Slack, slack, slack.

I told myself I wasn't going to post again until I'd finished The Tenant of Wildfell Hall but reality just keeps conspiring against me. 
It was Baby's birthday on Monday; we took her to the zoo for the day. I'm quite pleased to say she loved it! Lots of 'Awww, wow!' 'Look! Twiga!' And 'Mum! Mum!' We finished the day at my mum's house for pizza tea and presents. 

Enough about Baby- I suspect you don't really care. 

I mentioned above that I'm reading The Tenant of Wildfell Hall. Oddly enough, I'm finding it hard to really engage with. Anne Brontë is a wonderful author, her writing leaps off the page and builds itself in the air in front of you, but I just can't connect. 
I might put it down to being constantly interrupted every time I curl up with a mug of tea and flick to my bookmark. It certainly isn't the fault of Ms Brontë. I doubt I've read more than a paragraph at a time since I cracked the cover - toddler needs, man questions, cats deciding to sit on my book, appointments needing to be kept - they keep me from concentrating. 

Even my standby of reading in the dead of night has been denied me, as Baby has been quite unsettled, needing resettling often. I'm so tired the text swims and my eyes cross. At least she's cute. It makes up for a lot! 

I'm sorry this post is so short and disjointed. You can likely tell I'm distracted, tired and haven't drafted this even once but please accept it as a goodwill offering until I get some solid sleeping and reading done.