The parcel has been packed and duly dispatched (at a surprising, nay shocking, expense of nearly £5, which I don't mind as such but it reminded me that such sums -- or indeed care parcels -- should go to the needy, rather than subsidise the Royal Mail ... if I can work it all out, I'll add some links to this effect next time). It was fun to do and illustrated once again how even a simple task like wrapping up some items can turn into an undertaking of paramount proportions, once you have managed to get your habitat into the complex shape that I seem to create so easily.
Searching for and finally unearthing all the paraphernalia required for the parcel project, took half the morning and left behind a trail of opened and displaced boxes, which means that even the narrow foot path through the obstacle course in our bedroom is now obstructed, and my bed can only be reached by a rather ungainly skip-hop-jump exercise. Of course, there has to be a method in this madness, otherwise I’d resolve to clear it all up rather than describe it all on a blog... (I have mentioned the term procrastination, haven’t I? It is a very serious condition, and one I really have to come to grips with ... I’ll do it as soon as I’ve written this entry/answered my e-mail/checked Cocolate & Zucchini/read the Guardian, etc. pp, ad infinitum...)
Anyway, the result got unprompted and independent expressions of delight out of both kids (which was rewarding in itself), and disappointment when they found that I was sending the parcel. However, when they found that we’d soon be receiving one, they lit up and found the idea absolutely fabulous. (So, blogging’s not such a duff idea, after all, is it, Mr I’m-too-sophisticated-for-my-shirt?!!) And they’ve already volunteered which homemade food item I have to send out next: Schwarzwälder Kirsch Trifle ... yeah, that’s a great English-German fusion recipe, but how would one send it by post?
 adjective, usu. employed as a euphemism in this house and currently having achieved cult status, i.e. being used on a daily basis in constructions such as, ‘a complex sandwich’; here: complete and utter state of disorder; chaos which can probably only be resolved by burning the place down; slovenly, sluttish house-keeping which only narrowly escapes the ‘keeping the comb next to the butter dish’ category, which my father always predicted for me...