I have spent something like $57,000 on movie tickets with a popcorn and slushy combo in the last week-and-a-half, there have been children stay over at my house that I’ve never met before and some of my children have, in fact, disappeared with families whose names aren’t even on the school roster.

The PlayStation runs 24/7, the DVD bill from the video shop is climbing and there is artwork everywhere – coloured-in pictures, painted pieces of cardboard and even a hand-sewn phone case made out of red satin.

To say that I am ready to send these children back to school is an understatement.

Can’t we just give teachers more money to babysit for an extra couple of weeks.

I mean, none of us really knew what the future held when we had our children. For me it was just five nights of unbridled passion that changed my life forever.

I guess somewhere on this continent there may be a parent that is truly happy to have the kids home on holidays but I’ve yet to meet them.

Am I the only one that thinks that children actually spoil Christmas?

It’s a dirty job …

I just happened to be driving down Fishermans Road the other day – and for those of you who are not yet aware of Fishermans Road, it’s a little connecting road between, say, Buderim and the Maroochy River.

It has many netball courts, boat ramps and a massive pond of poo.

On my drive-by I was amazed to see an empty poo pond with two guys in waders and massive hoses cleaning the plastic membrane that lies on the bottom.

It’s here I must congratulate myself on the subtle use of other subject-relevant words like job and bottom. The mark of a true professional … oops, there’s another one.

As I watched these two men hose the gunk from one end to the other in well co-ordinated, regular movements, I couldn’t help but think: “Well, it’s a job and someone’s got to do it.”

Good on ya boys, you are better men than me. If I were to ever work there, I think I’d be the guy sitting in the sun on the bank with a spear gun and landing net.

Yet another reader

I like it when people come up and tell me they read my column. I don’t like it when they come up and tell me they read Caroline Hutchinson’s column, Is It Just Me … or am I a jealous journalist?

I was forced at gunpoint the other day to go to the Kodak section of K-Mart to download some prints of Stella’s formal dress for Aunty Barb, who did some delicate needle work on the hem and at my request put a hefty padlock on the zipper at the back.

As I was standing there being prompted by the computer with delicate instructions like, “Push confirm for the print you choose” or the more intrusive, “Gee, Jamie, you don’t seem to have lost any weight since the last time you had pictures printed here”, a lovely lady appeared from behind me, saying: “My name is Francesca and I love your column.”

I sensed that she wanted to add “much more than Caroline’s” but it was left unsaid.

“I read it every week,” she continued, “and I wouldn’t miss it.” She also added: “I’m Italian” – but I don’t know why.

Well it was nice to meet you Francesca Torrisi. Don’t every stop enjoying the written word.

Teenage communication

Just lately, my 18-year-old Joshua has taken to greeting me with “Ooie Dad” or just two raised eyebrows combined with a head nod and a “Hey man”.

I have mastered these expressions of interest and am secretly very happy that he’s moved on from his grunting stage.

I live in hope that one day in the not-too-distant future he will walk up to me, thrust out his hand out as if to shake mine, and form the words: “Hello Dad, it’s good to see you!”