Face Facts

Since the need to get up and go into an office each day has been removed from my equation I wouldn't say my beauty routine has exactly slipped.  

Rather, it has braked, skidded and veered amazingly off the nicely polished highway.

 
Being a bit of a transvestite make-up junkie I promised myself that for at least 6 months I would wear less makeup and take better care of my skin.  

Sooo... I did the first one.  

Here's an example of the daily cosmetic armoury I had to choose from before:

  

And that's not even all of it.

And before any of that went on my face I used all of these:

I guess you could say I have now pared back somewhat, what with not having to put on the 'morning mask' for a while.  I'm sure there's something psychological in there somewhere.  And although I still have access to a staggering amount of warpaint, I only now have the inclination, not to mention energy, to reach for these:

With a bitta this first:

God bless the new cheap and cheerful, fuss-free toilette.  

Now if you'll excuse me I need to go doll-up and see a machine about a wash.  

Foam Hacking Scandal

So lately Rory has taken to banging soft toys against his face.  Really hard.  

Methinks he is trying to alleviate some gum discomfort at the moment, but I also think he likes to show off those two chubby, grabby things he's discovered at the end of each arm that can search out, terrorise and destroy anything with a foam face.  

Each morning I approach his cot with some trepidation.  

The scene of carnage usually consists of my son going "urghff, urghff, urghff" as Paddington Bear lies face down, Moe the giraffe looks on as a helpless bent-knecked witness and Cousin Jai's knitted tiny teddy tries to make a headfirst escape through the bars.       

I call an urgent meeting to discuss Rory's conduct.  Things go well, although he only promises to get his ducks in a row if he can eat them later.      

Creative or Domestic?

I decided to revisit an earlier floral scribble with some heavier paints and must say I do like the result.  I am loving autumnal red-brown right now, on anything.  I mean, apparently it's still summer here but let's not kid ourselves.

Okay, it still looks a bit crap but it's the colours I like. It looks much better in real life if I'm honest.

Also I recently found an old art deco pendant languishing at the bottom of one of my many, many, many keepsake boxes.  I decided to plonk it on a silver chain, and to quote my nephew, I "felt happy in my body" for doing it:  

Afternoon Delight:

I have absolutely no shame in saying I cannot wait for Jersey Shore Season 4.  

Seeing Paulie D and Vinnie in their 'Italia' gear makes me cackle with unbridled excitement.  Yes I am 38 years of age and should know better.

Did I watch Geordie Shore as well?  You bet your Nelly.

Arachnofreakinphobia

Well it looks like the summer season is finally hotting up, thank the lord.  I know it when I walk out my front door and am immediately knocked sideways by the smell of Farmfoods beef burgers being singed on disposable barbecues.  That, and the sound of tinny Top 40 tunes being blared out of countless Argos boomboxes, patio-side.  But when the menfolk around these parts start taking the top half of their tracksuits off, you know it's summer for sure.  

Well, we have to enjoy the heatwave while we can.  After all, the next black cloud is never too far away.  And with all this mad mugginess comes the onset of another antisocial beast:  

Please note I have only used a drawing. Obviously a picture of a real spider would come to life, jump through the screen and bite you on the face.

  

During summer I suffer from the worst arachnophobia imaginable.

I never used to be this bad.  I grew up in scorching Australian summers and with a father who flatly refused to move the eight-legged chancers whenever they set up camp on the walls of our house each December, like unwelcome Christmas guests.  We even named every spider "Brownie".  So over the course of many summers and many different spiders, we always pretended it was one and the same "Brownie" who had come back to stay with us for the holidays.  In a way I respect my dad for saying no to spider stomping, although I do wish he at least put them outside.  Everyone knows there's nothing worse than going to sleep knowing exactly where a spider is on the wall, making a mental note, then waking up to a blank wall.   

I grew up well-aquainted with bending my legs like pipecleaners to avoid the huntsman lurking behind the toilet door, I am aquainted with walking down dark tree-lined streets at night and stumbling into wolf-spider webs, I even used to pick up and play with daddy long legs' when I was bored.  

These days I am terrified.  I don't even live in a hot country anymore.  Usually in Scotland the spiders start out fingernail-sized around May time, become coin-sized by July, then by August/September they morph into small tarantulas.  Just like that.  I say 'usually' because this year they seem to have skipped the formalities of growing slowly - so scaredy cats like me can get used to them - and gone straight to tarantula size from nothing.     

A pretty big tegenaria (Google it, I dare you, it'll jump through the screen!) has recently set up its HQ beside my late mother-in-law's front door.  The first time I clap eyes on the thing it moves like lightning around the corner and into the alcove, its slick spindly legs still poking out.  Boak.  In order to get past it I actually run and do a long jump over the door threshold.

*The rule is that if you need to get past a spider then only doing so at great speed will prevent it from leaping up from a corner or off a wall and directly onto your face.  All arachnophobes know this* 

In a cold sweat and with hand to forehead I order my other half to "deal with it".  Spiders don't bother him a jot.  He doesn't go out of his way to play with them or anything, but once I manage to drop an upturned glass on one and run away screaming, he will quietly and quickly take it to its rightful place OUTSIDE.  He assures me he will do the same with this one.  

Three days later I am walking down the same hallway in a maxi-dress, confident that my swishyness won't pick up any unwanted passengers.  Then in a terror-filled instant I discover the spider is still there, bouncing up and down on it's very same webby front porch and mocking me.  

With an asthmatic wheeze I wrap the skirt of my dress around my legs as tightly as it will go and opt for a hop, skip and jump combo to get past it.  

As I later try to murder Scott for lying to me he laughs, "Oh, that must be its mate."  

Ha ha ha, he laughs.  Like it aint no thing.  

"But there's going to be hundreds of them, everywhere," he says.  "Not just there, but in this house too.  It's summer?  Der."  

Fair point.  I have been silenced for now.

This morning I saw one in the reflection of the bath panel, hiding behind a stack of magazines near the toilet.  Quite symbolically I threw a book at it.  

Bullseye.  

Sorry Brownie.

      

A goo goo goo, a ga ga ga, is all I want to say to you.

So for the past few days I have been toying with the idea of thinking about making a start on possibly looking at going back to a full-time job.  Reluctant?  Me?  

 I receive an email from my wonderful former manager, asking me what my plans are to return to work.  I read the message then go hide behind the couch.  Not because I don't want to go back to work (au contraire, the thought does fill me with some excitement) but because I know I will have to go through the worst kind of separation anxiety leading up to not seeing my son for, like, hours a day.  The shock and the horror!  Yes, I know... working mothers the world over have gone through this process since year dot.  But, dude.

After cowering behind soft furnishings for 10 minutes I go to Google and make my hands type in the words "child" and "minder".  I happen upon the details of a nice child-minding lady who lives not far from here, charges a reasonable rate and whose website features happy colours, photos of kids making stuff and jumping in puddles with big grins.  My heart leaps because I think she may be perfect, then it sinks because... well because.        

Creative or Domestic?

This morning after our power walk Rory and I get stuck into a freezer defrost/ice-picking exercise.  It's kinda fun at first.  But we get halfway through before agreeing, in mutual disgust, that this is a job best left until there are at least 2 episodes of America's Next Top Model under the belt.  A lot of natural defrosting can occur in 70 minutes with the door left wide open.  I mean, for Pete's sake.  

I have also recently taken a peek at the wonders of the online creative community.  My lurking has felt a bit like walking onto a crowded beach, still fully clothed and wondering where the hell to put down my towel.  Well, I have decided that this week it is time to run across the sand with a big smile on my face, not look down to see where my towel lands and make a dash for the water.  "Yoo-hoo!" 

 

Afternoon delight

In my shallower moments I realise that beautiful rings make me happy.

Babe report

Over the past few weeks the babe has been honing his laughing talents.  It began as a faintly heard "wheee" in his sleep (who would've thought babies can "sleep laugh").  This developed into an asthmatic sounding "ckckckkk" on the changing table and is now finally a fully-blown "Hehehehe!"

Now he can't stop.

The funniest part is when I respond to the "hehehehe" with a "hehehehe" of my own, and am looked at as if I have done something very inappropriate. 

"You can do it. Put your ass into it."

I have decided I need to get fit.  I have decided I want to lose quite a bit of weight.  I propose to Rory this morning that we should make these two things priority action items for the week. "It makes sense to get rid of some dead wood", he dribbles.  "As long as it doesn't conflict with my snuggling schedule, in which case you can go fix yourself a reality sandwich".   

Creative or Domestic?

Following more bouts of crazy precipitation this past week (and far too many sodden hairstyles for my liking) I declare like a woman possessed that we are refusing to leave the house until it "jolly well" stops.  Way to go!  Rain, consider yourself told!  So I throw open the cupboards and grasp at carrots, onions, potatoes, lentils, anything I can get my waterlogged hands on.  I chop, I dice, I blend, I make what I call "soup surprise" because if it ends up resembling anything soupy then quite frankly I'll be shocked.  

The soup is disgusting.  I assure myself that the flavours just haven't had enough time to blend properly.  So I leave it another hour.  Still disgusting.  I add more chicken stock and all of a sudden it is one of the finest soups I've tasted that day.  If I do say so myself. 

Babe report

Well the babe is 18 weeks and counting.  We attended a weaning fair recently and he sat quietly on my lap listening to some talks from local "experts".  They ranged from a warm and fuzzy librarian (whose fabulous bracelet we both ogled from the front row) enthusing about the joys of weekly story time, to the midwife Frau who warned against the eeevils of weaning a baby too early.  

Achtung!  Rusks will make your tot's teeth fall out, even if he only has gums.  Spooning rice into your young before they are 23 weeks and 25 hours old will surely increase the risk of speech problems, bed wetting and a penchant for KFC.  

Now I am not one to poo-poo years of research and I am sure her case against early weaning is well founded.  She even demonstrated how it is impossible to feed a baby, as its tongue reflex instantly pushes food back out of the mouth.  

"You don't do that, do you?"  I laughed at the carb-comfy baby in my lap.  Only 2 small spoonfuls a day, mind you.  But the evil look we were shot was priceless...  

Rory had fallen peacefully to sleep anyway, dreaming of care factors. 

CBeebies: Just some thoughts

Rory requests some early morning face time today, followed by a trip to Bar Moloko and an outfit change.  After an ongoing disagreement over whether a nap now or later would be best, Rory says he'll just run the idea up the flagpole and see if anyone salutes.  Bouncy chair and colourful daytime TV it is, then.

CBeebies

In the past couple of months or so I have come to discover the wonderful world of CBeebies.  I used to put the channel on for visiting friends' little ones, however for the first time I have actually had time to watch some of the shows properly.  And on particularly frought days I have found it to be "mother's best friend".  Some of the shows are just weird and wonderful but they never fail to turn little frowns upside down.

Here are my impressions of just some of them:

Come Outside

Auntie Mabel is a mature widow who drinks to forget, her sole companion being her trusty terrier Pippin.  During these binges Auntie Mabel imagines she owns a polkadot covered plane in which she and Pippin fly to such places as Seville to pick oranges, or Morrisons to do her weekly shop.  In reality she is banned from the local Morrisons for being drunk and disorderly and so needs the mysterious Edie to pick up her messages for her instead.  

Grandpa in My Pocket

Spoiled brat Jason lives in beach house with Monsoon-dress-wearing mother and magical grandpa, who possesses a unique talent for shrinking himself using a 'magical shrinking cap'.  He then runs about like a not even pint-sized loon, flying model planes and hiding behind jars.  I find myself wanting to chase Grandpa with a view to stepping on him when he does this.  I do not know why.

 

Mr Bloom's Nursery

Borderline hot younger man dresses up as fusty older man - a la Mellors from Lady Chatterley's Lover - complete with bad wig and exaggerated Northern accent.  Shakes maracas and keeps his garden gate constantly open in order to lure small children, creepily named "tiddlers", into his nursery.  Claims that "with his veg and plants he can sing and dance" and so sings to his vegetables, which include a misbehaving family of radishes called the Cheeky Wee MacGregors.  Occasionally Mr. Bloom takes his hat off.  Swoon.

In The Night Garden

Collection of sinister characters with names straight out of some acid-enabled nightmare:  Iggle Piggle, Makka Pakka and The Tombliboos.  Oh, and Upsy Daisy, an annoying dreadlocked rag doll upstart who often screeches into a megaphone for no apparent reason.  I would quite like to pinch Upsy Daisy when no-one is looking.  

How much fun it must be devising and producing these TV gems!  I used to imagine the CBeebies Unit at the BBC as some enchanted, primary-coloured, soft play paradise.  After some consideration I now think all the walls are padded and the meals are terrible.  

Stuff kids TV - perhaps I should start writing children's books.  Maybe then I would be able to keep the house in Scotland and buy, say, a $10,000,000 Tasmanian mansion.

Just let me know when you've had enough.

This morning's breakfast consists of a mouthful of air as I rush around getting the tot ready for massage class.  I look in the mirror and discover a burst blood vessel on my right eyeball.  Great - all I need now is open sores on my face and I'll look just like Woogie from There's Something About Mary.  

We hoof it up to the local nursery with minutes to spare and take our place in the circle, looking forward to participating in the peaceful joy of mother/son bonding.

Well.  He's having none of it.  I admit, there was no time for a top-up feed and a quick nap beforehand and boy am I regretting it now.  I want to giggle as this is his first instance of disrupting class.  I am sure will not be the last.  Anyway he starts with a grimace, which looks like a smile and so the others comment on how much he's enjoying himself.  I smile nervously but don't make eye contact with anyone due to scary bloodshot eye.  He sticks his bottom lip out and I know it's coming...  It must be quite a scene when I finally pick up my screeching baby,  laugh to drown out his cries and look like I'm going through some sort of evil Black Swan-like transformation.  "It's okay, really, he's never like this..."

Today's Rant

Can someone suggest an item of clothing I can wear on my bottom half that's not black and elastic?  Don't get me wrong - it's been great swanning around in a black kaftan and enjoying my sanctimonious post-natal haze these past few months, it's just that I'm starting to itch for a wee bit of colour now.  Even if it's not quite in my desired size.  

Alas, fashion seems to be all about the legs right now.  Legs I don't have.  Everywhere I look I see Bambi in shorts, Bambi in a mini, Bambi in skinny jeans and daughter of Bambi in leggings.  Is there nothing out there for the less coltish of limb?  Maxi dresses just swamp me and midi skirts make me look matronly, as much as I like the idea of them.  Damn it to hell, I will not be lulled into a false sense of security by waterfall cardis anymore.     

Food for thought... 

...especially if you get any stuck in your teeth and don't need to worry about brushing it away:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/femail/article-477378/Six-weeks-wash-The-soapless-experiment.html

Ooh...

Well it's an all-hands meeting this morning, conducted entirely using the word "ooh".  Agreeing that we need to dialogue later about his recent attitude, the wee man crams his teether into his mouth to tell me we're finished here.

Creative or Domestic?

I weakly attempt a tidy up, realise I did more than I thought yesterday and so declare houswifery off the agenda.  Besides, there's a spider living on the ceiling in the living room and if I switch on the vacuum he might actually move, and I will probably scream.

Sitting at the desk with a blank art pad, some charcoal and my watercolour pencils seems much more appetising:

I did it in a hurry with charcoal and watercolour pencils.  It's rough, it's uneven.  But it's colourful and I needed to do something, dammit.

Domestic: Nil

Creative: Getting there

Obscure delight

I just love daylight savings in Scotland.  At 10pm it still looks and feels like 4pm and it makes you not want to go to bed, ever.  This feeling of the night being young for longer is just as well when it's 11 o'clock and you realise you're just finally settling down to watch a movie and eat the dinner you prepared at 8.  

Heid!

Rory and I hit hair and makeup early this morning for a trip to the doctors (my new home away from home) followed by a cruise to the supermarket for provisions.  Today is Health Visitor day, so there's lots of Monday Mess to tackle before she arrives in the afternoon.

Creative or Domestic?

Do lots of laundry including a load that consists entirely of socks.  Get bundle of socks out of machine, drop two socks.  Pick up two socks, drop three more.  And so it goes, this merry dance of me and wet smalls.  I eventually give up and decide to use my time more creatively, so I catch up on last week's episode of The Apprentice (the UK one, the only one) and an episode of Geordie Shore (I'll try anything once, me).

Domestic Arts: 5 (socks)

Fine Art: 0   

Obscure delight

I received a very regal looking bundle of Royal Jelly toiletries as a gift recently.  First time ever.  And although I do find the scent strangely alluring in an old-school way I daresay it also doubles as an excellent mosquito repellent.  I have been using it the past few nights though and there is something comforting about the smell, it brings to mind childhood holidays and staying at elderly relatives houses.        

Babe report

So our friendly neighbourhood Health Visitor came around today to measure the babe and make sure I'm not feeding him cheese puffs or sending him out to work.  Weight and height are both average but his head is "rather big" apparently.  I tell her that as a baby my head was "rather big" too at that age, so I'm not too bothered.  She recommends in a polite and breathy manner that I "might take him to the GP, just to get it looked at".  I agree to do it, but only because I have the time to and well, you just never know.  
When she leaves I look up his head measurement on the child growth scale thingy and although it is, ahem, bigger than average, it's not exactly off the charts.  I also look at her notes and it says she has advised me to see GP "re plagiocephaly".  Love, you also forgot to call his head a virtual planetoid with its own weather system. 

I vow not to offer coffee next time, then I call and make an appointment with GP re son's deformed noggin.
 

Sun Daze

After weeks of god-awful rain and gale force winds the sun has finally come out to play.  I believe it may be a one day only type deal, but it is a welcome respite nonetheless.  It is nicer to get around in the sunshine, full stop.  I don't know how many appointments I have arrived at lately looking like an extra from The Perfect Storm.  One cannot remain calm nor professional in manner or appearance when wearing waterproof clothing and having to undo approximately 37 tabs of wet velcro on a pram once arriving at one's destination. 

image courtesy of google

Creative or Domestic?

This week follows a lovely long weekend, the main themes of which included pyjama time, eating cooked breakfasts, catching up with girlfriends and having group hugs with the boys.  Also, 90 minute walks (active) were balanced out by watching, in a daze, as Scott played LA Noire (so not active).  As enjoyable and relaxing as it all was I would be lying if I said I didn't boot my man out the door with a big "love you, bye!" as he set off for work again on Tuesday.  This is my domain now after all - the leftover mess from the lost weekend being all mine too. 

Pesky domesticity: 10  
Creativity: Nuls points  

Afternoon delight

I have come to love lurking around the local charity shops, now that I have time to explore the long neglected neighbourhood.  And buried among the fast fashion rejects are some red-hot granny finds, I tell you.  If you get particularly lucky (as I did) then the person serving you will be some volunteer who is bad at maths.  I scored two vintage belts for a pound:  One was actually a pound but the other didn't have a price tag on it, so somewhere in the shop assistant's thought process it simply became "free".  
Being a charity I perhaps should have said something and given him the darned extra pound.  But I am skint, so ner. 

Babe report

Note to self:  Must be careful opening kitchen drawers when my small-faced charge is sitting in a bouncy chair watching dinner preparations.  A near-miss, but still. 

Rub-a-bored-bub

So it has been a few days...  The past week has included a funeral, a hospital appointment, baby massage classes and a 14-week growth spurt involving you-know-who.  Said growth spurt is the thing that seems to have eaten up most of my time and quite frankly, it is exhausting.  

In a nutshell my angel of the morning has been turning into an evil grizzler at lunchtime, these grizzles culminating in a Damien the Omen-like performance come early evening.  But then one night he goes to sleep, like a little computer he downloads mysterious baby stuff, he reboots and come morning all is right with the world again.  Then suddenly he does something he couldn't do before like giggle, or sound a different vowel, or kick his legs when he's excited.  

I love all of these little miracles, really I do.  It's just the getting there that sometimes makes me want to cry.  But in a good way, if there is such a thing.  And I find that massage helps.

Please see fig A:

Our first baby massage class is great.  Think a circle of cooing chubby little bodies wriggling around on folded towels, with the odd projectile vomit from Max lying on our left and particularly loud and proud baby farts from Liam to our right.  Rory just stares at me suspiciously as I pour out the oil and start rubbing my hands together.  His eyes bore into me like little almond-shaped instruments of torture while I gently raise his leg and commence the joy-giving.  

He gives a beaming smile at first but then starts looking around the room bored after about two minutes.  Okay, point taken - you're a baby and you'd rather be hitting the bottle about now, or watching Mr. Bloom's Nursery whilst drizzling your drool all over a muslin.  It's just what babies do.  

After about 40 minutes of  "milking" and "rolling" I look around and recognise my expression in every other mother who, like me, is finding the massaging of their infant about as easy and enjoyable as patting a cat that's not in the mood.  I envy the two instructors and their tot-sized rag dolls.  It must be easy to showcase a neverending list of fancy strokes on a static, silent and bodily fluid-free foam body.  
We have a great laugh nonetheless and - incredibly - Rory has a record 3 hour nap that afternoon.  Which suits me just fine.          

 

Obscure delight

Perhaps a delight for some:

http://culturewav.es/public_thought/112194

   

Creative or Domestic?

I must admit it has been neither lately, even though there have been enough rainy and windy days to keep me indoors, climbing the walls.  I blame the abovementioned growth spurt for my lethargy - a lack of sleep does not a great creative mind make, unless you're talking hallucinations.  Luckily things haven't gotten that bad.  So normal service will resume this week, now that I have my easygoing son back and no longer have his growth spurt to blame.  

   

A Prickly Subject

Tuesdays used to be my least favourite day of the week.  Now, not so much.  However today is a Tuesday and I hate it already.  Today "we" have a doctors appointment at 9.15am for "our" second set of infant immunisations, or as they quite fittingly say here in Scotland, "jags."  This makes them sound a little like medieval punishment.   

Creative or Domestic?

This afternoon I dug out the art supplies festering at the back of the arse end of a cupboard.  Basically my art kit comprises paints, fabrics, papers, pens and glue that have been unceremoniously shoved into various aging and holey plastic bags.  I also discovered some handmade cards I once put together but got bored with after about 7 minutes.  Not bored exactly, more "distracted" (read lazy):  

 

 

So after having a nosey at these I've decided to try and rekindle the artistic fires.  That is, with whatever spare time and inspiration I can find once the daily tending to the child is said and done. 

Obscure delight

May I introduce to you the most entertaining reading I have had in years, the "Am I Being Unreasonable" topic on Mumsnet:

http://www.mumsnet.com/Talk/am_i_being_unreasonable

Who knew middle-class ladies could be so downright vicious?  It's despicable, it's un-pc, it's genteel and nasty all at the same time.  You may want to read with a box of popcorn.

Babe report

Today's trip to the GP for abovementioned "jags" was a lot better than last month.  Junior gave only a medium-sized "wah" this time, after being attacked from either side by a matronly tag team of nurses who cooed over him afterward.  In return he stuck out his bottom lip and shot them accusing looks.  

 

What amazed me the most however was the ease with which he took a spoonful of Calpol once we got home.  What used to be spat out with immediate disgust was now taken gently into the mouth, carefully considered by the palate, then calmy swallowed without the slightest change of facial expression. 

 

We have an eater!

 

Welcome to my new KPI, or Kid Pacifying Index

During our early morning breakfast meeting Rory and I touch base to compile an action plan for the week ahead.  We compare notes, swap continence tips, that sort of thing.  He then gives a loud satisfied burp, indicating our session is up.   

Creative or Domestic?

Today it is raining so I proclaim today "Dull Domestiday."  I don't like Mondays as a rule, but since I won't need to get up at the crack of dawn to commute to an office for a while, Mondays and I are on good terms again.  Getting up at the crack of dawn to feed the baby is a different matter but I don't need to go into hair and makeup for that, so it's win win.

Today, Domestic Not-ess that I am, I filled 3 charity bags with clothes and begrudgingly snuck in some old handbags.  When I say "snuck" I mean folded them into the clothes, as the charity bag says "clothes only, please no bric-a-brac" on the front.  Apart from bad taste china figurines I really have no idea what bric-a-brac actually is.  It may well include handbags, and handbags are not clothes, so I err on the side of caution.

Crap clearing: Ongoing. 

Laundry: One load. 

Washing up: Complete.  

Kitchen: Wiped.  

Living Room: Junk rearranged just enough to look tidier.  

Done and done. 

Obscure delight

Today whilst taking the pram out for walkies I could smell cooking onions.  How I adore the smell of cooking onions.  It reminds me of barbecues in the sunshine.  It reminds me of music festivals, and needing to line my stomach before I get minging drunk.  It is, among other things, an essential summer smell.  

The fact I was wearing a waterproof jacket and had a raincover on the pram made no difference to me at all.   

Babe report

Today the babe was surprisingly textbook.  After waking at 6.30am he had a quiet feed, he went down for a nap, he woke again for a feed, he went down for a nap.  Rinse and repeat.  He was charming and smiley in between.  I waited and waited for my luck to change but the worst damage he did was to pull aggressively at his favourite muslin and drench it in drool.  Then, after his last feed of the day he lay on the couch in the afterglow of having been fed and watered, gave gummy grins to his parents and promptly dozed off.

My luck will change.  I guarantee it.