…for the benefit of the hordes of people who emailed me to ask.

Well, all right… one. (Thank you, Alley Katt ;) )

Now tell me, is it worth me even making a to do list for tomorrow, considering how spectacularly I’ve failed to even tick off a couple of items over the last week and a half?

Thought not.

Normal service resuming shortly.

If ever there was a reminder to have a camera on you at all times this is it.

On Sunday, when out on a bike ride with the boys, we almost got mown down by a mini motorbike on the footpath from our house to the playground. We managed to get Li’l Bhaji off the pavement into the grass verge fairly quick, but Akra Jr got flustered and didn’t know which way to go to be safe, dithering in the middle then going in the longest direction to the opposite verge. Fortunately we’d spotted the mini moto maniac fairly early on and the time wasn’t crucial. I swore at the rider as he went past (yes, I know, great parenting example) but he didn’t seem that bothered. I wish I’d had the time and foresight to take a photograph.

Today, I have just seen (another? the same?) idiot entering the footpath system near my house. Again, the camera was just out of reach and I didn’t register quickly enough to take a mugshot. From now on I’m carrying my camera everywhere and I WILL get a photo of the reckless bastard to turn in as evidence.

The footpaths around where I live are brilliant. They have a small cycle lane painted on them and they connect the supermarket with the community centre, pub, school and playgrounds. At peak times they are heaving with very young children. In off peak times it’s still rare not to see a few toddling about. There is going to be a very very nasty accident soon if this guy isn’t caught soon and his bike confiscated and crushed.

I’ve contacted our local community officer and they’re going to keep an eye open, but at the end of the day they have to actually catch him in the act.

Let’s hope a child isn’t killed first, eh?

On Friday, we had a very special letter through the post. A very important letter. A confirmation letter.

It was a letter of “all clear” regarding Akra’s vasectomy.

We decided a while back that our two lovely boys were enough for us – we found that for us there was quite a psychological barrier moving from two children to three: we’d need a bigger house, a bigger car, a way to deal with not having enough arms to give cuddles as required or separate spats, we’d be outnumbered by children…

Also, as Li’l Bhaji has got older, I’m finding myself feeling relieved as each of the more physical stages are over – no need to do the constant broken nights again, no more pushchairs, no having to take the kitchen sink with you on a day trip out. It feels like we’re all “here” now and are getting to do more grown-up family stuff again. While I occasionally get the odd physical twinge of “wouldn’t it be nice to have another baby”, logically and emotionally I just don’t want any more.

It’s taken us an 18 month wait on the NHS waiting list and then a four month wait for the all clear. Not a quick solution to the contraceptive problem. But now it’s done. Now I can get rid of this Mirena coil and find out if it has been the culprit for my increased allergies and skin problems over the last three years. Now we can clear the loft out of all the baby stuff kept “just in case”.

There are enough people round me having babies that I can get my fix of baby cuddles and whiff of baby shampoo. Best of all, when they cry or poo I can give them back.

Can you spot how it’s done?

Yet more proof that I’m an evil neglectful parent:

Akra Jr (to Li’l Bhaji): No Li’l Bhaji, if you don’t understand what’s being said, you just say “Oh!”

Damn. Sussed.

This week, I have got through two birthday parties (Akra Jr is now 6 years old and Li’l Bhaji is 3 – how did that happen?!) and I looked after a friend’s lovely (but energetic) three-year-old for a whole day.

It’s not surprising that by the end of the week, people were asking me if I was okay – I looked “really tired”. Not a phrase that fills you with confidence about your appearance or does anything much other than make you feel even more wan and old.

As someone who hardly ever puts make-up on (unless it’s for a special occasion – like an evening out, or anyone coming near me with a camera), I’m used to getting comments along the lines of “looking pale”. I’ve lost count of the number of times nurses have insisted they take a blood test for anaemia when I’ve gone in for something else completely unrelated, only for it to come back negative as always. Putting on the war paint before stepping out my front door is never a habit I’ve got into, or really wanted to before now.

At what point do you finally admit to yourself, that perhaps a daily touch-up might not be such a bad idea?

As a wholly unscientific experiment yesterday, I put make-up on. Not one person asked me if I was feeling all right or if I was tired (surprisingly, as Li’l Bhaji had kept me awake most of the night, suffering from a bad cold he caught from jumping on his bouncy castle all day in the rain).

The cost of this lack of well-meaning confidence breakers was 20 minutes of my life gone (15 minutes to apply in the morning and 5 minutes to remove it again that evening), my pores feeling as if they were suffocating, and the general nagging feeling that I was looking as if I was trying too hard just to walk to school and nursery a couple of times.

Despite my tomboy roots, however, I have previously managed to force myself to be more girlie and care about my appearance over the years.

I’ve had my colours done and while I still wear jeans all the time, at least the tops I choose complement my complexion and figure these days.

Once the grey in my parting started to be more noticeable and annoy, I started to colour my hair regularly (and to be fair, it hardly takes much more effort or money when using a mobile hairdresser who attends to you in the comfort of your own home).

I have a waxing appointment once a month – but that’s sheer laziness as I can never remember to shave frequently enough and those depilatory creams cost a small fortune – at least a regular appointment you don’t skip if you can’t be faffed and it’s only monthly.

I think that’s the key. The “beauty regimen” I follow is due to laziness and convenience. I just can’t see anything convenient about wasting 20 minutes a day on make-up.

Mind you, if it saves me 20 minutes a day of morale-sucking conversations concerned for my health, maybe… just maybe… it’ll be worth it.

Just a quick note to apologise to anyone struggling to amend their comment subscriptions recently.

I’ve just been notified by a reader that they get a page error when trying to unsubscribe to the new comment notification emails. I’ve no idea how long they’ve been broken – can only assume that it happened on one of the WordPress upgrades we did a while back.

I know how frustrating it can be to get bombarded by unwanted emails and I really hope that not too many other people were affected.

As always, if you notice something broken on the Prattle, let me know and I’ll try and get it fixed as soon as possible.

This morning, like most other mornings this week, the first thing I do after switching on the computer is to check Sky News to see if Madeleine has been found.

I can’t say for sure why this case has affected me so much, I suspect (like so many parents who are constantly refreshing the news page) it’s due to a strong feeling of “there, but for the grace of God, go I”. What’s stunned me though, is how so many parents appear to blame the parents for Maddie’s disappearance.

Most, I’m sure, are reacting out of a primaeval defence mechanism. “I would never do something like that” is an immediate comfort – a way of proving to yourself it would never happen to you.

And yet, what the McCann’s did was not in any way unreasonable. Mark Warner actively discourage (and in some cases ban) young children from attending the restaurants in the evening. Their baby listening service involves nannies patrolling corridors and only listening at the doors at certain intervals – not much different from a parent checking at regular points in the evening – and a parent would go right inside to check, not just rely on hearing something at the door in those few seconds.

At that particular resort, due to its unusual layout, the nanny patrols weren’t even available – the choices were to take your child to a crèche where they would sleep on mattresses on the floor or to have a babysitter inside the room. Neither option is ideal with young children set in their sleep patterns.

I can’t say I would have made the choices they did (mainly because we’ve never been able to afford that type of holiday, so it’s never even been a risk assessment we’ve made – and obviously hindsight is now coloured by the events on the 3rd) but neither can I fault their reasoning.

One eye-witness report I’ve read (admittedly on a message board and not widely reported in the news, so not a certainty) suggests the McCann’s were also using a baby monitor that night – a system which would have made it superior to many hotels’ baby listening services. Either way, it’s a risk that thousands of parents take every year without incident.

You see, every second of every day as a parent you are making a risk assessment. There is no such thing as risk free, just a balance between benefits and risk.

Sometimes, we cock it up (at least in hindsight). Can any parent lay their hand on their heart and say that they never let go of their toddler’s hand while paying in the supermarket, never looked up while chatting in toddler group to realise you haven’t actually seen your little one for a good ten minutes, never let your older children play out the front with their friends unsupervised, never lost them for a moment in Soft Play because you were talking or reading a book, never stepped outside to remove a spider from your house only to have your toddler lock you out for the next 45 minutes until a locksmith could be found (the last should be a dead give-away that I’m guilty as charged for all of those).

Most times there are no repercussions for our misjudgements. Except when there is. If something had gone wrong on any of those occasions, I would not have been a bad parent, but I would have taken all the blame upon myself. Forever. That’s what parents do, that’s our job.

I’m sure Kate McCann would give everything she owns to turn back the clock and not leave Madeleine that night. That does not make her a bad parent. It makes her a human one. She does not deserve our blame.

The blame belongs solely to Maddie’s abductor.

At Tumbletots today, the children were asked what they did over the bank holiday weekend.

Some had gone to the beach, some had done special activities with their parents.

And what did Li’l Bhaji reply to the question?

“I made a mess!”

Warning, those of a squeamish disposition may wish to skip this entry and move on to others, or browse my very extensive blogroll instead.

I’ve had two bumblebee nerite snails in my tropical biorb for just under a year, but over the last few weeks, I’ve been battling with the return of the brown algae. This is partly because nitrates in my tap water have suddenly increased but also because one of the nerites seemed to be ailing, not feeding well and mostly staying in one spot. From what I’ve read on the internet, nerite snails only have around 1-2 year lifespan anyway, so it wasn’t totally unexpected, so it was time to buy a friend.

This time, I ordered a Ruby Nerite, and as my original bumblebee nerites were (for reasons forgotten) originally christened Bill and Ted, there was only one name I could bestow on him: Rufus.

There was only one problem, from the moment he was placed in the aquarium, Rufus the snail seemed painfully shy. He didn’t want to come out and say hello, instead staying curled up in his shell on the pebble I originally placed him on.

Not to worry. Snails can sometimes take a couple of days to aclimatise. I checked that the water parameters were fine, made sure there was some fresh cucumber in the tank to tempt him out of his shell and hoped that he wouldn’t take long to shake off his sluggishness (‘scuse the puns). Every day, I would pick him up out of the tank, check that his trap door was closed and that he didn’t smell (I’d been assured I would know if they were dead – dead snails hang out of the shell and smell VILE). Apart from the odd Monty Python joke between me and Akra (“they’ve sold you a Norweigan Blue” … “he’s pining for the fjords”) nothing very exciting happened.

Until the other day. I picked up the shell for my nightly sniff (that’s a particularly disturbing sentence, but I shall leave it alone, just for the comedy value) and as I slowly lifted it up… everything suddenly fell out. Trapdoor … rotting snail innards… the lot. I’m only a little ashamed to confess that I did let out a rather girlie scream at the shock.

So it’s a little bit dead then.

Replacement is on order.