twenty separated socks

Twenty singles. I'm worried my washing machine is going to choke on all the odds that must be caught up in there somewhere.
We've also lost three knives and two forks. Where are they?
You might guess I'm having a bit of a clear out/clear up which means I'm still functioning on at least six hours sleep. I would do a happy dance if I weren't so busy ignoring my children so I can clear out my cupboards Oh, hang on- I did do a particularly terrible impression of Robbie Williams dancing in the Back for Good video the other night.
The swaggering was at a children's book evening, organised at a friend's house. Like Tuppaware and Anne Summers but without the repression and competition.
One minute we were flicking through Welsh flashcards, discussing the merits of learning French, sipping wine and (I was) nibbling on crudites. The next we were arseholed and jumping around the room like deranged teens. (Hence the Robbie impression.) Now thats my kind of parents evening.
The following morning I trotted off to the gym and flung the boys in the creche. After 30 minutes of near cardiac arrest (and a strong whiff of pinot grigio) I admitted defeat/dehydration and scooped them up hoping my wine fumes wouldn't floor the childcarers and alert social services.
Still, I feel pretty perky today following another night of shut eye and can even comprehend activities other than trudging in dark glasses around the common and lying down on a bouncy castle.
Next week the kids are coming round to make christmas decorations.
I know.
I feel positively Anthea-like, but without the millions, ugly husband and white jeans.