Dear Blog,

Sorry not to have called by for a while. It is quite scary how much time the house refurbishment takes up. Combine that with children that will insist on attention, clothes that pile up demanding to be washed, end of term activities and celebrations and a husband working so, so hard and - well, you get my absenteeism.

Please forgive me. I still love you.

I'm sorry I haven't had chance to tell you about the debacle over my daughter's report. Nor about the magnificent rendition of 'Bright Eyes' on the trombone by my son. Nor the BMB meet-up in Manchester last week. Nor the builders' optimism about finishing the job on time.

I haven't told you about the book's progress: how it is loved by my writing group but nearly annihilated by others. I haven't managed to write about orange albinism (inspired by the story of the black couple who gave birth to a white baby) nor wax lyrical about the beauties of St Andrews (aside from the golf). I haven't entered the writing competitions that I planned too, nor read the books that are piling up in my bedroom.

I haven't shared all the exciting things we're going to do during our summer holidays. We're moving house. We hope. (Well, now I have shared all the exciting things we're going to do during our summer holidays...)

Don't despair: I'll be back imminently with tales of family laughter and woe. Just not last week. And maybe not next week, but who knows?

With love,

Catharine

Rockin' to the radio

My daughter has helped whilst I prepare dinner - help, in the loosest sense of the word, you understand. Nevertheless, dinner is on.

As is the radio. A new song plays. My daughter starts dancing.

"Hey, did you know you can do a Military Two Step to this?"

She looks at me blankly. I remember she hasn't been brought up to Ceilidh dance.

"No, seriously, you can. Here!" and I take her hand. In about a square metre of space between table and fridge I demonstrate.

"Hold my hand. Right, now ...

Heel - toe - heel - toe

1 - 2 - 3 - turn..."

We hit the fridge.

"Heel - toe - heel - toe

1 - 2 - 3 - turn..."

We're back where we started.

"Right kick, left kick, twirl..."

I get sore shins; she loves the twirling.

"And polka for eight - da-di-da-di-da-di-daa"

Polka-ing is hard enough with a seven-year-old half your size. Throw in the two left feet, the lack of available space and me taking the man's role ... well, we collapse in giggles.

"Again! Again!" she says.

We are nowhere near the beat of the music, but try once more. More laughter, more giggles.

We stop, me panting for breath, her face nearly wet with tears.

"Alternatively," I say, "we could try head-banging."

Which is how we spend the rest of the song, waving our blonde bobbed hair madly in the air, narrowly avoiding the corner of the table, each other and the resulting concussion.

And what were we listening to? An all-time classic. Enjoy!