Don't put your daughter on the stage, Coffee Lady

The Eldest Latte is - Flower Girl No 3.

I would like to point out right now that I am not That Sort of Mother. I am not the sort of mother who sews costumes and sends her daughter off to learn to sing and dance and become A Star. But the Eldest Latte wanted to go to the drama playscheme so, you know, you find yourself in a predicament, and you have to get the machine set up and sew yourself the hell out of it.

"It's a bit raggedy," said Flower Girl No 3.

"You're a cockney market trader. You're poor. It's meant to be like that."

The show at the end of the week was a bizarre mix of a scene from Pymalion and a James Bond spoof featuring slightly older children whom you could actually hear, with a bit in the middle where two women dressed as cleaners talked about how much they fancied Pierce Brosnan.

The Eldest Latte was perplexed that she could not stick around to watch the James Bond spoof. "You can't stay on stage when other people are doing their bit," explained the proud grandmother. "You can if it's Brecht," muttered Mr Coffee, clearly appalled at how far out of his comfort zone he was. (Mr Coffee used to be an actor, and there were certainly no jazz hands in any of the productions he worked in.)

It was an exhausting week for the Eldest Latte, who clearly has a few things to learn about stagecraft. Such as not staying up grinning her face off all night ("I'm so happy I can't sleep") so she doesn't spend the whole performance with her gob open yawning; or not mouthing "my hat's fallen off" at her parents in the audience.

But I'm sure even Pierce had to learn that at some point.

So here I am, back

I am. I am indeed.

I've been very busy. Oh yes. I've been recovering from ME (I'm nearly there, anyhow) and lots of other lovely things. I've been doing yoga with this lovely lady at this lovely place. I've been making more cakes, many, many more cakes, and generally thanking my lucky stars I can play with the Little Lattes again rather than lying about in bed watching Smallville repeats and watching the room spin round.

I've got a new little button down there on the right - you can listen to Elizabeth Irvine's relaxation podcast aimed at mothers, which I have been doing practically every day for the last six months. Go on. It's just another lovely thing.

I've been reading - most notably The Glass Books of the Dream Eaters by G W Dahlquist, a fantastic pageturning hokum lump of gothicity with lots of fun, skulking and sexual deviance; Haweswater by Sarah Hall, The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox by Maggie O'Farrell, and Some New Ambush, stories by Carys Davies, which was so, so good that it made me dig my old Alice Munro stories out. Sometimes you forget how good short stories can be, and Davies can certainly remind you.

Oh, and Graham Swift's Tomorrow, which was just irritating. Which is a shame, because Waterland was mindblowing.