My ex bought the eldest tickets to see Irish comedian Dylan Moran last night as an early 16th birthday present.
According to Ticketek: “Moran has been called the Oscar Wilde of comedy and his famed style – deadpan, witty and crackpot lyricism – promises to be an unmissable journey through his interpretations of the world, swerving cliche to offer a cutting blow to our idiosyncrasies.”
The eldest’s verdict when I picked him up at 10.30pm: “Very good.”
The eldest isn’t big talker, so I’m taking that as high praise.
As a result, it was just me and the youngest for dinner last night. And since I had to pick the youngest up from skipping practice at the inconveniently late hour of 7pm – after dropping the eldest to the station at 6.30pm – I offered to take her out for dinner, but was turned down. My kids aren’t big on restaurant dining, which is good for my bank balance, but not very social.
The youngest requested a takeaway pizza called the Hot Mama – due to all the spicy salami on it – from our local pizza joint. We ate it standing up at the kitchen bench as we discussed her application to attend a selective sports high school.
She also wasn’t feeling too crash hot after a painful skin specialist visit, but hauled herself to skipping training to provide moral support to her team mates, fell on her sore hand and turned it into a bloody mess.
Eeeeek. Luckily her teammate’s mum is a nurse, so we grabbed a bandage and other supplies from her place.
As the youngest and I chatted yesterday she also informed me that she liked that I was a “slack mum”.
A slack mum!
I wasn’t happy about that at all.
Apparently I’m a slack mum because I let her do whatever she wants.
I wasn’t sure I was happy to hear that either.
Although, fortunately, “letting her do whatever she wants” isn’t snorting cocaine and going to wild parties.
She’s basically a homebody with a predilection for spray tanning, fake nails, crop tops and multiple ear piercings. I confess I haven’t said no to any of those things when I possibly should have done.
Apparently my ex is much more strict.
Hmmmm. I hope it means the kids will still turn out OK and not go off the rails and end up in jail or something.
OK, gotta go.
Today’s unpleasant task: on the expressway home last night, the “check gearbox” warning came on in my piece of junk car and the gears stopped working. That was fun and games. It’s the second time it’s happened in a week. Better haul it’s dodgy ass to the mechanic. I wonder if all Renault Capturs are lemons are lemons or just mine?
To be safe, don’t buy one.
Song of the day: The Commodores “Easy”
housegoeshome 
I don’t think it’s just yours. My parents had a beige Renault station wagon in the late 70s, and I remember them saying how much trouble it was! I think we had it a few years, before the Peugeot in the 80s, and that was trouble too. Since then it’s been Toyota all the way! Much better.
I cannot WAIT to get rid of it. Hopefully before Christmas.
Fingers crossed!