Clarification.

Yawn. Stretch. A luxuriant nearly 7am sleep-in, only ended by construction workers next door deciding that Sparrow’s Fart is, in fact, a GOOD time to start hammering things.

Ah. That’s better.

After I stumbled away from my computer the other day, you will probably be unsurprised to note that I carefully put Saag and Naan down in the playgym (a.k.a the Toy That Is Fun To Pull All The Flashy Bits Off Of, purpose thereof to create painful missiles for unwary parental insteps at 3am) and promptly fell asleep on my back on the floor next to them.

Long Suffering tells me he didn’t realise I wasn’t awake and listened to the sound of Saag and Naan At Work from the front room where he was Busy doing presumably Critically Important things with the Internet.

He found me nearly three hours later, snoring on my back in the middle of the loungeroom. No, he was kind enough not to take a picture. Yes, the babies were fine, although the playgym was especially thoroughly deconstructed and somebody had vomited on my hand at one point.

Deary me. You’ll be glad to know I relocated for the rest of my much-needed kip.

I went to bed and got another five blessed hours on innerspring instead of carpet.

Eight hours of sleep does a whiny Geohde good.

Not perhaps enough good to, say, remember just how it is that calculus goes after nearly twenty years spent carefully forgetting the horror that is Maths, or (even worse and slightly shamefully) figure out how long division works.

Even if I stick my tongue firmly out the side of my mouth in order to aid in air-cooling my frazzled brain, that knowledge is even further crumpled beyond all recognition by my poor beleaguered hippocampus.

Translation? I ain’t going to remember squat about Maths ever again. Or History, for that matter. Or any of the languages I spent years painfully memorising for exams, other than perhaps how to say ‘Je ne parle pas’ or count to ten in Bahasa. Or perhaps ask the way to the dunny. Because if I was dumped smack-bang in the middle of a nation of Foreign, knowing where the can is in an emergency is clearly right up there is Maslow’s Heirachy.

Yeah, don’t ask. I learned about Maslow in school too, although now all I do is abuse the name without any real recollection of what, precisely, Maslow ranked. So don’t ask me, okay? Ask my dear friend google, instead, although I sadly suspect you’ll only end up here.

Methinks that most of high-school is actually a load of bollocks, really. I also think I am rambling more than a little.

So. Anyway. Before I continue further I better be good and insert a small Community PSA to any individual reading this blog that might be taking upon themselves to merrily play hookey for the next ten years and end up smoking for a living in a  council flat as a result. Go to school, okay?

Yes, I know I said it is a load of bollocks, and it IS, but it it the kind of bollocks that help you get into university and/or look interesting enough on paper to get a j.o.b someday. Do feel free to forget it all the moment you leave the exam, you’ll be fine.

Now back to my point I was originally intending to make before diverting into a small rant about formal education.

Some of you expressed surprise that I am back at work already. It affects me exactly the same way every time a shift rolls up on the horizon once a week. I must now also shamefully admit I have been masochistically turning up to paid employment for several months, since Saag and Naan were a heady almost-three-months old. But only a little bit, I promise, because it is beating my arse. Figuratively speaking, clearly.

I haven’t really mentioned it because, well, I already write about being dumb-assed tired all the time as it is, and that’s the net effect that formal employment + twins has on a body.

Just don’t get sick and come to any of the hospitals I work at would be my sincere advice.

I didn’t think you’d find that last part surprising.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I hear the dulcet tones of my beloved spawn.

Next up. Tickle Me Elmo is evil. Yes, he is.