Preventing The Shorn Spot.

I've spent the weekend so seeped in work that I'm starting to go a little bit crazy.  And by 'a little bit crazy', I really mean I'm about to be admitted into a hospital that is for people who like to chew balls of wool and who sometimes mistake their own identities for that of Hitler and frog march with stylish straight jackets on.

So this morning I was up at the crack of dawn (not because I was still out on the razz and arriving home, mind you - I didn't even have a hang over).  I was up, at the table, marking.  And the really shitty thing is, I'm not even close to finishing.  Shitballs.

The joy of attempting to spend one's weekend marking is that four-year-olds really just don't get it.  The Daughter has been intent on stopping me doing my work.  Before, the gods of labour have been chasing me so, that I've had to rely on the Gummy Bears' DVD to babysit for me.  And even then, things got out of hand behind my back.

There was silence, I remember.  And I was ploughing through my marking at a rate of knots.  Things were looking good.  I was set to finish before the sun rose.  And then I began to feel the discomfort that silence brings.  The Daughter was sitting at her dressing table, stolen items of my make-up strewn before her.

I approached.  Wearily.  I called her.  She turned around.  And then I saw it.  The self-hair cut:

Needless to say, this weekend, I've had to take preventative measures.  I could not possibly deal with the heart-brokenness that seared through my being the last time.

So we've set up a mutual marking centre.  She has her "marking".  And I have mine.

And I delight each time she mutters something a long the lines of, "These children!  Can they even speak English?"  or "Don't you know what the full stop is for?"

She is my favourite human.  Ever.