Well, that was awkward.

Billasaurus has been doing renovations for over 12 months- consequently we have been living in a construction site which has had it's interesting moments. (Last night I slept in our house without a front window. Yup. Fun.)

As Billasaurus is a plumber he is able to do a lot of the work himself, and where he can't, his group of friends trade favours. (Work favours; get your mind out of the gutter!)

This means there has been a plethora of tradespeople at my home day in, day out. Some days, the house is covered in dust and I discover my vintage teacup sets have smashed because some bright spark has decided they will jackhammer near the wall where they are stored. Or they decide that today is the day they all want to use the grinders/tile cutters/some other weird saw things when it's exam study day for uni. But there are also days when there are shirtless men toiling and sweating around my house, so I mean you win some, you lose some.

These guys: all welcome. I'm a great host like that.

We've gotten to know them all quite well, and one in particular has introduced us to his heavily pregnant wife.

Anyway, this chap's wife had the baby which is all very exciting. Billasaurus told me they had had a little boy, so I went out and go a little blue outfit, toy and wrote them out a card congratulating them on the birth of their newborn son.

Billasaurus was going to see the new family before I was, so I passed on the gift for him to give to the family. He came back raving all about how he got to hold the new baby; Samantha Jane was so tiny!

SAMANTHA JANE?! Turns out, they have a healthy baby girl. Not boy. Girl.

I am absolutely mortified. Bill swears he told me they had a daughter, and I'm vehement he said son. I specifically remember him saying it! 

Why would I have bought the blue and green onesie if he said daughter?! I specifically congratulation them on their son in the card, too :/

Gah.

Mother Time Comes For Us All

Holy fuck, it's happened.

Here I was, basking in my youth, frolicking about in the summer sun and living in my prime. Living in ignorance, and yes it was bliss.

Until yesterday.

Yesterday I was actually brushing my hair which has become a rarity during my summer holidays. (Don't judge me.)

The light shone directly on to my dark brown locks, but I did a double-take when one of those hairs glittered back at me in the mirror.

I HAVE A GREY HAIR. I'M TWENTY-FUCKING-SIX.

I'd like to tell you I'm above age insecurities, and that I recognise that one little baby hair that's come up grey doesn't make me old any more than the time I dyed my hair fire-engine red made me Ronald McDonald.

Even Ronald doesn't have greys yet.

Look, I didn't think I was invincible. I knew it would happen, and before it did I wasn't particularly dreading the day it did. I just wasn't expecting to spot a grey so bloody early!

Should I go on a mid-life crisis? Perhaps I'll trade my sensible Nissan Pulsar in for a sexy Lexus, with a topless buff man feeding me grapes from the passenger seat. He should definitely be younger than I am- so many middle age men live by 'You're only as old as the person you're feeling', so surely they are on to something. 

Just hanging around, waiting for me to pick him up in my fancy new ride.
So you're telling me he is older than 26? Be quiet you, with your facts. This is my midlife crisis fantasy, not yours.

But alas; I've grown quite fond of Billasaurus, and as a uni student can't afford anything other than my trusty 2 litre Pulsar. 

Have you got greys yet? You can tell me, I'm a trusted elder now. I'm wise.