17th July - Riddled with paint.

Ugh.

Painting.

Not the fun type either, not the 'sitting outside in clement weather dabbing brushes gently on canvas' type painting. I like that sort. The sort I'm talking about, is the 'straining to reach the sodding ceiling with a paint-saddled roller that spatters you copiously in the eye whilst getting repetitive strain injury in your wrist from holding up the bloody paint tray' type.

Definitely not fun at all.

I am covered in little flecks of whiteness, I look like a snowman has sneezed on me. The paint spots on the lips are probably the worst, from a distance, it looks like I've been dribbling. Mind you, given that I look like a mad person at the moment anyway, with hair sticking randomly in all directions because I can't be bothered to style it anymore, it probably fits in quite well with the general image.

And still it's not finished! Not even half way finished! I now have a ceiling that, when I look at it, starts to make me feel a bit queasy! It's a half splodgy, white streaked mess, with a big ladder that I can't be bothered to move that is going to be looming sinisterly over me tonight as I sleep, and a mass of dust sheets, which actually, if I'm honest, I didn't bother using, hence the fact that all our furniture now has flecks of paint on it too, and the duvet cover actually has an enormous blob of paint about the size of a 50 pence piece on it. Same goes for my clothes, which are actually nice clothes, because yes, I was also imbecilic enough not to put on old ones.

As Homer Simpson might say, Doh, doh, and double-doh.

Anyway, enough about the ceiling. It has taken up enough of my time today already. D's mad moods continue unabated, though at the moment, he is pleasantly cheery. He has discovered the delights of climbing in and out of an upturned cardboard box. Seriously, he's just been climbing in and out of it for the last 20 minutes now, giggling uproariously as he does so. I tried to join in, but he gave me a really disgruntled and, quite frankly, pissed off look, as if to say 'go and find your own box.' I felt quite peeved actually, as it did look quite fun.

Mind you, he's been in a ratbaggy mood for the rest of the day. Especially round meal times. Oh, I am starting to dread meal times. Today, it was the breadsticks and the carrot batons that bore the brunt of D's passionate rage. The breadstick was literally smashed into smithereens and discarded as though it was something unspeakable. The poor carrot suffered worse though, D sat on it, and then voided his bowels. Fortunately he was clothed at the time, but none the less, the smell alone should have sealed the deal for the poor vegetable. It was a dirty protest of the worst kind. Even worse than puking on the Gina Ford book, which he did the other day. (For those not in the know, Gina Ford endorses controlled crying and strict routines. I think D made his feelings on that matter VERY clear, judging by the dribblings of sticky sick running all over the front cover.)

I shall sign off for the day. I'm off to get D to bed, then off to pour myself a frighteningly large glass of wine. Adieu.