(no subject)
As a rite of passage, Mother decided it was time that we and the birthday girl enjoyed a leisurely spa weekend, to mark the occasion of My Angel turning the ripe old age of seven. I hadn't been dragged along to the spa since before my first year of Hogwarts (or, in other words, the age when I finally found a sense of shame by cohabitating with other boys for the first time in my life, and realized I was permitting my own mother to treat me like the daughter she never had). Thankfully, I have outgrown this shame, and can take pleasure in allowing Mother to put down her purse of Galleons for pampering purposes.
There isn't anything more heartbreaking than witnessing your firstborn reclining in a mudbath, or dozing peacefully on a cushioned chaise while a pair of girls attend to her manicure and pedicure in tandem, her face slathered in anti-aging creams and a pair of cucumber slices over her eyes. The precocious little demon looked perfectly at ease with everything my mother threw at her, even the marathon shopping trips, just as any member of the entitlement generation ought to. Where in Merlin's sagging bollocks has the time gone? I imagine Precious shall do exactly the same thing in ten, twenty, or thirty years from now. Or forty of fifty years. And beyond. She'll probably bring her own grandchildren out for long weekends of indulgent fussing, and if I'm still alive I'll do my best to insinuate myself along for every trip.
I reckon Potter may have been jealous, as he was abandoned for a Manly Weekend with Lambchop, Sprout and The King. Somehow, I've the distinct impression that Eros knew exactly where Daddy and Emmy and Grandmother were, and wasn't best pleased about being left behind with the pack of ruffians. Perhaps when he's older and completely in control of his feathered parts, he too can learn about the glory of mudbaths.
Since our return, Muffin has been convinced that she deserves an entire month of birthday festivities, and Potter was finally forced to put his foot down after the third additional birthday cake. I could tell that this simply broke his cold, black, shriveled little heart, the lazy wanker. Everyone should have their own birthday month, and I'll just bet that Potter is jealous because he would be forced to share his birthday month with Bean.
There isn't anything more heartbreaking than witnessing your firstborn reclining in a mudbath, or dozing peacefully on a cushioned chaise while a pair of girls attend to her manicure and pedicure in tandem, her face slathered in anti-aging creams and a pair of cucumber slices over her eyes. The precocious little demon looked perfectly at ease with everything my mother threw at her, even the marathon shopping trips, just as any member of the entitlement generation ought to. Where in Merlin's sagging bollocks has the time gone? I imagine Precious shall do exactly the same thing in ten, twenty, or thirty years from now. Or forty of fifty years. And beyond. She'll probably bring her own grandchildren out for long weekends of indulgent fussing, and if I'm still alive I'll do my best to insinuate myself along for every trip.
I reckon Potter may have been jealous, as he was abandoned for a Manly Weekend with Lambchop, Sprout and The King. Somehow, I've the distinct impression that Eros knew exactly where Daddy and Emmy and Grandmother were, and wasn't best pleased about being left behind with the pack of ruffians. Perhaps when he's older and completely in control of his feathered parts, he too can learn about the glory of mudbaths.
Since our return, Muffin has been convinced that she deserves an entire month of birthday festivities, and Potter was finally forced to put his foot down after the third additional birthday cake. I could tell that this simply broke his cold, black, shriveled little heart, the lazy wanker. Everyone should have their own birthday month, and I'll just bet that Potter is jealous because he would be forced to share his birthday month with Bean.