Rain, rain, go away

Last weekend we ended up down south in the pouring rain. I thought it was only the north that was prone to this sort of behaviour, but I was obviously not listening properly in geography lessons. It piddled down. All weekend.

What do you do when it's pouring down (especially with a two-year-old in tow?). Do try

• catching the bus at Brighton Park and Ride
  (apparently riding on the top deck and bouncing precariously up and down through the streets of Brighton was hilarious, if rather terrifying for the adults)
• the Dolphin Derby on Brighton Pier (the most fun you can have for £1, and heinously addictive)
• Fishers Farm Park - hey, they have carousels, climbing walls, tractor rides and any number of goats/rabbits/horses you can stroke. It's pricey, but unlike a lot of other money-grabbing farm places, there's no other charge once you're inside.

Don't bother with:

• Strada in Brighton (good service, some nice food, but the small one and I were definitely unwell later on that afternoon after eating the same pizza, which is rather suspicious...)

Nice down south though. Must go again, sometime. If it deigns to stop raining.

Bah, humbug: cards part II

As you all know, I love writing Christmas cards and was therefore ecstatic when I was handed a list of 20-odd two-year-olds at M's nursery, who all apparently expected them. Needless to say, none will be forthcoming as (a) I've run out of Christmas cards and (b) I really will lose the will to live. At the risk of sounding 97, what is the world coming to?

Help!

Too much work, too little time. Aaaargh.

Can we abolish Christmas, or just postpone it for a couple of weeks?

House of cards

There's a sense of menace hanging over the household at the moment...yes, the annual Christmas card list needs to be written.

And then cards sent. Lost addresses found. A small sackful of gold given to the Royal Mail so they can promptly lose everything somewhere in a postbox near Abingdon. Just call me Scrooge - I hate the whole tedious process.

For a start I can't actually write with a pen any more - I've spent far too long either writing shorthand or using a computer that my handwriting has degenerated into some sort of illegible spider scrawl, as I can't write fast enough to keep up with what I'm thinking. I suppose I could type stuff out, but then that turns into a round robin, and I'm not going to give Simon Hoggart any more free material for books.

Grrr. I could send e-cards, but they're no use if, like most of my recipients, you're not on email. And they're a bit tacky anyway (the cards, not the elderly relatives).

And you want to know the worst bit? I really really love getting mail of any sort, including Christmas cards. I'm a complete hypocrite - the arrival of the postman is the highlight of my day, and if I actually bothered to put pen to paper more often than the once-a-year-forced-exercise above I'd certainly get far more letters. I've only myself to blame.