Here's some good advice if you have to take a child to a restaurant. Don't. 

If you must delude yourself that they will be on their best behaviour then be prepared. Take crayons and paper for them to amuse themselves. This will tide you over until the first drink arrives. Then they'll be bored again. 

If you're smart order their food first. Explain to little Johnny that "fries" are "chips" and yes it will be just like McDonalds. Try to relax and talk the adult talk with the people you came here to see. The kids will start to attack each other but don't panic. When the dispute with the forks has been settled their meals will arrive. They will then proceed to fling half of it around the room. 

You're so frazzled rescuing flying chips that you just want the waiter with the raised eyebrow to go away. You point to the menu and take your chances. Make that two bottles of wine please and hurry... 

The kids are now complaining loudly that the 'nuggets' they ordered don't look like nuggets. "Well of course they don't," an adult hisses. "They don't come in a bright yellow McDonald's bag here." 

You try to explain how the chef lovingly crafted this meal out of homemade breadcrumbs and fresh chicken breast just for them. They don't care. It isn't food and they're not eating it. It's much more fun to play with. 

Meanwhile adults eat their meals very slowly (but gulp their drinks very quickly) because in between mouthfuls they are berating Sally-Ann for interrupting diners and Johnny Junior for running between tables and stepping on the nice lady's coat. 

At last! Ice-cream! That keeps them quiet for two whole minutes. Then we can shuffle these kids outside. A collective sigh of relief goes around the restaurant. 

Mummy is outside explaining to her darling that "It's ok for Mummy to have a few drinks, I'm not flying the plane home today honey..." (And no she wasn't so drunk she was confusing her mode of transport, they were actually catching a plane). 

All adults look at each other in desperation and part ways. A good time was had by all; all the patrons who did not sit at our table.

Critters of all kind cannot expect the Welcome mat in any home, but my cat has just discovered the delights of inviting them in himself. To my horror the cat invited a weta to play on the kitchen floor (see attached picture). Although they do no harm they are not the kind of guest you associate with warm fuzzy feelings. God was having a bad day: "Let's get a Grasshopper, cover it in sticky toffee, spit roast it on a rotisserie and see what we've got eh?" 

At first I thought "I am NOT removing that thing while it is still alive." So logic ensued that if I closed the hall door and left the cat to deal with it, in the morning I would be able to scoop up a dead weta (with a ten foot pole, protection gear and a 44 magnum incase a leg twitched) and dispose of it in the rubbish. But logic on a Saturday night with a bottle of wine doesn't work. 

The cat tossing the thing in the air way above my head did not help my jitters which I why I chose to run and hide instead of confront fear, but in the morning things were worse. It's been three days now and there is no sign of the creepy-crawly. 

Weta's are renowned for coveting damp dark areas like your shoe for instance; a very popular holiday destination. Now, whether the critter survived the cat and hid, or whether the cat thoughtfully disposed of his playmate outside I don't know. My shoes have been inspected and there's zilch. 

But I don't want to take any chances. The house should be vacuumed sealed, cordoned off by the police, experts sent in, cat interrogated under a bright light and God reprimanded. 

If Watashi Wa Salary Woman has had any luck with the cockroach then her advice would be greatly appreciated. Admittedly my critter doesn't fly but it is after all, only a matter of time before the cat brings home another toy to play with, if the original isn't still lurking somewhere...

I don't know about mornings. I always thought they were overrated and preferred to sleep through them whenever possible. Occasionally I would make a concerted effort to see a morning by staying up all night and stumbling home for breakfast. Eventually I had to grow up and get a real job. This was a shocker. I resolved then and there to get a job where I could work my own hours. Smug in my success I then had a child and that screwed everything up. 

Children are notoriously famous for embracing mornings. I am notoriously famous for embracing my pillow. As the young redhead needs to be educated - so that in fifteen years she can gain sufficient skills to leave home and leave me to sleep in again - I resolved to make the best of it. (It should be noted that at that point she will finally be sleeping off the nights before while I will be wide eyed and chirpy having lost the habit of a lifetime thanks to her.) I use my mornings to exercise myself back into shape and - famous last words - they can be used to write myself awake. But according to this philosophy my morning still starts at 1pm. 

How?? 

I don't know. Something called "Life" annoyingly seems to get in the way. By the time the errands, housework, interrupted phone calls and the quick coffee called breakfast gets done the day is gone. 

Then the day goes something like this; school rings and says your child is sick. You bring the child home and nurse them better. Then you get their sick. You bring them home and nurse yourself better. 

It's a well known fact that meetings and appointments are clocked up back to back at the most inconvenient times. This is when friends and people need you urgently right now!, not later, and then unexpected crises weave themselves into the middle of that. 

Take these examples that happened to me recently; the cat got attacked by a dog, my ex rang up having a nervous breakdown, someone pooed on the beanbag and hid the evidence until I stepped on it (on my way out of course), the car broke down, the computer broke down, my mother rang to say she was changing her will and needed me at the lawyers office right away... 

Then it's time to pick up the redhead. And work? I'll get onto it first thing in the morning! Should be no problem...

Ahh, the delights of cable TV. At the touch of the button I can now confuse myself even more with the astonishing array of absolute rubbish at my fingertips. I felt compelled to watch two hours of Jennifer Lopez explain her life simply because I'm paying for it (I've never watched anything by Jennifer Lopez other than a vague glance at the tabloids to see who her husband is this week). Unfortunately I cannot watch the lifestyle of a gnat on The Animal Planet at the same time to really get my money's worth. But my real fear was becoming some kind of couch potato information junkie. I can rest assured. The information is not there. It still is and always will be in your bog standard library. 

To paraphrase the words of Eddie Izzard; "I do the easier form of research; I let the research come to me. Oh, a program about sharks. Now I know all about sharks!" Except according to Nat Geographic or Animal Planet, the only other animals on the planet besides sharks are crocodiles. And although I do love history, the history channel is history. I've learned nothing new since studying it in high school. Come to think of it, I suppose historical stories can't change much really... 

Rialto should help. Rialto is where I wanted to up my intellectual cultural bent. Except I've seen all the good ones at the theatre. Really, pay TV is only good for sport and I don't do sport. So I didn't do it in my package either. 

The indignity of such an omission almost saw the TV installer walk out on the job. My brother was outraged. "But what can I watch if I come over for dinner?" He spluttered (conversation is overrated apparently). "Why would you want to come and watch sport with your sister anyway?" I reminded him. The dispute was settled. 

I turned on TV to see if anything was on. There wasn't.