Ok Ok you need to know what happened to the ladybird.
Well - after much deliberation it was decided (by the look of it's legs - allegedly) that it was the BAD ladybird.
The dreaded Harlequin (if, as is probable, you haven't got a chuffing clue what I'm on about Google Harlequin Ladybird and I'm sure all will be revealed - I'd do it and post you a pic but I'm 'that' tired I can't be arsed).
Anyway so they were pretty sure it was the bad one (but bear in mind at this point they didn't realise there was a very incredibly rare 'breaking the laws of extinction' variant potentially out there) but they still couldn't kill it - even via the total immersion method. So what did they do?
They laid it's brightly coloured body on the bird table and 'left it in the hands of nature'.
Or beak of nature presumably.
And what happened then people? We will never know.
I, on the other hand, have been wondering at what age you become just like 'totally and utterly OVER' to your children. You know, at what point do they stop hanging off your thigh screeching 'but MUMMEEEE it was MY packet of Hula Hoops' and keep sticking their head up your skirt and start walking 20 steps behind you in town with their hood up and fringe over their eyes (a look I still specialise in on days I just don't want to be here).
The idea of this seems currently impossible to me. But, then again, once upon a time in the mists of early motherhood, it seemed to me impossible I'd be able to walk down a street without holding myself upright via a pram and guess what folks, it finally happened!
My neighbour's have a 13 year old son and I think I can safely say HE wouldn't walk down the street with me. In fact,when I go to the door to collect parcels he visibly quakes.
This 'may' have something to do with the fact that every night at around 7pm he hears me scream 'IF YOU ARE NOT NAKED BY THE TIME I COUNT TO THREE THEN YOU WON'T GET ANY PYJAMA TIME' (anyone with small riotous children will empathise with just how hard it is to get them dressed for bed) but there have been several other occasions where I have caused him considerable fear.
Just last week, as Spring crept ever closer and the hint of the sun's warmth edged across my face and a surge of wild ecstatic 'woo hoo' coursed through my veins, I went out to feed the guinea pigs - a carrot in each hand.
Standing by their hutch, carrots aloft, I suddenly (and to my own surprise) launched into a rousing rendition of MN8's 1990's classic 'I gotta little something for you'....
For those of you unable to recall this pinnacle of music magnificence, here we go.....
And I'll give you just three guesses to figure out what happened next.....
Yup - just as I roared.. 'Coz the gift I got ain't going back', I spun round, armed with carrots and there was next door's 13 year old standing on their patio open mouthed.
Scarred for life I presume.
Sorry kid but you had to realise at some point that the gift I got ain't going back.......