Good morrow. Funny old day really. Up and down like a teenage bride's nighty, to coin an uncle S-ism. Owen did his usual zone out before little one and I left for school and work in a fluster of wet hair, crumpled clothing and stale sandwiches. So, in true girl power fashion, turned on heel, muttered whatever and slammmmmeeedd the front door. Wrote him foot stamping email halfway through morning and he had the audacity to rudely interrupt on stanza 31. "Why haven't you called? Don't tell me you're busy?". "Actually I am," I managed, being way to busy writing his email to talk. 10 hours later? Yes alright. In love again. But it's his fault. Bugger.Another evening of Lizzyisms and laughter. Mid arguement with Owen on the impossibility of calculating tax credits and dividing households bills fairly (yawn), Lizzy points to Tax Credit Form and says "T...A...X. Tax." Ok. First word I've ever seen her spell out followed by the word in its entirety and it's tax. On the day Blair officially stood down. Terrible omen perhaps? Bring it on Mr Brown. My daughter's got your number.
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