I Can't Do Painting, I'm Doing A Car Boot Sale!

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A Car Boot Sale! Yes, A Car Boot Sale

Where I will sell all the things that clog up my home and make going from the kitchen to the sitting room an obstacle course. I have bought my ticket, I have a reserved space, and I will set up on Easter morning and sell sell sell. If my dear children come skipping and frolicking home and come to the car boot sale on the off chance, they may find everything they held dear going for 50p. Everything they held dear only when it is in a cardboard box going for a song at Tescos Car Boot Sale, I mean. "Oh Mum!" I will hear them sob, " I loved that hamster drinking bowl/skirt I've never seen before/funny looking thing" and I will say sternly from the side of my mouth while stuffing the latest wodge of fivers into my bra, "Do you want to be repossessed/live in the work house/unable to pay for your Indian Takeaways?"

I expect I will have much fun and must resist going to spend all my hard earned takings in Tescos afterwards. Better make sure I am strong and get straight into my car with my bra bulging with cash, my bosom seemingly increased a hundred fold, and come home and count it all at the kitchen table. Unless I have sold it.

The French Student has arrived and is unpacking. His English is fluent and he is very clever and only young. I think he is very nice indeed and will enjoy having him to stay. I have tried to warn him about my Sons and Fatema coming at the weekend. "These are not people who suffer from shyness or shortage of things to say. These are not people who live in the margins, who wish only to be left alone in silence" I said to French Student. "OK" he said with a brilliant Gallic shrug. "No really," I fix him with a look that tries to speak volumes," make sure you have had a good night's sleep and have eaten well. Know that running away is acceptable and that hiding in the wardrobe is probably a clever idea, not a childish one"

Everyone will be here this weekend and I will be uncontactable in Turkey. Alan is contactable though, and all thoughts and queries will be routed through to him. Even during tennis he will be hauled to the phone - Mr Bedford! Mr Bedford! Urgent Call From The French Student. Hold the Match Alan will say as he runs into the club house - " 'Ello? 'Ello? Mr Bedford? Er what is this thing Mushy Peas?"

I do have work to do but I can't think straight. Got to sort out Oxford and A Graceful Death going there, got to start the Commission, got to put proposal into place in Birmingham that wants AGD and got to find some funding for it. And got a craft-ey fair-ey type thing to get ready for and and and ...

Think I will go to Waterstones and get a book for the holiday. "How To Get On In Life When Your Head Is Full Of Scrambled Eggs" kind of thing. Next blog from Turkey.