Party feet

Ahhh, the weekend. Wait a minute, it's really pretty much the same as the week only with The Boy around.

Minxy is rehearsing for a show, so it's jazz hands at the ready and up and out of the house (with the baby in tow) for 8.30am. Urgh!

She's been dancing for a few months and really enjoys it. But it was a case of third time lucky as we had tried other classes.

First there was toddler ballet, which was really a group of two year olds with all the grace of a herd of elephants jumping about.

Next was contemporary dance, which was a group of three year olds with all the grace of a herd of elephants actually pretending to be herds of elephants, with the odd African drum thrown in for good measure. We gave up on that when Minxy got fed up of being an animal week after week and just wanted to wear a tutu and prance around.

Now every Saturday morning Minxy plié's, tap dances and sings, and I along with the other parents sit in a hot and stuffy corridor snatching a bit of 'adult time' as we chat, read the papers or have a cuppa. Pretty blissful.

The bliss was short-lived today as we had to attend my niece's 3rd birthday party in Cambridge. All lovely in theory, but when it takes you longer to get out of the house than the journey itself you have to psyche yourself up.

As it happens we had a great time, but as I tucked into another piece of some scrummy millionaires shortbread, it crossed my mind that I should sort my mummy tummy at some point.

At some point, not now, although we did pass a sign on the way home for Six Bottom Mile , which I read briefly as Six Mile Bottom. I took it as a sign, and as apparently your not supposed to eat for two during pregnancy, it figures you shouldn't really after.

How terribly dull.