I had a post all planned for this morning about party bags. It was a wonderful post, if I do say so myself. I had written it in my head as I battled Boy #2 unwillingly into his clothes, explained to Boy #1 why - despite the fact that it was indeed a wonderful den he had created out of the sofa cushions - that he needed to tidy to it up before he went to school, gave them both breakfast, and arranged an estate agent's viewing for later this morning.
Then I sat down and tapped my Pulitzer-winning post out pdq in the space of a couple of minutes. It was short, concise, touched on the various forms of entertainement the Boys have been treated to in the 50 or so birthday parties I've accompanied them to during the last few years, self-deprecating, and funny (or at least, I like to think so).
I was just about to put in the last sentence.
The phone rang.
I answered it.
And by the time I came back to the computer to hit save and publish, Boy #2 had switched it off.
Oh well. I suppose the world can live without my pronouncements on party bags, after all. And honestly? I think this makes a better post...