The one where the pub sends me a birthday card and the promise of a

How do you live this one down? I received a card this morning from the “Marlow Donkey” - our local pub. “The Donkey” -as we refer to it - is the pub we used to frequent before children - the location of many a spirited pub quiz attempt. In reality we relied totally on W and a colleague’s wife to carry us through while we concentrated on eating beefburgers, and drinking too much.

We miss the pub quiz. I can count on one hand the nights out we have had without the children in the last three years. I’m not bitter about it - it’s just a fact of life for any parent really (or at least parents who are involved in their children’s life - I know some are not).

What a clever marketing trick though - to send a birthday card from the pub. A real one too - not an email. It has a voucher inside to tear off for a free pint. I wonder if it would go against the spirit of the voucher if I walked into the pub, had my free drink, and walked out again?I’m guessing they’re banking on the good will encouraging me to take the family there for a meal.

In other news, it’s a rainy saturday here. The back garden is approaching Somme battlefield conditions. There are no bits of horses or dead soldiers, but I’m sure I saw some tank tracks, and twisted barbed wire in the mud, puddles, and chicken poo.

Our youngest is at the cinema with a friend, and we’ve just eaten the remaining contents of the fridge. Must order shopping later.

We had some prospective adopters come to visit us this morning. We are regularly invited to meet those just setting out on the road, so that we might impart our experiences and advice. It’s a difficult line to walk though; while we don’t want to completely contradict the social workers, we learned some huge truths very quickly when we had the children, and I said as much today.

Within weeks of having the children, we knew more about them than the social workers or foster carers ever had. Within days we had developed the sixth sense we had seen in other parents, and often wondered about. We could hear them cry upstairs over a noisy conversation, television, or a playpark full of other children. We could tell fake from real tears across a playpark too. All within days.

Anyway… Saturday is accelerating away from me, and sitting here writing this isn’t helping to get anything done. Perhaps I should re-title the blog “scribbled in passing”…