Time

It's pretty much impossible now to get the time to write. As I sit here I have two little beings bobbing around at my elbow. One munching loudly, the other (literate) one giving out about what I am writing. 
"Hey!" she says, "who are you sending that to?" 
"I'm not sending it to anyone, it's called a blog, like an online diary." 
But a public one, that anyone in the world can read. So I am sending it, to people I don't even know. 
Hello you guys that I don't know, hope you are all well. 
Though if you are interested in a stranger with cancer, I'm guessing you might not be all that well. 

I'm beginning to think that all people with serious illness should have small children. All those charities out there offering support for cancer sufferers, and not one of them provides the service of lending you a few toddlers for a few months. There's definitely a gap in the market. Because it is fundamentally impossible to be unwell when you have needy loud hilarious indefatigable terrorists rampaging around you all day, and hugging you with all their hearts at night. 
There is no time for pitying yourself when there is barely time for peeing by yourself. 
I haven't really mentioned my youngest bundle of deliciousness here, because the tears would short-circuit the keyboard, but suffice to say she makes cancer easy to ignore. 

So in return for giving all under-sixes free GP care, I think they should all be farmed out to sickly types for a few weeks every year. Toddler Therapy. I'm onto something here, I can tell.