Leaplings

Emily Carlisle has written a wonderful piece on leap year babies for the Guardian.

The cult of cake. 

She highlights some interesting facts related to leaplings - for instance, did you know leapophilia is a thing? Neither did I!

The piece serves as a cautionary tale to future parents, by pointing out the feckless cake inefficiency of leapless parents.

You see, my two were both born shortly before Thanksgiving. Each year by Christmas I am knackered, having sacrificed an entire season to the pillar of cake.

By contrast, Emily's twins were born on February 29th four years ago. Today they mark their first proper birthday in four years. That's right: four years, two kids, one cake.

So to all you full-term women out there: I suggest you aim for today should you ever want to have a cake-free moment again in your life.

And to everyone else: beware the leapophile!

Eating sand and punching art

I recently took the girls to the Tate Modern. They were not impressed.

After punching an installation (Ali), I thought it best for us to make hasty exit. I should point out here that no actual damage was done to the museum, or to the kids.

Art imitating chaos, or chaos imitating art?

So we meandered down the riverside, wobbling on cobblestones and struggling over stairs with the Death Star buggy until we happened upon a truly wonderful thing.

The South Bank Centre is celebrating sixty years since the Festival of Britain by littering the riverfront with sand and beach huts. There's an exhibition, a freebie postcard photo booth, and even a giant bulbous purple cow (some sort of performance area).

There are free and paid events going on throughout June and July, and there are unusually helpful people floating around the area to tell you all about it.

So if you are in London over the summer and aren't sure what to do with the kiddies once they tire of smacking modern art, I highly recommend a stop by the South Bank Centre. It's not every day that you see crumbling '50s British seaside reconstituted under the watchful shadows the London Eye and Parliament.

The girls ran wild on the mock beach for hours, filling their ears, noses, throats and pockets with sand. But they didn't stop there - they sailed on a speedy boat to a magical island with a cake and ice cream shop on it, where lucky customers can opt for 'extra sugar please' when ordering.

The SS Extra Sugar Please.

It was a wonderful day, and their imaginations were firing on all cylinders and exploding into space. I was left smiling like an idiot and humming that old Morrissey tune.

I frequently gripe in smart-arse and whinge in hyperbole about ketchup-spatter and sleeplessness. But I'd hate to give the impression that I'm totally oblivious to what I have: big picture happiness constructed of a million petty annoyances. My great burden is my great joy.

I get to spend my days in the close company of my beloved sand-eating art-punchers. I can't think of a greater blessing.