I'm writing this post on a train back from London. The train is packed, laptop perched on my knees, typing with two fingers. Apologies for any typos, I've had a few drinks.
As I look around, I fit right in, though I don't have an iPhone, Blackberry, or McDonald's french fries.
About a year ago, I started marketing consulting for a software company in London. It's about one day a week, which is just enough to keep my jargon up-to-date, yet little enough to fit in my mummy lifestyle.
The people I work with are half my age, literally, unless their Bilabonic T-shirts and frayed jeans are a front.
Oh no. A sign on the door.
I dreaded these notices more than staying at Scottish grandma's in the winter, where once it was so cold I could actually see my breath escape from my mouth. Scottish grandma has a miniature wooden Swiss chalet on her fireplace mantle, a memento we had brought back from a skiing holiday, and it kindly reminded me of the temperature. Forty-two friggin' degrees. Fahrenheit. Inside the house.
We have had several cases of headlice recently – please check your child’s hair diligently.
