I'm outraged. Outraged I tell ya! Outraged by the amount of mock outrage there is on social media. It's nothing short of, well, outrageous.
What ever happened to being a little annoyed? A tad miffed? Moderately irked?
I might be wrong but I'm pretty sure this level of mock outrage is a modern phenomenon. It wasn't always such.
How to Survive the Apocalypse
Seeking Sanctuary on the Toilet
It Started with a Dab
It was a conspiracy of guilt that made me take him.
Firstly I was doorstepped by a Mori pollster who wanted to question me about the out of school activities my boys did. When I said nothing she gave me a look of disgust like she'd just noticed I was naked but for a gimp mask.
Do you remember when this blog used to be about the kids? Nope, me neither.
I should probably just change its name from The Tales of Sonny and Luca to The Miserable Mutterings of a Middle-aged Man and be done with it.
I'm on notice. In September Sonny starts school, Luca Nursery, and I'll be a year closer to my early retirement; or actively looking for work if Janet asks.
Obviously we'll need to discuss my retirement plans, just not before my six month Saga cruise has left port.
It was a beautiful winters day in early 2011 when we met up with my whole family in Lyme Park for an afternoon stroll.
Maybe I'm suffering from selective memory, but I don't remember having any problem dealing with the terrible twos. The threes were memorable only for their feral grunts, and by the time they'd reached four I'd largely become immune to their insolence due to sleep deprivation.
I've not blogged over the summer holidays. I'd like to say it was a self-imposed sabbatical, but that would be ignoring the hours sat sobbing in front of a blank screen calculating how many hours it was until school re-opened.
I love everything about France, even if my last trip was memorable for very different reasons. But then who's not nearly been arrested for human trafficking at some point in their lives? Really, just me?
I admit I'm guilty of the odd rant. Mostly it remains in my head. Sometimes Janet makes eye contact and immediately wishes she hadn't. Occasionally it spills over onto Twitter, and rarer still onto my blog.
This one falls into the latter category so I can only apologise, but it's for good reason.
I'm not a fan of snow.
It all started back when I was seven years old. My sisters and I were having a snowball fight in the street.
At the time my Auntie was visiting from America with her then partner, Chad.
The street lights flickered as if unsure what was expected of them. I found a bench beneath the most assertive and sat down.
A van approached, fast at first but significantly slower the closer it got. As it crawled past its engine called out to me, revving as if bereft of gears.