Saturday is Caption Day....

over at Mammasaurus.





If you can spare the time for wit and wisdom, please share it here.

Comments

  1. Jenny14 January 2012 at 08:32

    Damien the Omen child was alive and well and living in a box - surpriseeeee!

    ReplyDelete
  2. Unknown14 January 2012 at 09:38

    don't you know how much it cost to have a shoebox flat in Central London? we just like minimal living

    ReplyDelete
  3. A Little Light Work14 January 2012 at 10:13

    I know the vicarage isn't quite what we're used to, darlings, but the C of E has to find savings somewhere

    ReplyDelete
  4. Emily (@amummytoo)14 January 2012 at 13:20

    Best. Review. Package. Ever.

    ReplyDelete
  5. Mammasaurus14 January 2012 at 17:28

    MWHAHAHA mere mortal you cannot keep my prisoner in this box ! Go go gadget laser eyes!

    ReplyDelete
  6. Bo14 January 2012 at 20:48

    After three days in the dark, the stowaways were just grateful that someone had opened the box!

    ReplyDelete
  7. mother on the edge!!14 January 2012 at 21:20

    if they stayed really quiet then they wouldn't be made to eat Mums all day breakfast!!!!

    ReplyDelete
  8. Anonymous15 January 2012 at 21:37

    don't think this was such a great christmas present mum!

    ReplyDelete
  9. Just Me!16 January 2012 at 19:57

    After receiving so many unneeded Christmas presents, we decided to return the children.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Home Hygiene

I have always done my own cleaning. Not very often, mind. Once every month or so keeps the funghi at bay. But, each time I've worked out where I keep the dusters, boy do I let rip! Skirting boards. Pelmets. U bends. With my portable radio in one armpit and a sheaf of Miele nozzles in the other, I stalk the vicarage assaulting cobwebs and secretly binning any infant possessions that can't be kicked to oblivion under the beds. But uncooperative lungs have prevented me terrorising the family filth since mid December and even the Vicar is noticing the dustballs that skim in his wake. Sensibly, he seeks out a cleaner for a day to tide us over. I am excited because someone else can fidget the grime out of my daughter's shell collection. And I am nervous because I'm not sure I can cope with someone toiling over my bacteria while I lie on my day bed. What if she forgets to tame the muesli-like stuff under the sofa cushions? (We don't buy muesli. How does it get there?) Wh...
Read more

A DIY Guide to the Middle-Classes

I wonder sometimes what I am. I have lived the last decade on an inner city council estate, amid Oxford academia, in a remote country town and in London suburbia. In the first we were, with our relentless consonants and sagging bookshelves, regarded as aristocrats. In the second, as the 'squeezed middle'. In the third, as city sophisticates and now, sometimes, isolated in my tweed amid the Ralph Lauren and the hoodies, I feel myself a bumpkin. Class should no longer matter. Nowadays, for most of us, it's more a question of perception than birth. But the perception matters. My daughter battles to adjust speech, habits and dress to blend in with each new environment; the political parties compete to woo the amorphous throng they deem Middle England and Melvyn Bragg has started a television series on class and culture. The British, he decides, no longer define themselves by class, but by the music they listen to, the books they read. I listen to Dolly Parton and Beethoven....
Read more

Daily Mail Columnists Should Wear Burkas

Daily Mail columnist Liz Jones has provoked the ire of Twitter with by declaring that mummy bloggers are blinkered dimwits whose lives are spiced by Napisan. I'm afraid I have to sympathise with her, for all of her prejudices echo my own: Writing about my life has pretty much ruined it. Supper last night was an elderly carrot glued to the fridge shelf by a pool of brown mucus and the floor was flooded when I left the bath taps running because Blogger has diverted me from domestic essentials. I've had to shut the children in front of the television when a new post has assailed me and some family members no longer speak to me because Twitter interactions leave me no time to reach the telephone. But there is a big part of me that thinks writing should be hard: you should cringe whenever you press that 'publish' button. Artists – and I'm sorry, I do consider myself an artist – have to wrench the dirtiest, most disgusting part of their inner soul and show it t...
Read more