chicken on the bone

So, I was sitting with Liz & Mol last night as they chomped away on some chicken I'd baked for them. Chicken drumsticks. They call it "chicken on the bone". It's a pretty clear definition of what they are eating.
So, chomp chomp. Liz (who is nearly 5...) takes a hearty bite of her chicken-on-the-bone and then, while teeth are gnashing the white flesh around her mouth like a cement mixer, she asks me a question (a few bits spit out onto the table landing close to my vegetarian elbow).
"Mum, so, is this pork or beef that I'm eating?"

My last blog entry was months and months and months and years and centuries ago. Almost last millennium before internet was invented. Why such a long break in the correspondence to the masses who need this drug? The drug of words and distraction from the mundane routine of work or children or cleaning the kitchen floor for the 2nd time in a day as the 2nd meal of the day has been uploaded off a spoon or fork or plate and joyously left by the children who squash a bit into the tiles so the mother who is on her hands and knees actually has to scrub the baked bean off with real traditional elbow grease. fuckers.

Well to answer the question I asked about 400-sentences ago it is because I've been preoccupied by academia and school and children and housework and cooking and sainsburys and eastenders and wondering if the sun will ever come out again after that lovely drought of a spring and I sort of got carried away by time and woosh before I knew it hey pasta&pesto it's the 2nd of August. Shocking how time flies.

I heard a rumour that time flies when you're having fun.
Well I would say since March I've had a bit of fun but mostly I've been chasing my children to school and then chasing my tail around essays (and then sobbing at the results) and then trying to feed everyone nourishing food (chips tonight? Pizza tomorrow! Fried eggs and bacon on Thursday! Fish fingers on Friday as is tradition... of course you can have another packet of crisps to tide you over). So the mother has been feeling a bit literally ruined. Whilst clasping vats of chardonnay and chugging the occasional cancer stick.

I'm sure I can hear necks creaking as the masses who read this nod in agreement at the recent chaos and accelleration (can't spell it sorry) of life generally.
Answers on postcards if you think its to do with us all having collosal amounts of fun.

Although I have had some massively fun times. Like going to Take That (even the 3 hour journey home as fun). Like going to North West Ireland, otherwise known as Donegal, otherwise known as Southern Ireland (of course it makes sense!). Like drinking black zambucca on my birthday and being drunk for weeks afterwards. All good fun.

My theory is this: I blame the children. If the childrens lives weren't so full of after school clubs and dancing and birthday parties and uniform updates and new shoes and hair cuts and more packets of crisps or trips to the park and then urgent dashes for the loo (always a poo) in the middle of nowhere.
So now I have a solution to slow down life: home schooling, never leave the house (unless for adult activity), long hair, Iceland ready made meals delivered to the door, potties in every room.
With this resolution I believe life will slow down and I may have more time to write my blog.

Although I may also go insane.
So, perhaps a happy medium. Send them to school! Don't cut their hair! Eat meals together (rather than having to cook two suppers every day of the week). Cut down after school activities! Increase DVD consumption!
Yeah.

Who want's to join the slow-it-down club?
See you in WHSmith buying bumper packs of dvd-box-sets, and just think how bloody glorious all the blogs will become?