9.59pm. Two hours and one minute before the A to Z deadline - Mrs T wanders into the lounge where Master Benedict is relaxing with his feet up watching the telly and drinking a glass of orange.
Mrs T: What subject beginning with the letter L should I write about for the A to Z?
Master Benedict (instant reply) Laxatives.
Mrs T: Laxatives?
Master Benedict: What is "laxative" not good enough for you?
Mrs T: No. Laxatives will do just fine.
You see folks, that is what my life is like as the mother of three boys who lives in a house with four males. If I am not being subjected to rude jokes and the regular breaking of wind, I am subjected to conversations that seem always to revolve around bowel movements. Oh, how I long for some sophisticated conversation about what's on the West End or the latest bestselling books! Sadly, that just does not happen in my house. I am the solitary female and must suffer the consequences.
So laxatives it is.
At present, I am not aware that any of the males in my house need laxatives. And I pray to God that they never do because cleaning my bathroom is already a punishment worse than death. It requires a decontamination suit, a Geiger counter and an extra large peg on the nose. I have seen things down our loos that, if I didn't know better, I would have thought were alien species. I have seen things down our loos that if Her Majesty's government knew about them they would be requisitioned and stored as weapons of mass destruction. I have seen things down our loos that make me wonder why it isn't men who give birth to babies.
I have seen things down our loos that no man, woman or child or even a Tory MP should see.
You know I look forward to the day when my kids leave home and I have my own spotlessly clean white bathroom so that when I sit down on my loo seat I can do what comes naturally without jumping up and shouting:
WHO PEED ALL OVER THE LOO SEAT?