Sometimes I crave spontaneity when negotiating social life with a crazy dude like Laughing Boy. Sadly, the experience is usually drenched in daft rules and unhelpful bureaucracy, especially when it is to do with health, social care and education.
Take one example. I asked for a referral to an endocrinologist because I wanted to ask some questions about the chromosome disorder LB had been diagnosed with many moons ago.
Now, for the purposes of this post, I’m substituting Laughing boy’s surname (which happens to be an endangered species) for Llama. And, I’m pretending that llama’s are an endangered species. When I told some mates this story on the bus a few weeks ago, I laughed so much I could barely speak. They didn’t. Continue reading
Whoa??? What??? Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeek? Did someone really just say that? Have I been teleported into a meeting of the inner circle of the Conservative party? What the fuck is going on?
Crazy, crazy days. This is an unexpectedly sneaky early view of the next instalment of this long, sorry tale because I’ve LOST MY PASSPORT AGAIN. And, I need the number for a passport form I’ve witnessed tonight. After relentlessly looking for the actual passport, I searched for possible electronic records of the number (on old e-tickets, etc). That turned up this email reminding me vividly of the Moroccan weekend away; Continue reading
(… and the Olympia Horse of the Year Show programme)
Every year on his birthday, Laughing boy chooses a treat. This could be a day out, a meal or whatever he wants really. It’s become a bit of a family joke that he only ever wants me to go on this treat. No amount of bribery, coaxing or cajoling shakes his conviction that it’s “Just you and me, Mum”.
mydaftlife 
