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What’s the point of the M25? I mean, what’s the point of it? I honestly think that bloody ring road is the cause of 95% of the UK’s marital discord. What was wrong with the North and South Circulars? Apart from being a bit shit? They served us admirably, in a rubbish sort of way. And then this thing, this awful, awful thing got built and suddenly divorce rates are up. Coincidence?

We went to London at the weekend. Teddy was a joy on the way there: he slept for two hours, and woke for one but only to babble about cars and pour water over himself. On the way back, he slept for one hour and RAGED for the last two. He was only settled with four episodes of Ivor the Engine, back-to-back, which I played on my iPhone while Dave drove at eleventy-million miles an hour to get us home before Teddy exploded into a thousand little pieces of breadstick with frustration. We just made it.

And now we’re doing sleep training AGAIN. No-one says that you have to do it again. No-one. Or maybe they do, I just haven’t done any research, so I prefer to stick with my sweeping generalisations. Makes for a more interesting blog, I feel. So, as I was saying, NO-ONE says that you have to do sleep training more than once.

We’re those smug parents that other parents hate – only as far as sleep is concerned, not with food (obviously) and certainly not with being actual parents. We sleep-trained Teddy at seven months, and since then he’s slept through and been pretty good, on the whole. (“Sleep training” sounds so mild, doesn’t it? It doesn’t resonate with hellish, Hieronymus Bosch*-like other-worldly screams – which is strange, really.) But every now and then, he – that boy – catches us out. He’ll cut a tooth, or get a teensy bit poorly, and he’ll hang on a little bit tighter at bedtime, and request just one more book, or protest a little bit if Wheels On The Bus is only 1,376 verses long. And you relent – poor Teddy, poor sleepy, unwell Teddy. There, there. And before you know it, that predictable bedtime of 7:30 is suddenly 9pm. And considering we tend to start thinking about grown-up bedtime at 9:30, that doesn’t give you an awful lot of time to get through supper, an episode of Frasier and half a packet of Bourbons, does it? So here we go again. Whoop-de-doodly-do.

ANSWER: they’re absolutely chuffing pointless.

* Yes, I had to look up the spelling. Heerohnymuss Bosh didn’t look right.

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