So last night I had the oddest dream.
I had driven for miles to get to some parenting camp or other which took place in various locations. When we arrived we were just about to sit down when the Littlest Latte said: "I want to sit with the other Littlest Latte' and sure enough there was her identical twin sitting at the table.
(The Littlest Latte has completely different colouring to myself, Mr Coffee, and the Eldest Latte. Sometimes I look at her and wonder if I brought the wrong baby home. A less secure man than Mr Coffee might have a few niggling doubts about the state of his marriage.)
The two identical Lattes became inseparable. They had the same face, same mannerisms, same everything. I tried to take photos to prove it but whenever I did the camera just recorded photos of Mr Coffee on his performing arts degree in 1989.
I met the doppelganger's mother but she seemed disturbingly unconcerned at the proof that our children had clearly been separated at birth and did not belong to us at all. She was content to talk vaguely about genetic reasons for strawberry blonde hair.
On our way to to the next part of the course Mr Coffee realised that we were driving past the house of Knitters Knitters, who had told us that if we were passing we should drop in. When we did the house was empty, and we wandered around it awkwardly. It was palatial. In the laundry basket was the long scarf she has been blogging about recently, which Mr Coffee ran his hand across and pronounced to be the softest garment ever made. It swirled with blues and greens. We wanted to steal it, but that didn't seem kind.
Then she returned home, wearing a strange garment with butterflies that lit up at intervals. It was only then that we noticed the fluttery wire butterflies which were all over the walls of the house. I thought that these would be difficult to dust.
I was further concerned about cleaning the place when I saw that the bathroom was a huge wet room with a series of raised lily pads all the way across the floor. Well that's hardly disabled accessible, I thought.
All this dreaming is just proof to anyone who needed it that reading blogs isn't good for you. But this doesn't stop me recommending a visit or six to Driftwood's wonderful blog, which provided me with my calendar image for June.
I love Driftwood's blog. I love it when she goes to York, which brings back fond memories of my time at university there, and I love it when she bakes, or takes pictures of the sea, or whatever else she does.
And don't snipe about me for being late. Yes, I know how far into June we are.