Battenberg

We are in Dean Street Townhouse for Battenberg. Little OCD received an HMV voucher for Christmas, and as the company has literally closed every provincial store as we have reached its doors we have had to come up to Oxford Street to spend it on a pair of headphones that we could have bought more cheaply on Amazon.

It's a bit grown up,Townhouse. We have made a mess: a crumby jumble of inside-out coats, chewed straws, and spilt drinks, within seconds of our arrival. The eldest returns from the toilets smirking about the "no step to mind" notice over the door. (The ladies does have a step to mind). "It's like one of those wooden signs that people hang up in their kitchens," he trills. "I cook with wine...Sometimes I even put it in the food!"

Oxford Street is distressing, as always. Little OCD is pleased as punch with his new headphones and looks properly retarded nodding rhythmically with his hood up as we sit down to a gimmicky Mexican. We meet a friend. STS is a sportswear designer. Each of the children has made an effort with his appearance on account of this. The middle one has styled his hear into a kind of quiff with what smells like Cillit Bang.

The eldest has now taken to speaking entirely in domestic comedy phrases. I am amazed at how many he can call to mind. Perhaps he should carve his history revision notes into wooden rectangles and suspend them around the house, like a 3d spider diagram.

We go for ice cream. I am irritable because I don't like ice cream, my dinner was horrid and the friend who has called by our house to let the dogs out has been unable to set the Sky Plus for the Tudors, which begins in an hour, and which I have been looking forward to since March. The kids are fighting and getting covered in ice cream. My husband offers STS a lift home; a detour we can ill afford given the Sky Plus situation. The eldest turns to me "Raising children is like being pecked to death by chickens," he beams sagely.