Since we didn't really get a taste of the massage sessions during our taster, we signed up and were told a couple of days ago that there were places available this week.
All we had to do was turn up with a towel and a cheque. Oh, and the baby.
Somehow I still managed to forget one of those things, and running late, I headed into Wilkinson's to get a replacement as the session was about to begin. Just to be clear, I am talking about the towel, not the baby.
I bought a towel, ran across the park, switched my phone to silent and settled down in the room with THREE other mums. (And they tell us that there is a massive waiting list and that the room will be packed).
These sessions always start a bit late, so I needn't have hurried. I had met all three mums before, and despite my baby being twice the size of theirs (and when I say 'twice the size', I do mean literally), they were all born within a couple of weeks of each other.
We got going with the oil and actually did the same session that was demonstrated to us that I missed when the McBaby thought it would be a good time for a poo explosion. One baby started crying immediately, then the baby next to us and then the McBaby in a daisy chain of distress.
The course leader had put fibre optics around the room which seemed to calm the other babies. The McBaby simply knocked his over while pumping his arms around like Amir Khan in warm up, narrowly missing the next baby's head.
Incidentally, when his cousin threw something that hit his other baby cousin in the face, the McGrandad took that as a sign that he should buy him a boomerang.
So, the McBaby did get a massage, but kneading his legs and feet made him ultra hungry. I fed him, the session ended and then we chatted for 15 minutes. Then we left and I headed to the bank. While in the queue, I fumbled around for my phone. NOt in my pocket, not in the bag.
I retraced my steps back to the children's centre where the two members of staff were extremely helpful in assisting my search. Nothing. I checked the park. NOthing. Back to the bank. NOthing.
This is so unlike me. As we are so poor, I take good care of my belongings. As the comedian Jon Richardson would say, I'm a 'putter' rather than a 'leaver'. Well, except when it comes to car keys.
I know what's happened! SOmeone has found it and returned it to the Orange shop! I rock up there and it has not been handed in. They let me block the SIM card and tell me that I was actually entitled to an upgrade more than a year ago. So I come out with a new phone that is utterly unfathomable to me. I feel like my mum who accidentally hangs up on my every time I call her. Next I'll be turning it off "to save the battery".
They ask me if I want insurance. "Oh no," I said. "I never lose my phone"....
I even sheepishly swing by the police station on my way home. Nothing. I arrive home and tell my mum I've lost my phone. SHe doesn't believe me.
"It's not like you to do that," she said. "It must be in the bag or on the pushchair somewhere". I then demonstrated to her how thoroughly I had looked. "I took everything out and even opened up the nappies to ensure it hadn't fallen in one", I said, showing her by unfolding one and hearing a thud as a mobile phone slid out and onto the floor......