Oh dear. I'm a bad blogger. Call blogging social services - I'm guilty of appalling neglect.
I'm sorry blog - it wasn't you. It was all me. Specifically the fact that my new job only allows me half an hour for lunch and I always did my best blogging whilst luxuriating in the decadence of a whole 60 minutes at my last place of employment.
Half an hour is barely enough time to read half a Grazia whilst wolfing down a pot noodle without burning my chin, never mind trying to simultaneously craft some barely coherent words of insight and interest. However the anniversary of your creation is fast approaching and you deserve some attention. So I'm back.
A quick update on events since we last chatted.
I'm now officially old. Yup - the big four oh grabbed me by the hand and pulled me kicking and screaming into the bosom of middle age. I have spent the last year practising how to nonchalently tell casual enquirers that I'm 40 hoping it wouldn't come as too much of a shock to my system in due course. But darling blog - I don't mind admitting to you that I don't feel half so nonchalent now that it's true. My decolletage is crepe'ing as I type, and I have been monitoring the armpit wattle situation on a daily basis. Bah.
Still I had a very nice party, and I have some lovely friends who truly embraced the seventies party theme. Anyone who is prepared to wear polyester clothes and bad afro on a hot June night just to celebrate my birthday is a hero in my book.
However the real hero of the hour was my husband. He gave me one of the most thoughtful and sweet presents I have ever received. He found some short fairy stories I had written years ago and thought long lost on an old computer. He had beautifully illustrated them and printed them into a book which I am now under instruction to fill with other stories for the children. I will do my best.
He also planned the party, stayed sober at said party in case he had to make an emergency dash home to a daughter plagued with tonsilitis, and then let me stay in bed until noon the next day, despite the fact that it was father's day. What a guy.
Other news is that my darling girl turned two. I will post about her separately, but here she is on her birthday. My darling baby girl - all growing up and beautiful.
Some months ago I had announced to my husband that we were going on holiday in the week of my birthday. "Fine" he said. "Whatever makes you happy". He visibly blanched when I told him we were going camping.
My husband has developed a significant aversion to life under canvas as a result of an unlucky incident at Glastonbury 2005. Lying in our tent one night there was a panicked cry of; "Incoming!!!!"
The whole sky seemed to light up as an emergency flare was released into the sky by some stoned numpty only to plummet earthwards into the tent next to ours, incinerating everything except the charred remains of the tent poles.
For some reason this has left my husband with an uneasy feeling about the safety of camping, however a trip to Featherdown Farms has relaxed him on this subject somewhat. An idyllic, bucolic week was spent on a gorgeous farm and I can recommend this holiday to anyone with young children and a yen to get back to nature. Some piccies;
The morning routine: yawn, stretch, walk out of your tent, step into warm goose poo. Every day.
Adventures, larks and lashings of ginger beer.
You know the eggs are fresh when they are still warm from the hen.
Took a while to pluck up his courage but a true friendship was forged.
Scream if you want to go faster.
The wood burning stove. Heater, cooker, entertainment and bloody hard work.
God bless gas and electricity.
Well blog, that's us up to date. Oh don't look at me like that - I've said I'm sorry. Now you're just pouting - you're making me feel bad. Look I am really, really sorry. How about some chocolate? No? What about wine? Flowers? Diamonds?
What about if I just tickle you right here. Right by your mouse. Ha - that's much better - a lovely smile.