Happy Mondays.

I don't remember when this tradition started but at some point in the past, I started calling our house spiders St Bartholomew. Not that our house is overrun with spiders or anything, but just that whenever I happened to see one, that would be the name he was given. There was one who hung around in the living room for a good long while. I'd make J greet him when he came in. "Where ARE your manners J? Say hello to St Bartholomew of the Blessed Ceiling. Forgive him, your eight-legged Holiness, he knows not what he does."

I have never even bothered to look up St Bartholomew and find out about him. It would ruin the mystique. 

ANYWAY. Apparently Mother's Day is on March 18th here. I have never been one of those uptight bitches who makes sure everyone knows it's HER day and forces her partner to buy her flowers and expensive brunches on behalf of the children because they have no money and would give you something totally stupid. Like your only backdoor key jammed into a lump of play dough, or a handful of lint-covered sweets they found in their jacket pocket. 

I mean come on. Breakfast in bed? Who thought of that moronic idea?"Hey, lightbulb moment! Let's perch all kinds of messy foods on a slidey tray and take them in to someone not fully awake! That's BOUND to be relaxing!" Like I really want my bedroom fumigated with the smell of burnt toast and crumbs on my sheets. The only time I ever eat in bed is when I'm in the hospital.  As far as I'm concerned, breakfast in bed is basically a punch square in the face, followed by a giant FUCK YOU. 

My ex-husband's mother used to expect full blown gifts from him and his sister, and if she didnt get what she wanted she would strop for DAYS.  These kids had graduated from university at this point - I say this because, maybe it's me but isn't Mother's Day more about LITTLE kids showing Mummy how speshal she is? I had an ex boyfriend who, at the age of 32, would take "Mumsy" out for brunch at the Dorchester in London. WE LIVE IN GLASGOW. I'm telling you, Mother's Day, past the age of 10, only appeals to the emotionally damaged. 

In the department of hypochondria, I've diagnosed myself with cervical cancer because of one incident of mid-cycle spotting. Yep, you read that correctly. Very minor, stopped after a couple of days, had a baby 4.5 months ago so a few kinks are to be expected, but NO. OBVIOUSLY IT'S TEH CANZER. I got my period proper today, unless it's just more cancer. I guess I'll have to wait and see. J keeps calling me Hartson. (http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Hartson). "Alright, Hartson? Feeling a little under the weather?" TASTEFUL JOKES R US. 

Anyway, I pray to St Bartholomew for protection against the ravages of disease which is obviously working. See what I did there? Tidy little wrap up. I'm speeding through my goodbyes here as the baby suddenly started shrieking. Maybe I could end like the Sopranos where everything just suddenly g