Domestic goddess. That's me! Today I swept the floor downstairs, put out the washing twice and sprayed a drysuit wet. I also did some ironing ( shock!) and threw some clothes into the bedrooms of my babies. This academic year, my idea of cooking a family meal has devolved ( opposite of evolved?) to the following checklist:

1. open and close fridge and freezer several times.
2. eat a packet of olives ( not pickled onions, I have 4 jars of those to consume, and I am the only consumer in the house).
3. open freezer again and find several items covered in breadcrumbs.
4. put them in the oven.
5. open freezer again and find a packet of suspiciously bright vegetables, find a pan and unite them, add water.
6... spray everything in gravy or ketchup to enable digestion.
7. snarl off in a huff as forgot to cook anything vegetarian for myself.


Balanced meal - two tins of soup.
Healthy eating - only one takeaway a day.
5 fruit a day - or garlic and a soggy banana in the fruit bowl.

We need a butler, chauffer, au pair, nutritionist....

Previous applicants need not apply. Meanwhile, away from the trauma of domestic challenge, I continue my personal count down to the Olympics with a little mixed cat sailing, ready for the next Olympics  (got to plan ahead!).  In exciting but not death defying windy conditions on a Dart 18 with posh Nick from Whitstable, I managed to stay reasonably well mannered for 6 races, with us consistently scoring mid fleet results until some brilliance in Nick's experienced wind reading mind on the last race managed to score us an 8th place. This was all out of 40, before you ask, not my usual 8th out of 8. Now Nick is a national treasure in the cat sailing world, owning more boats that us and being on the committees of all sorts of sailing related bodies. He is reknowned for turning up late. Even when we gave ourselves plenty of time for rigging and changing, we were still the last boat off the shore. Why? What did he spend all that time in the changing room doing? Determined not to be accused of being a girl who spends too long in the changing room I storm into my wetsuit and bound off down the beach, to find myself pulling up sails etc etc on my own, while, I assume, Nick takes a powernap on the bench in the changing room. I have been in that changing room and I would not hang about a minute longer than vital, for fear of picking up veruccas or worse.  There are serious plans to renovate the green shed at the sailing club into a changing village. I have suggested a massage/therapy room ( complementary service -  perhaps a duty?), outdoor hot tubs and steam room. I suspect we will get a heated towel rail and veruccas.