. Try to steal that too. Unfortunately she's not letting it out of her sight but keeps shouting 'Look at my pinwheel! It works!'

8. Make sure everything is in the car ready for a proper educational session. Picnic blanket, iPod, food, drinks, wet wipes, sunhat, sunscreen, umbrella, coat for Squirrel, socks for Tiger, knickers for Shark, Chewee bars, crayons, paper, small craft items, emergency food under the car passenger seat, small bottle of picnic wine in the glove compartment, book.

9. When everything goes pear-shaped, and someone is threatening to call the security guards or the police, smile.

10. Thank the organiser. You want an invitation to the next thing they arrange. Thank you Michelle. It was really a lovely day. Can we come again?

Of course, being a good home educator, Grit makes up most of the rules as we go along and certainly doesn't follow all these rules all the time because they don't apply to her, except for rule no. 5. And today I threatened Shark with the security guards only once.

Children:

1. Immediately go to anything that can be pulled, pushed, swung round, moved or sat on, and do what it's clearly asking for. When it snaps, say 'That's not a very good design is it?'

2. Try hard to follow that ridiculous rule about putting up your hand before you speak until you realise that the education officer is actually not applying this rule consistently and just took the answer from someone who shouted it out, so shout out the answer too. Louder.

3. Pretend not to listen to anything the education officer says until asked a question designed to catch you out and then repeat everything she's said back to her, word for word.

4. Get fed up with the Noddy progress and shout out 'Global warming is caused by emissions of carbon dioxide and other greenhouse gases from human activities including industrial processes, fossil fuel combustion, and changes in land use. My mum told me.'*

5. Comment loudly on how the education officer is doing.

6. Shout 'Mum! I am hungry!' at any moment, especially when a biscuit packet can be heard opening covertly from Grit's bag.

7. If there is a stick anywhere about, grab it and wave it.

8. If you are Shark, Squirrel or Tiger, push each other about a bit until you are separated by a tender loving mother.

* With special thanks to Am for contributing this.

Education officer:

1. Try and keep to the script. Even when the little kid in the front row called out the punchline that you're building up to and is the whole point of the hour-long workshop and they got it in five minutes. Keep to the script to the death.

2. Pretend to be in control.

3. Try to provide the right instructions on how to make the pinwheel. Very specifically, include information on what to do with the two cardboard circles that the Grit family will be left with when they have followed the instructions and realise the pinwheel doesn't work. Because the Grit family has no model to follow, instructions that don't work, and a very agitated Shark who is being threatened with the security guards if she empties her lungs out again past that vibrating scream chord she keeps in her throat, then in all the above circumstances, pretend not to see the Grit family and cross the room to avoid them.

As before, following these rules creates just about the bestest day out a Grit can get.

Holiday planning

Grit is going on holiday! Tra-la-la! Tra-la-la! Grit's posts might become erratic now, after all, there's such a lot to do! I have to find my bikini and fold my bikini and pack my bikini, and then unpack my bikini to re-pack my bikini, and then I have to find my beauty bag and ...

OK, the bikini's just a fantasy. Along with the beauty bag. But the holiday! Tra-la-la! I've just booked a caravan in the Romney Marshes.

This is all Dig's fault. He's off again on his not-holidays, slumming it in 5-star hotels in South-east Asia and, this is Grit's mean and dark side, I can't bear it.

For a start it's not fair. He's going and I'm not. It's so not fair I could flatten myself to the floor and hammer the ground with my fists and scream until I am red in the face. Because before children, I did go. I admit I'm nothing but a freeloading good-time girl who has lived off the back of her husband's glory for more than a decade. And there's nothing wrong with that when you're being picked up at Singapore airport in a classic Mercedes, I can tell you. So now it's so cruel and horrible and heartless to leave me at home minding wretched children who I will sell for medical experiments on Day 2 of his absence because they are moaning and groaning and whimpering 'Where's Daddy?' 37 times a minute, that I now have to thump the furniture and make a stand.

'Don't think I'm staying here!' I shout to Dig, who's checking whether he can fit in a side visit to Bangladesh. 'I'm not staying at home you know!' I add, pointing to the carpet. 'I hope you realise I'm not going to be here! So I hope you don't need any fax sending out to you in Singapore again!' He's clicking through now on the BA site to see if they do a business class to Dhaka from Manila. 'I am not here!' I shout. 'I'm going to live in a caravan in the marsh! So there!'

I don't care. Well I do, obviously. But I'm jolly well not admitting it to Dig. Big Pig Dig. I'm coming over all If-he-can-do-it-I-can, all independent now, doing my own thing and dragging the kids along to Kent in the back of the car, screaming all the way, probably, when they're not wailing, 'Where's Daddy? When's Daddy coming home? Can Daddy come to live with us in the swamp?'

I should send the kids off to boarding school, then I could go off travelling the world with Big Pig Dig, who I would probably call Lovely Husband Dig then, with free cocktails and Molton Brown toiletries in a special BA Business Class bag. Then it would be Lovely Husband Dig and thank goodness the children are being looked after by proper teachers in a proper school where they can't get out because the gates are locked.

While we resolved to try and get the children travelling as much as possible with Dig, who goes everywhere telling people what to do with their commas, and despite the possibilities Dig's life offers, we're so often stymied by cost or time. The kids are aged 7 and we can't squish three of them and two of us into one hotel room. We can't shunt them off by themselves into a separate room, so we need two rooms, double the cost, preferably two interconnecting rooms, double the cost, or a suite, expensive. I can't leave them behind, and I can't go without them. Or then Dig's visits have to be quick, because he has to come home, change, and be gone in the opposite direction. Which would make the whole travel experience for children short, exhausting and unrewarding.

So Dig's planning his journey to South-east Asia and we're planning our journey to Kent. We will pop into a castle on the way and we'll travel about a bit on the South coast and stare glumly at the Channel for a few days. The children will go through Sussex to re-enact the battle of the Saxons and Normans again while I shout at them in bad French. We'll trudge up to Canterbury to get a pilgrim's meal of fish and chips in a lay-by, and we'll march down to Dover castle to stare out to sea.

All in all, we'll make the best of things in the English drizzle and Dig will come home slightly tanned and complaining about the sub-tropical heat. And I will say we had a lovely time in Kent. You should have been there. And Dig will say next time he might. But first he has to get himself to Brazil, with maybe a side visit to Argentina thrown in. And sorry about the wedding anniversary, which he will have forgotten.

And I'm looking at that North Wales caravan site again right now.

Local kids

It's Sunday, and a quiet day at The Pile. About 5.30 I take Squirrel over to the tennis courts next to the house to practice hitting the balls which I aim very carefully at her racquet. While we're there, I'm conscious of three boys hanging about the corner of the courts, suddenly breaking out into laughter, suddenly making themselves loud and known and boisterous, before they disappear out of sight, behind the hedges, away from the courts and off into the nearby streets.

When I lead Squirrel out of the courts to go home, I'm struck by the long line of metal, a long silver line, protruding through the red paintwork of a battered car parked outside the tennis court gate. The bright silver line is deep and wide and nose to tail, I'm sure that wasn't so before. I never saw such a vicious long line of metal there on the way into the courts, and I remember because the car had its side mirrors turned in. Such a careful driver, I thought, that they take the time to turn in their wing mirrors to prevent them being bumped by passing prams or bruised by colliding bags. Not much worth of an old car, but precious to the owner, to take such time.

Then the next car, nose to tail, the same silver line, paintwork still flaking, maroon. Then the white car behind, and the black, and the green, and the red again, and all twelve cars down the street, to the corner point, where the three boys bounced out and I became aware. And on the car there, a wide, deep scribble of scratched circle, round and round a pen-knife had travelled, on the rear, then the side, then the bonnet, before taking off again, and slicing the paint of another car, and another, and another five cars to the corner point. By now, I'm following the line on the third street, mouth open, walking past every car bounding the courts, every car bearing a silver penknife line until fifteen cars later the line drops.

The kids have damaged some thirty cars in all. It probably took ten minutes. I get my name and address written down in the police notebook along with descriptions of kids, dark haired, white, denim jacket, aged about 13, tee-shirt with coloured bands, one with bike. The car owners mill round; the owner of the battered red car a teenager himself; a man with a child; a member of the town's cricket team; the woman who cleans the tennis club. Some hurrying off, looking for the kids, some just staring at damage. Such casual damage, so easily done.

Dig's day

We all go to a kiddie amusement park. We have a free family pass that Shark won in a drawing competition for us last Christmas.

At first she thought of drawing two robins, each pulling one end of a worm, fighting over who got the juicy bits. I suggested, since it was a Christmas card, she might drop the worm and don't mention the fighting. Strangely she was happy to follow that idea and, apart from the worm that's not there, it's all her own work. And she won. Two Robins Talking is the title of Shark's Christmas drawing and it got printed and made into a real card. We're very proud of her for that. We'd like to show off a lot about it. Quite frankly, we don't have a lot to show off about, so we have to grab what we can.

Anyway, today's the day we use the free family pass. I tell Dig he has to come. It has been his birthday and there should be something we do. I reckon that a kiddie amusement park might be it. Dig looks indifferent. He says it is a waste of time and money, even though it's not costing him anything. He just looks a bit sulky, being peeled off his computer at 11.30 on a Saturday morning, and looks like he might be secretly determining not to enjoy himself.

Shark, Squirrel and Tiger love the kiddie park. They love the plastic of it all: the bubblegum colours and the sparkling carousel horses and the fairground rides that swing them up and swoosh them round. They love the boats and the funny tea cups and the musical instruments they get to sit on and ride. They draw up a hit list: the carousel, the tea cups, the train, the ferris wheel.

Dig says he doesn't like anything. He says he'll go on the spinning tea cups but only if he can teach Squirrel something about momentum. Then he says he'll take Tiger on the monorail you have to pedal yourself. He heads off there and is back in two minutes, scowling, with a relieved Tiger in tow, saying it's typical, it's closed, so he starts to eat cheese sandwiches and grumble a bit about the weather.

Next, Shark, Squirrel and Tiger want to go off to the revolving swing thing where everyone sits in swings and gets spun round. I say I'm not going because last year I was sick after the tea cups and, what's worse, we had to pay to get in for me to be sick then, so I'm not going on them now. Dig volunteers to go on it with everyone. I say it's not necessary but he doesn't seem to hear me, even though I'm right next to him.

When he's off that, Squirrel and Tiger bound off to the swinging pirate ship, which Shark doesn't want to go on. Momentarily, Shark looks all alone. Dig tells her he'll take her on the roller coaster, which she says she's not sure about because it looks very big and very fast. Dig tells her not to be silly while he's strapping her in. After that Dig goes on the roller coaster a total of ten times with different children, sometimes Shark, sometimes Squirrel, sometimes Tiger.

After Tiger's third go on the roller coaster, I begin to suspect Dig is offering doubtful parents some sort of chaperone service for timid children because it's quite difficult to get him off it. In fact we can only get him to come down by suggesting there's a really brilliant log flume thing where you sit in little boats, get pushed down a pretend waterfall, and may get sprayed with water when you hit the bottom at 30 mph. He goes on that three times before I lure him off it by saying Tiger wants a go on the spinning boots.

At 6pm there's groans and wailing all round when I say it's time to go home because the park closes. I suggest that we could get season tickets if everyone really enjoyed it that much. Tiger, Shark and Squirrel squeal with delight at the idea.

Dig goes all thoughtful for a moment and asks which parent would get the season ticket to accompany them. Well, I say, I look after the kids everyday, so in practical terms it would have to be me. 'Oh' says Dig. Then he rather sadly says, 'So I'll have to buy my own, then?'

Hmph

It's a bit of an unsatisfactory day at the Pile. Here's why.

1. We miss the art group in Middletown thanks to the 30 copies of Dig's book that have to go off with DHL which means a cardboard box, sticky tape, finding the books ... call it four hours.

2. Grit has a temper tantrum because Dig, Big Pig Dig, will not ring DHL even though they are very nice and never once have failed to help me out. I have asked the nice people on the phones at DHL if they do counselling or anything like that, but strangely they just laugh and think I am making a joke.

3. Dig has a temper tantrum and it is all Fat Git Grit because Fat Git Grit slams the phone about.

Now in my defence I have to slam the phones about. There are precisely three identical phones on the desk to my right. One of them I have to press 9 to get from the office to the outside world. One of them I get a lady who tells me there's no service because there's a problem with our bill, and the other is a normal phone. Just pick it up and press the buttons. Not surprisingly I once mistook the normal phone with the one where I have to press 9. So I pick up the phone and press 9. No dialling tone. So I press 9 again. And again. Then I shout a lot of eff words and slam the phone down. One minute later the police ring back because apparently I have rung them and shouted a lot of eff words at them. Anyway, that's why I have to slam all the phones about. I have to find one with a dial tone and no lady, and no police either.

4. I have to take Shark, Squirrel and Tiger to their swimming lesson which I rearranged from Wednesday. We are 15 minutes late thanks to circumstances 1, 2 and 3.

Disaster. Fish, the swimming teacher, has gone home, as has the second lifeguard who must be there. I am immediately challenged by the new lifeguard who says I cannot bring into the pool three children under the age of 8 by myself, even though they can swim. I say where is Fish? Where is the second lifeguard? This is our swimming lesson and I'm not leaving. Make me.

Big to-do and fetch another lifeguard who we recognise. She immediately starts making up rules like, you can stay because we know you and you are the parent. 'Bring in five children under age 8' she says, 'we won't stop you'. Grit goes humph and is still cross that Fish pushed off.

5. Get home and find all the library books that were due back today are stuffed behind the radiator.

6. Find a large pot of gone-off cream in the corner of the schoolroom with a spoon stuck in the top. Everyone denies having anything to do with it. Tiger looks suspicious.

So all of the above is why I'm feeling very sulky and difficult. Apart from the nice man at DHL picking up all the books I am not sure where the achievement is today. A most unsatisfactory day.

Dig's birthday

It is Thursday, and time for celebration. It is Dig's birthday.

Everything starts off OK, except that I forget it's Dig's birthday and suddenly shout out 'Is it your birthday?' over a breakfast cup of coffee. Then we have to plan everything. Shark plans a card, which she hides and which Daddy has to find, as part of a birthday game. Tiger makes a cobweb with the glue gun and a toilet roll. Squirrel gets distracted and goes off to play with her dinosaurs before remembering she had a plan and getting Tiger to knock out another cobweb as a second birthday present.

I haven't got any presents to give. I ran out of ideas about 12 years ago and then Dig did absolutely nothing for my 40th so I reckon zero on the gift front is probably fair. I suppose I could offer my body, but he probably wouldn't want that. But when the excitement of the presents is all over, we all push off out the house to gym lessons leaving Dig to get on with some work. We promise to come back later and make cake. Dig sighs.

The plan to make cake goes quite well until the actual cake-making. I manage to mess that up by calculating the wrong amount of flour so have to get Tiger to keep beating eggs and pouring milk into the cake bowl, which is quite a hard thing to do with Squirrel's fingers darting in and out the mix and Shark shouting 'Where's the chocolate?'

Nevertheless, we manage to get to party tea time with an actual baked chocolate cake with lumpy bits in. The candles are lit, the moment duly photograhed and I forget to make Dig wear the big badge that reads It's My Birthday.

The children insist the candles are lit at least twenty times, and Dig is very good about it and keeps on wishing, probably for us all to go away and leave him in peace with his computer. But he never says, otherwise it won't come true, and he blows out the candles quite properly too. He never once set fire to his beard. He wouldn't have laughed about it if he had. My mother once burned off her eyebrows and eyelashes after sticking her head in the gas oven and she could manage a smile after that. I know it sounds unlikely, but that's the sort of family that Grit comes from. We have to laugh at our disasters because otherwise they would overwhelm us and the despair would swallow us whole.

So Dig's birthday passed peacefully enough, albeit that the candle bit took about half an hour, and another year is passed and marked. Next up, wedding anniversary.

Disconnection

Well that throwaway comment about the disconnection was prescient.

Today we get from British Gas a threat that they're not only coming round to disconnect us, they're bringing the police with them. Perhaps they've heard about Shark's tiara. Or perhaps they reckon that because there's such a police presence out in Smalltown now what with the murder, poor bloke, they may as well dragoon a few coppers on the way in case we all get violent with the puffin again.

So it's back on the computer for Grit, writing letters, enclosing evidence, demanding an apology that we won't get. We never got one last time. Probably along with several other million people.

Of course what gets Grit's goat is that we've actually paid this bill from British Gas. We paid the ruddy thing ages ago, so of course we're going to ignore their reminders and then last week's threat of disconnection. Actually, I did try telephoning, three times, but a recorded voice tells me it's a 25-minute wait and then drops the line.

So we've had enough. We've had enough of the appalling service and the bullying and intimidatory language that organisations like British Gas think is quite acceptable when dealing with people. Right, now out comes the soap box. Because it's not just bullying and intimidation so that they can get the money for the flippin' gas we use. Oh no, it's bullying and intimidation to try and force me to comply with their boggering administrative practices so that we fit more precisely into their 'streamlined efficient business computer system' they just spent a great wodge of money installing.

Well, sod off British Gas. I'm not fitting into your model of a consumer for your convenience and we're changing supplier. We're disconnecting you.

Bookselling

Mrs W has asked us to sell 30 copies of a book that Dig wrote ages ago to her company. This is a disaster. We do not sell books. We tried and then we gave up, because, quite frankly, bookselling is something we are rubbish at.

Sometimes we still get foolhardy adventurers who travel to the company website where they will encounter a big sign that says, in short, 'Push Off! We do not sell books!' I would like to add, 'Go to a proper distributor who does not have to look after argumentative triplets all day long, or nick it from the library'.

However, if the foolish idiot is really determined, they will work hard to find our address, probably somewhere hidden in an obscure serifed typeface at 2pt, and they will send us a nice letter and a cheque for £15.99. This is also a disaster.

For a start, when a cheque arrives here, no-one notices, because no-one opens the mail. Well, we do, eventually, usually if there's a visitor and we need to see if we are going to have the bailiffs call while they're here, or if the gas or electricity supply might be disconnected before they arrive and we can't make a cup of tea without a primer stove and a candle. In effect, we are simply not very good at any form of household management involving paperwork.

If we do open the envelope, and a cheque falls out, we stare at it and Dig says things like 'Put it in the shredder'. When I say it will cover the cost of three bottles of cheap wine from Chile, and all we have to do is go to the Post Office, Dig starts to roll his eyes around and tut.

Here's why. The poor foolish twit who wants the book will have asked for a book which we won't be able to find. We'll have a few copies somewhere, sure, but they could be buried in the Mr Trebus piles that have now built up floor to ceiling.

If we do find a copy, it will be one of the boxes the printer dumped, or where he did a cheap deal out the back door with us for twenty quid for the run-ons. It'll be the copies where the green print went a bit funny on the cover or the ones where the pages haven't been cut properly or the box where the mice went to have babies.

So we will have a mouse-eaten/funny green/badly cut book and we need an envelope. Oh dear. We're too mean to buy envelopes - sorry, environmentally conscious - however we will have some envelopes where we scribble out our names and write in the new receiver, but that doesn't look very good if you're selling things. So that will lead us onto Viking suppliers for a box of envelopes. Actually, they might be so delighted at our returning custom they might throw in another free coffee maker that breaks down on cup number two just like they did once before.

If we do, by some miracle, manage to marry up the book and envelope, three months after the cheque for £15.99 arrived, then Dig has to find the right folder on the computer where all the purchase orders, invoices and receipts for books are kept. This was probably on the old computer system; we won't be able to remember what the file was called or the files won't open, and if they do it will be gobblydegook inside. If we manage to create a new receipt, by then we will have lost the address of the idiot who wanted the book in the first place four months ago.

After another week or so, we might get down the post office with the envelope, the book, the address and the paperwork inside. If we are really motoring, I will also manage to get to the bank to cash in the cheque for £15.99 before the six month date limit expires.

Then the trouble starts.

Everything has to entered on Dig's accounts. This is a real big disaster area. I mean, real BIG. We still have not sent in the accounts that we get fined for in January if we don't get them in by the 31st. Was that January 2006 or January 2007? I ask Dig. Since he no longer answers questions about the accounts, and I no longer dare ask, we're not actually going to find out the answer to that one. The accountant no longer asks either. He just smiles when Dig turns up with some boxes and then charges a lot of money to make the fines go away for another few months. So the foolish twit who wanted a copy of Dig's book has now entered the great accounting mountain which will wend its way to the accountant, probably between 2009/2011.

All of this will have taken probably six hours of our time spread over the six months. Say we modestly charged out our time at £50 per hour, we're looking at a £300 loss for a £15.99 gain (a proportion of which will be taxed).

So I can understand Dig's reluctance. I'll concur and pretend the cheque never reached us, and drop it in the shredder. And if the maniac who wanted the book in the first place is so very desperate that he feels he must visit the office to buy a copy here and now, we'll just have to hide behind the sofa when he calls.

Attempted murder

Trouble in Smalltown. About 9.30 last night there was a bit of a rumpus outside the local Co-op. Some poor bloke is critical in hospital and the would-be murderer is arrested along with the rest of his family.

I find out this morning when I pop out for dishwasher powder; an errand I'm rather glad I didn't do last night about 9.30. Two riot vans today in the street outside and a copper standing by the garden gate of a house five doors from us. He has his arms folded, like he's guarding the house. He is, so we discover, while searches are carried out and a vehicle's towed away.

All the neighbours are out and about today, just like us, pretending to be busy about errands like getting dishwasher powder. If we had a dog, I'd walk it right now, because I hear there are more riot vans down Caesar Street and a cordoned-off area by the bank.

We should be used to it by now. We had all this after the recent trouble at the local Place of Religious Worship. For about a month afterwards you couldn't move on the streets for police. They were either walking about in pairs or installing mobile cameras or putting up signs on lamp posts telling everyone they're being watched so report it to Crimestoppers now. Apparently this is all to reassure the public, whoever they are.

Of course, I don't want to give the impression that Smalltown is some sort of crime central. All of this is normal, isn't is? Smalltown's probably normal. There was the owner of a taxi firm we used who took out a contract on her husband. She got found out, thanks to the hitman being an undercover policeman. The local kidnapping was a bad deal though. And the stabbing down the back lane was a bit depressing. The helicopters were around for days after the Co-op raid. How we all laughed though when a cannabis factory was discovered in the cellar of a house just round the corner. And Mr Pod says his mate was found last week mugged in a gutter after popping down the pub at the bottom of the road, which is the place to go round here if you're looking for Charlie, Disco Burgers, Smack and Strawbs, apparently.

Oh the joy of it. I could move to the countryside of course. Then I'd have to listen to tales of poaching, cattle and sheep rustling, illegal hare coursing, badger baiting, illegal dumping and the odd country estate murder. And there'd be not a policeman in sight for weeks, maybe months.

With the level of service we'll get round here for a while I guess it'll be safe to leave the car unlocked with the tom-tom sat nav inside. Well, that'll be a relief, because I'm always leaving the car unlocked with the tom-tom sat nav inside. So on second thoughts, perhaps I'll just stay put. And at least I can forget about the tom-tom sat nav for a while.

Grey hair

It's no good. It's that time again.

When it's over, all I can say is that if this is the tawny bronze, thank goodness I didn't go for the chestnut.

Tennis

Tiger, Shark and Squirrel start tennis lessons today. This does not go well. I tell the young man who is coaching to split up the triplet sisters.

'Split them up!' I say when I deliver a Tiger, hot-bothered and hungry, straight from her 8.50am violin lesson. 'Don't forget to split them up!' I say, as I deliver a grumpy Squirrel who resents leaving her bed anytime before 10am without a very good reason indeed. 'Now be sure to split them up!' I cry, as I push towards him a cross Shark who suspects a thief in the night has come to steal away her tiara.

Now what more can I do? I gave sufficient warnings, and he only has himself to blame.

The first ruckus starts in the queue. This is a queue to swing a racquet wildly in the air when the coach throws a ball. Tiger thinks Squirrel is taking up more space than a Squirrel needs to take up. Tiger starts pushing Squirrel, who pushes back. Tiger pushes harder. Squirrel gets pushed into Amy, who is cute and has ringlets and who does not deserve to be fed to a cross Squirrel at 9.40am on a Saturday morning. Fortunately Amy is made of stronger stuff than she looks and delivers a sharp poke back. The pushing continues until everyone gets told off and then gets told to go and fetch all the balls that have been thrown about the court.

The next ruckus is between Shark and Tiger. They are meant to throw the balls to each other. Oh dear. There is a difference of opinion between Shark and Tiger. Shark throws the ball so that Tiger cannot possibly reach it. Tiger runs off to fetch it, brings it back, and aims it directly at Shark's head. Shark ducks, the ball skims past the coach who should know better, and Shark runs off to pick up her weapon. Back she comes with it and bounces it high in the air so that Tiger cannot possibly catch it. When Tiger does find it, she picks it up, turns her back to Shark and throws the ball in the opposite direction. When the coach intervenes neither will look at each other, Tiger crosses her arms and starts to stomp about the court like she's at a Nuremberg rally.

Ruckus number three starts when there's a slight confusion over the racquets, despite Dig carefully marking each one with coloured wire. More pushing. Some grabbing of tennis racqets. Some wailing. Some more of the coach intervening telling everyone to calm down. He's probably starting to remember now.

Ruckus number four starts when Tiger accuses Squirrel and Shark of having more balls thrown at them than she has had. The coach throws an extra ball at Tiger who misses it and accuses Squirrel and Shark of always hitting the ball when she always misses it. This is clearly not true. They all miss it. The coach looks like he's despairing a bit now. Perhaps he'll remember for next time.

Ruckus number five starts at the end of the tennis session. Squirrel has collected five balls by using her racquet as a tray and is proudly taking them to the coach to put into his bucket. Shark and Tiger think this is a good idea and go and take them from her tray. Squirrel goes beserk at this assualt and starts to lunge at the balls in Shark's hands. The coach probably is thinking now he'll assign them to different courts next time.

Ruckus number six starts when it's time to say thank you and goodbye. Shark looks relieved and Squirrel looks cross. Tiger doesn't want it to end and foot drags her way slowly across the court, scowling all the time and loudly encouraged by the coach who looks a bit desperate for a cup of tea.

Perhaps he'll remember next week.