They came from metaphor land

Every time I open so much as the cat flap, small creatures rush in and try to beat themselves to death at the windows, like volunteer emissaries from Metaphor Land. Mind you, they could just be bored with what's on the telly, like the rest of us.

And that's without my current magpie worries. How does that superstition thing actually work? For example, if you see two magpies and one flies away, does the remaining one immediately swap from symbolising joy to sorrow?

Beth gives Francis a hug. "Gosh, you're tall," he says. "Much taller than I was at your age." It's a lovely moment. Shame, then, that I choose to spoil it by going into full-on educational mode. "She would be," I say. "Boys tend to have their growth spurt later." They both give me a look of deep irritation and Francis immediately stops hugging Beth and goes off to fetch a beer. "Mum," says Beth. "You shouldn't correct Dad. Men don't like to be told they're wrong."

I appear to have given birth to two children and a life coach who, irritatingly, seems to have a better insight into my life than I do. And I really shouldn't give Francis a hard time. He has spent the morning replying to job ads, lined up meetings with four headhunters and an old friend of his chairman, taken the children to a local adventure playground and done the shopping.

It doesn't require an Early Learning star chart to work out that he needs loving, cherishing, and huge dollops of good old marital relations on a buy one, get one free basis. So I'd better stop being a smart arse and get on with it.