Sometimes I feel like the world’s worst blogger, but there’s only so much you can say about “nothing at all remotely interesting has happened this week that I haven’t already told you about”. Well, one interesting thing did happen, but that’s for the black journal, and not for this public one.

Today it’s Mark’s 19:th birthday, and I spent most of yesterday’s school hours plotting and scheming what we’re going to do today. I’ve bought a cake, and I’ve arranged so that it will magically appear before him when we go to a pub this evening. I’ve paid the pub to use a room on the loft, and I’ve collated an impregnable schematic of friends’ and acquaintance’s likelihood of appearing this evening.

What remains is to manoeuver Mark into going to that pub with me at the appointed time. I’m sort of hoping that he won’t be all suspicious of the strange steps I will have to take to get him there. He will be in full paranoia mode, I suspect, and will meet any deviation from our normal boring routing with a “What are you up to?”

I have, though, recruited Stephen for this, so I have good hopes that together we will overcome Mark’s instinctive anti-sociability and get him ready to be celebrated by the pack of mad, bad, and crazy people who I have invited. Stephen is far better at organising these sorts of things anyway.

This weekend we’re heading up north to see my mum for a day or two, and on Monday when we come back, Mark’s parents and Auntie and the Brighton-cousin will all come over for a much more sober and proper family dinner to repeat the fact that my man is entering his last year of teen life. Next year at this time, he will be twenty and old and worn out and ready for the scrap heap of history. As will I, two months later.