This week, there’s a distinct lack of filth and X-rated activities because we’re firmly in family mode. I’m sure normal levels of depravity will resume shortly, but for now, it’s all about George’s birthday.

We have one very excited almost-nine-year-old and a lot of fun planned.

The week started with Sports Day. Paul worked from home so he could come along, and it turned out to be a brilliant day.

We’re lucky that there’s no drama among the school mums. Everyone gets along, we all have a laugh together and nobody spends the afternoon aggressively avoiding eye contact across the school field.

George competed in three races: the obstacle race, the egg-and-spoon race and the hurdles. He came last in the obstacle race and second in the egg-and-spoon, but he had a fantastic time—which was considerably more important to him than where he finished.

Paul and I also took part in the parents’ race.

My goals were simple: don’t fall over and don’t come last.

Clearly, I was setting the bar high.

The thing is, I have never competed in a race and not come last. Having been overweight for most of my life—and not being the most coordinated person in the world—running was never exactly my forte.

But over the last five or six years, I’ve worked incredibly hard on my fitness. This was my chance to achieve something I had never managed before: being completely and unremarkably average.

Standing at the starting line, I was genuinely nervous.

Why on earth had I put myself in this position?

On your marks…

Get set…

GO!

I ran, crossed the finish line without falling over and came in a distinctly average, middle-of-the-pack position.

I had done it.

For the first time in my life, I had entered a race and not come last. I was so proud of myself that I called my mum afterwards specifically to tell her.

Olympic medal? No.

Personal victory? One hundred percent.

That weekend, the birthday celebrations began.

I don’t know whether I’ve mentioned this before, but George loves animals—especially capybaras. The amount of capybara knowledge I now possess is positively unhinged, considering I didn’t even know they existed three years ago.

I found an animal park near Chester called Greenacres that offers a zookeeper-for-the-day experience, so we booked it as his main birthday present.

We had an early start and decided to grab breakfast on the move. We gave George the choice between Lidl pastries—which are an absolute top-tier breakfast option—and McDonald’s.

He chose McDonald’s, because of course he did.

After a round of sausage and egg McMuffins, we were off to meet the animals.

We arrived before the zoo opened and, following a quick health and safety briefing, George was put to work.

He fed the alpacas, cleaned up their poo—which is obviously hilarious when you’re nine—and took them for a walk around their enclosure.

Then came the ring-tailed lemurs. There were two adults and two babies who were only a few weeks old, and George got to go inside their enclosure to feed them and help clean up.

He loved hand-feeding them, but he seemed even happier when the babies decided to use him as their own personal climbing frame. George would never admit it out loud, but I suspect this might have been his favourite part of the day.

He also helped to look after the wallabies and the rheas, which are a bit like smaller emus. They weren’t quite as interactive, but by this point even Paul and I were learning things.

The zookeeper taking us around was brilliant. Paul and I both love talking to people who are genuinely passionate about what they do, and he clearly was.

Then it was time for the main event.

The capybaras.

George was so excited that I genuinely thought he might wee himself.

There were three of them, and he got to hand-feed them, stroke them and watch them go for a swim.

It sounds like such a simple thing, but watching your child finally experience something they’ve talked about, researched and looked forward to for so long is pure magic.

We finished with a little quiz about everything we’d learnt and then explored the rest of the zoo. The experience had been worth every penny and was definitely something we would do again.

About an hour later, George announced that he was hungry. As it was his birthday weekend, we let him choose where we went for lunch.

In typical nine-year-old fashion, he selected the obvious option: YO! Sushi.

After enough sushi to refuel us all, we headed home and introduced George to The Blues Brothers. For a film that’s nearly 50 years old, it holds up surprisingly well.

Car chases and music—it’s basically the perfect film for a nine-year-old.

We had a chilled evening because the birthday celebrations weren’t over yet. The following morning was George’s actual birthday, so he woke up to balloons, waffles and presents before we headed to the Nerf centre at the Trafford Centre for a full-class party.

It wasn’t a drop-off party. I cannot be responsible for keeping track of 30 children inside a soft-play centre at the Trafford Centre. That sounds less like a birthday party and more like the opening scene of a disaster film.

I had deliberately booked it from 10 a.m. until 12 p.m. because I hate afternoon parties. You spend the whole morning waiting to go, your day is effectively held hostage, and by the time it finishes, you can’t be bothered doing anything else.

Morning parties are clearly superior.

Everyone had arrived and was waiting to go in when one little girl turned up with her auntie.

Her auntie dropped her off without speaking to me—or any of the other adults—and immediately left.

I called the girl’s mum, and it quickly became apparent that she thought it was a drop-off party. I explained that it wasn’t, but said I would keep an eye on her as long as her mum returned to collect her at midday.

The party itself was brilliant. The children ran around like absolute nutters, fired Nerf bullets at one another, ate party food and sang “Happy Birthday.” George felt incredibly special and loved every minute of it.

At midday, we said our goodbyes and went to meet the little girl’s mum.

She was nowhere to be seen.

There had been no phone call, no text—not even a carrier pigeon—to let us know she was running late.

Who on earth does that?

I put on a happy face because none of this was the little girl’s fault, but Paul—and the couple of mums still standing nearby—could tell I was raging.

I reached for my phone, but Paul looked at me and said, “I’ll do it.”

I’m not generally highly strung. I have a long fuse and I’m usually relatively calm, but Paul recognised that this was one of those rare occasions when I might actually blow.

When he called, her mum said she had completely lost track of time and would be leaving shortly. She then suggested we leave her eight-year-old daughter at reception and she would collect her in about 40 minutes.

Paul told her, in no uncertain terms, that we would not be leaving a child unattended inside a busy soft-play centre at the Trafford Centre.

Thankfully, the auntie was still shopping nearby and returned to collect her.

Once that drama was over, we went for ice cream with my nephew and wandered around the shops. George spent some of his birthday money on Lego, and then we headed home for an afternoon of cake and Lego building.

It had been a weekend of races, alpaca poo, baby lemurs, capybaras, Nerf bullets and one unexpectedly missing parent.

But most importantly, George had felt special—and that was exactly what I wanted for him.

Next week, we’re off to Croatia, so I promise the fun and filth will return.

For now, though, I’m going to enjoy my brand-new nine-year-old, build some Lego and accept that I know far more about capybaras than any grown woman reasonably should.