Work Play Sleep

Trying not to fall asleep

"Gee, your blog was boring last week, Sweetheart" my delightful husband mentioned to me one evening, so this post is filled with action-packed photos of speedster children, idyllic Sundays and some professionally taken photos of the bakery, so as not too disappoint my fan(s).

Saturday 1 December: First mince pies

The week was the usual work, work and more work. Claudette was flabbergasted that I'd not done any washing between last Monday and today ("Where da sheeeeeets? Ah Lawdy, My Dear, LOOK at da WASHING!!) with the children starting to scour the dark (but dust-free) corners of their bedrooms for odd socks and other items of clean clothing.

The Big Christmas Baking Marathon is starting to get a grip on our household again, which pretty much means that nothing else gets done, apart from some beans on toast for supper. This is a good time for the children to learn some  independence and how to make scrambled eggs for themselves.

The upshot of this domestic crunch however is that we've upped Claudettes hours to deal with the washing crisis (you have no idea howmuch washing 3 little boys and a Baker generate on a daily basis) and we wont have to scandalise The Saint on a Monday anymore.  I consider this my Christmas present and an excellent one at that!                     


The week seemed to last about a year with me ignoring any signs of jetlag and Tyler doing his usual 18 hour days and the boys at school. Our week actually carries on right up until 2pm on a Saturday, at which point we close the bakery and zoom home, usually on our knees.  Amazing, however, how a hard week can just melt away when you have a lovely weekend.

On Saturday, James raced in the VI Cup off Little Thatch, and did rather well for himself (he's gone from last in his class to mid-field) but then had to sail upwind for 2 hours to get back to Tortola - which meant he slept really well that night!

Saturday night was bitter/sweet as we dressed up as Kraftwerk (white shirt, black jeans, thin tie & eyeliner) and Siouxie Sioux (my personal 80's heroine) to say goodbye to our former neighbours who are moving on to Singapore, at an 'Eighties Party' at the Last Resort. The Last Resort is a rather special place, where generally one doesn't get out alive: It's a slightly rattly restaurant/club on it's very own island which is, of course, only accessible by boat. Not quite Vegas, but similar. It's a bit like the John Lewis of Parties: Never Knowingly Not Fun, which this party most definitely was with lots of bad dancing.

After at least 3 hours sleep we awoke to mist, grey skies and a distinct chill (mercifully) in the air on Sunday morning,  which along with my Mypradol-worthy headache, almost had me staying in bed and getting the duvet out. However we'd been invited to join some new friends on their beautiful catamaran, so we braved the rather gloomy day and drove through torrential rain to get to Village Cay. "What's that?" the seven year old asked Tyler as he grabbed his windcheater to take along for the choppy-looking Channel. He did not remember what one looked like, as I dont think Tyler has ever worn it here before.

And what a wonderful day it was: The sun came out and the sea glittered. We snorkeled at The Caves on Norman Island, which we'd not done yet and then headed off to the Indians where we moored off and played for hours. The boys kayaked, paddled boarded, wakeboarded and I even waterskied (having not done so for at least 15 years) whilst Tyler managed to snooze on the trapeze.

We staggered home and all fell into bed , the children as happy as clams but too tired to even eat supper. Tyler and I had egg on toast in bed and then slept like the dead. Bliss.

The Seven Year Old Skipper. Don't do this at home folks.