Some things I learnt this weekend

Charlie Sheen is not related to Gloria Estefan.

Shouting at the very very top of my voice during arguments in Sainsbury’s about whether there are courgettes in the fridge, insisting there are when I know very well there are not, does not make courgettes magically appear in said fridge.

I am one and a half centimetres shorter than I have been telling people; I am either a liar or a midget of the future.

It is not possible for me too fit through the bathroom window. And it is not quieter for me to attempt this than it is for me to ring the doorbell and ask tD to let me in.

I must not wake the baby when she is napping during the day as it is impossible to get her to go back to sleep and she is grumpiness personified for the rest of the day.

I am not, no matter how fine a point I balance my clutch on, or how little I put in the boot, going to beat the arse-crumb round the corner’s enormous land rover off the lights at the bottom of Walm Lane. Indeed, if I continue in this fashion I will find myself and Sad Little Clancy on the painful side of the broken window of Sarah Teather’s constituency office.

St Elmo’s Fire does not ‘shit all over’ Ferris Bueller’s Day Off. As someone who has never seen St Elmo’s Fire I should cease and desist from making such bold statements in earshot of (surely one of the only) fanatical Matthew Broderick fans.

I am not the kind of woman who can afford to only half pay attention whilst engaging in complex and private hair removal activities.

Police cars are not taxis.