The Fly

"Why couldn't you have just opened the window?" she wailed, hot tears of real sadness and empathy rolling down her face.

Because flies are dirty darling, and it would have died outside anyway as it's freezing out there.

"Ohhhhh, why did he have to die Mummy, why couldn't we have caught the fly and made him a little house?" she sobbed, her chest convulsing, struggling to catch her breath.

P was distraught. He had got the fly exterminator, a tennis racket-shaped fly zapper and electrocuted the rogue fly which was looking pretty ill and lazy stuck to the kids bedroom wall.

I don't think he would want to live in a jam jar, I explained.

"We could have made him little windows and a door!" she reasoned, dramatically sobbing over the fly's demise all over again.

I soothed her and explained that flies don't have the same feelings as us. How did I know that? Good question.

"Being dead is horrible Mummy, it must have hurt the fly and now he's dead...." cue more streams of tears.

She had a point, I don't know what flies feel and I have no idea if being dead is OK or pretty boring. I did learn that we have to be more careful around sensitive, little P - and just let flies out of the window.

Ten

Ten years ago I pored over her moses basket, checking her breathing and hardly believing she was ours. And here to stay.

I did the same ten years later, watching over her and stroking her poorly forehead as she finally found sleep after a violent episode of vomiting - on her 10th birthday - how completely unfair.

I wonder where the next ten years will take her?

Happy birthday big girl, double figures forever. I love you very much, get better soon and we will celebrate all over again at the weekend.

At the races

On Monday, we went to the races just for a laugh. We were hoping to see Nobby, Mattie Batch and The Pwoducer - three celebrities of Internet fame. I'll try and explain.

For a while now, Saturday mornings have started in such a hilarious way by two jockeys on Facebook. We all look forward to the Wocket Woy and Batch videos so much that they have become a part of our weekend. Even he loves the hysterical antics of two grown men on their horses. And when an opportunity to own a teeny-tiny part of a racehorse came up, £45 for a bit of Nobby, we jumped at the chance and waited with anticipation as to when 'our' horse would run.

At 3.50 at Plumpton apparently. Except he didn't run because the ground was too wet. But we went anyway and giggled the whole afternoon.

To those of you that have never been racing, it's not how you imagine. There were no fancy hats or champagne, there were no owners dripping with money, there wasn't any glamour or beauty at all. In fact there weren't even any women there, and certainly none under 50. But my goodness it was fun. Having no idea what to do, how to bet or what to say - there was suddenly a plethora of older blokes willing to show us how it was done. We laughed together as they tipped us off, in between pints from plastic glasses and discarded fags on the floor. We exchanged horse knowledge and stories of huge wins, they told us how much they had riding on each horse, we jumped and screamed when ours looked like it was coming home a winner, we laughed with the geezers who laughed at us. She won, my sister - and I lost, picking the fallers and the ones who trotted home.

I can't wait to go again. And if Nobby runs, we will be cheering the loudest. £10 to win on Ya Hafed (Nobby) - our tiny part of the dream that is the Sport of Kings.