It's been a full year since I started to share my woeful attempts at housekeeping and motherhood with you. Here is where I should write a rousing, inspiring sort of post about how far I've come and all the wonderful changes I've made and resolutions I've kept.
But sadly, I think my thoughts on this subject are best summed up by the fact that, on opening our under stairs cupboard this morning, I was greeted by a big fuck off spider sitting defiantly on top of the pile of conkers that I was promised would repel arachnids. It was looking at me in the sort of way that suggested that this was only the start of things to come, minion of Satan that it was.
That's pretty much been the theme this year: I have tried very hard (well, OK, I have tried a little bit) and been thwarted at nearly every turn. My house still looks like a class of delinquent nursery school children have been force fed an overdose E numbers and allowed to rampage through it with a giant tub of PVA glue and the contents of a vacuum cleaner, and Rory is still...well...Rory.
On the up side, I now own eight tea towels, so there's that.
And Rory is definitely maturing. I couldn't find my phone yesterday, which used to be a real cause for panic (several months ago, he stole it and hid it between the cheeks of his bum). This time it merely turned out to have been put in the taramasalata. Awesome.
Happy anniversary to me.