Can there be anyone nicer than me?

I was chatting with my son and I tell him a story about how, in one of our many house moves, I managed to dispose of something my husband made before we got married. I'd never really liked it, it was too big and damaged and... well, you get the picture.

Filled with a rush of remorse and guilt I declare, "Oh, when you get married, make sure you choose someone nicer than your mother!"

"Easy peasy," he says, walking off with a smile.

A mighty inheritance

"Dad," my son says, "why do you always use that glass?"

My husband looks at it carefully. "It's mine," he responds. "I like it. I've had it a long time and it is just the right size for my drink."

My son takes all this in, sagely nodding his head.

"Will you leave it to me in your Will?" he asks.

Somewhat taken aback, my husband replies, with a smile, "Of course. When I get round to writing my next Will I will leave it for you. But if I don't, then consider it yours regardless."

This is the glass:

Isn't it funny what children think important?

An ulterior motive?

Last night I picked up the book my husband - the doctor - gave me for my birthday.

So much for that by Lionel Shriver (most famous for the Orange Prize winner We need to talk about Kevin, which I loved in a scary, lots of sleepless nights kind of fashion) has been sitting by the bedside for several months and I finally thought I had enough time to read it. It is quite thick (531 pages - I've just checked) so it isn't necessarily a light read for the beach.

I read the back cover. It mentions Africa, retiring to Tanzania. Interesting, I think.

It revolves around the question: how much is one life worth? Interesting, I think.

The Literary Review states: "British readers will close this excellent novel feeling grateful for the NHS."

Ah. So that's why my husband thought I should read it...