Vomit. Armchair philosophy. Where my mind is. Money.

Baby B woke up this morning and promptly began to vomit profusely all over his beloved Mama i.e. me. Urgh. Nothing like spending a stinking hot day in the house wiping up vomit. Urgh I say again.  So today's activities were somewhat curtailed.

Anyway last night one of M's dearest old chums joined us for dinner.  He has the same name as M.  I'll call him, er, M2.  Anyway as I've alluded to in earlier posts M and his cronies are interested in reading Improving Works and discussing higher issues and contemplating existential questions.  Hey, look, it's not that I'm not interested in that stuff too - people, I have a degree in Political Science - but frankly I'm just into talking about TV, food, Kate Middleton and Georgette Heyer novels more.  Each to their own.

So M and M2 talked about, you know, the Hobbesian theory on man in the state of nature or whatever and I nodded and interjected with the occasional enlightening comment like "Hobbes? Pretty sure I saw him down the shops last week, he was buying some activated almonds and NapiSan", and "Rousseau? Wasn't he on Big Brother?", in between shoveling handfuls of macadamia nuts into my gob and listening to the music in my head.

At the moment that music happens to be that song they play ad infinitum on the wireless - "Call me, maybe?". If you haven't heard it,  I think the song is about two young people who meet one evening at a dance, whereupon the young lady gives her calling card to the young gentleman and he asks her chaperone if he can pay a social visit while she is staying at her spinster aunt's residence for the London Season. Or something.

Anyway as M and M2 reminisced about days of yore and chewed the fat philosophy style, I kind of drifted off. I don't know about you but I think a lot about food. So if you're wondering what goes on in my head that prevents me from, oh, I don't know, actually making sure I'm wearing matching shoes, wonder no more good citizens. Here's a sort of photographic recreation of the glory that is my mind.

Hey, I just met you!

And this is CRAZY!

But here's my number...

So call me, maybe?

Repeat ad nauseum...

Hey, I just met you!

And this is crazy!

But here's my number...

So call me, maybe?

Sorry about the gross broken nails with chipped nail polish. Insert any festive related treat into this pastiche and you will have a fairly accurate representation of the inner workings of my braiiinnnn, such as it is.  You could probably substitute other tunes also.  It used to be that Robert Palmer song "Simply Irresistable" that was permanently stuck in my head. I think you'll find that one works just as well for this thought sequence.

When the kids are in bed M and I are going to talk about money.  I don't know about you but frankly, after a busy weekend of vomit cleaning,  there's nothing like really getting down to nuts and bolts about family finances to cheer a girl up.  I think there might even be spreadsheets involved.  Oh the humanity...

How are you lot going?  Eating lots?  Swatting up on Descartes and his methodological skepticism? Enjoying your nice air conditioned houses you total bastards? Do tell.