A series of unfortunate events...

I don't know quite what Andy and I have done to upset the powers-that-be but a series of unfortunate events on Friday, Saturday and Sunday meant our weekend was not the calm and stress-free event it should have been. This morning, as we zombied our way around the kitchen trying to get Monday started, you'd be forgiven for thinking you'd walked onto the set of 'The Haggard and Raddled Show.' (I'll let you decide who is who but I'm going to need some serious help from the old under-eye anti-wrinkle cream if I'm to go out in public and not frighten small children. And I'm fully expecting Andy to arrive home from work this evening with a dog stapled to his hand - this does happen sometimes when he is tired.)

None of the events were anyone's faults particularly, except the one involving a friendship issue in which my daughter was on the receiving end of what I can only describe a vicious, unfair and unsocial hours diatribe from her next-door neighbour. As I sat on the landing in the wee small hours (what is it with me and traumas on the landing at the moment?) trying to placate my child (who was having trouble breathing) and say the right things, all I really wanted to do was to get in the car and go and 'sort it aht' a la Eastenders style i.e yell in this woman's face and ask her how she liked it (and then probably punch her for good measure and blame it on PMT), but after I'd relayed the problem to Andy and he'd hidden the car keys, he said I'd done the right thing by staying calm and in control and this 'person' was probably only jealous of Heather's forthcoming trip to Scarborough as, and I quote, 'Scarborough is the Mecca for those who come from Yorkshire.' And Andy should know, coming from 'oop t'north' himself.

Other things happened that I shan't go into detail over but involved a sick dog, a sick cat, a sick me, a magazine subscription, a lorry that keeps parking across our driveway, an insurance policy, some rhubarb, more book rejections, contretemps at Andy's workplace and a minor fracas over the situation of a compost bin. Coupled with the fact there was bog all on the telly to distract us, it was a pretty pants weekend all around.

In fact, the only good things were the sausage sandwiches we had for tea last night and that Chris remembered Mother's Day without prompting.

So what will this week bring? I dread to think. The weather is being weird (sun, wind, hot, cold, overcast, frost, plague of frogs) and I've got to catch Mrs Pumphrey at some point today as her pink pants are slowly expanding and both she and Mrs Slocombe need spraying with anti-peck spray before the new look in short feathers goes a step too far beyond what can be deemed fashionable in this season's chicken wear. Mrs Pumhrey, for all her calm demeanour when she's roosting and dozing on the back of the garden bench, can be remarkable flighty and is the most difficult of the girls to catch hold of. I may need to buy a net. Or a copy of 'Hello' magazine. She likes a trite read with her capuccino and Hobnob.

And in a crazy moment last week I said I'd help the daughter of a friend of mine with her A level Shakespeare essay on Macbeth and Anthony and Cleopatra. She's got to compare and contrast the two female lead characters, Lady Macbeth and Cleopatra, powerful women both but with huge psychological flaws (i.e they were both nuts) which ultimately governed their Fate. Perhaps they'd had bad weekends too. And PMT. Nice hair, though, Cleo.

At least I didn't incite anyone to murder. But I'd better keep an eye on my poison asp, just in case.