chopper-ing hell

I was innocently lying in my bed last night.
All tucked up.
Pretty cosy, you know.
Husband was just beginning to snore, lying on his back, leg propped up on a pillow (recurring cricket injury; I don't need to spend time going over it any more than I need to - other than to say that it took a lot of charity for me to dig up some sympathy as this is 4th time he's twisted / popped / screwed his knee... - but you'll be relieved to know I found some near the surface of my small supply and his knee has been given enough attention to pass as sympathy).
My eyes were heavy after a nice day in Brighton. Mol & Liz breathing heavily and dreaming of rainbows and pink ponies.
All peace in the house.
When, suddenly FLASH! And, GRRRRRR-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-GRRRRRRRRR (that's the sound of a helicopter written down, if you need to use it for your own literary achievements you're free to contact my lawyers).
A bloody great helicopter swooped down OUTSIDE the window of my loft and shone its fucking cheeky torch right in to my bedroom. On my face!
Like. Hello? Do you see a criminal in this house of peace and synchronised snoring?
I think not! Get ye to the streets of Soho or Bangor, and get ye away from my window.
I sat up in bed as quick as a frogs-tongue catching a fly, and leapt out from under my warm duvet as fast as that new physics thing that says things can move faster than the speed of light, and I saw the helicopter turning away from the house and swooping over the houses of the adjacent roads, and then, coming to a hover over the Church at the top of the hill.
Huh? None of it made sense to me.
Anyway, whatever criminal was hiding out in the Church at the top of the hill, it/he/she stayed there for too long - and 40minutes later, with heaps more noise and flashing searchlights (meanwhile Husband snores gently through it all, in Ibuprofen La La Land I suspect), my head beginning to wonder how the helicopter intended to actually capture the crims in the Church (given it was a helicopter) - it just flew away. Vamos. Off it went.
Having woken the entire neighbourhood except for my immediate family, the chopper chopped off to shine its light in someone elses window.
Do you think helicopter pilots like freaking out nervous housewives at 11.45pm on a Sunday night?
I think they do.
Well the last laugh will be on them. Next time they come near my window, I'll be ready for 'em. In my pj's with Husband's crutches.
Trez menacing.
Or maybe I should just get an eyemask and earplugs...? Urban life. What a bore.

The net result is that today my hair looks like its been in a candyfloss machine and really this weather doesn't help.

And its only Monday.

Let it begin, again

Here we all are again. That's you too.
Back at the beginning.
The great boulder at the top of the steep hill called life which had been teetering on the edge has just been flicked over the side by an enthusiastic do-er who likes to do things and now we're on the annual roller-coaster of life that takes us on, eventually, via the M25 (probably blocked) and the Dartford Tunnel (definitely shut) to the heady warmth of summer 2012...
How nice it'd be to press the fast-forward button on the great control-in-the-sky and get the year done and dusted.
But I suppose we'd only find ourselves once more on the brink of total-organised-chaos as nothing can alter the flying of time. Time which is flying so incredibly fast - faster even than the Concord or than a Jaguar in full gallop, faster even than The Bolt doing the 200m...
And its not like I'm having a ball every moment of this flying time. Probably same as you.
Much of this time is currently spent de-nitting the heads of my two infested but still huggable (just) girls. Another bunch of this time is spent looking for a leotard that fits Mol (think I may have permanently scarred her recently by sending her to a new dance class in a leotard that had a baggy bottom a baggy stomach a sagging chest we could nearly see her nipples and shoulders that kept falling off - as first impressions go, the other dancers may have had a proper impression to chew over...).
Another bunch of time is working out the new timetable and checking that all the pieces of the weekly jigsaw fit together. So far no missing pieces. And no pieces from another puzzle have yet slipped in.
Not a huge amount of this time-flying-by is spent in a glamorous bar in Mayfair with a rich sugar daddy who says he'd like to buy me a villa in Southern France, or in the beauty parlours of Kensington having my back hot-stoned. Oh not for me! 
So we bump down through September, praying for an Indian Summer - and instead we get the cast off weather system from the West Indies and all the pylons in Durham fall down.
Oh and another bunch of time is spent scribbling in the cheque book. Swimming. After school club. Dancing. Name tapes. Printing photos of the long since passed summer (sob sob). Uniforms (checked too late and realised Mols jumper had shrunk to her mid-waist and the sleeves were like bits of thread dangling from a shoulder...). Shoes. The list goes on but may start to bore you even more. Out-goings are out-weighing the in-comings (mind you, there's not a huge change there).
Already we're nearly half way through September so I guess that's maybe a good thing. Because soon we may be through to November and December and then Father Christmas will come and make every one feel cosy and wrapped in cottonwool before we plunge back into the freezing waters of January.
I feel like I've never had a year so full of potential, and yet so full of clutter. But if I de-clutter the time, then the potential falls away - so it's all one mother of a chicken with a sodding big egg.
My horoscope probably reads something like this: Cancer, if you are a true cancerian you will want to crawl back into your shell and make your home pretty.
Well that'd do me just fine. If someone else wants to drive Valient Ship of Life on my behalf while I plump the cushions, do drop me a line.