Thank You

I’m wanting to write something breezy and rude about my husband like usual but am not quite feeling 'normal' yet.

My Chickie choked last week. It’s hideous to even be writing it down. He's okay now and the sound of his gentle snores at night have never sounded sweeter.

So all I can offer today is the deepest and most heartfelt of thanks to God, the same to the paramedics - Malcolm and James, and to my neighbour Lynn.

I'm sure I'll be back to my usual sarcastic self before long, just not today.

What Happened When I Mentioned Chickie Liked Trains

Plastic choo choos. Wooden choo choos. Talking choo choos. Big choo choos. Small choo choos. Choo choo placemat. Choo choo toothbrush. Choo choo pyjamas. Choo choo scarf. Choo choo socks. Choo choo suitcase. Choo choo blanket. Choo choo helter skelter. Choo choo track. Choo choo books. Choo choo stool. Choo choo ride. Choo choo cake. Choo Choo ball. Choo choo cup.

2nd Birthday

Party Pooper

At Party Central, the Operations Manager, was scooting around the church hall like a looney trying to simultaneously assemble tables for colouring, prepare dining tables to look like an advert for the Waitrose Entertaining Brochure, politely chat to the self declared, “bouncy castle man” about placing his flyers in my sealed party bags, hang spotty bunting from the roof tops, blow up balloons and attractively arrange fairy cakes for forty on duck egg blue cake stands and pink love heart platters.

Snowy had left me behind having gone back to Chez Chickie to collect one husband, a birthday baby and all the party food from the fridge. He was instructed to call on arrival to confirm what to bring. When the phone rang and Accountant was on the end of the line, I couldn't help but wonder what the hell Snowy was thinking. He knows full well stressful situations, Accountant and I don’t mix.

“Do you want the crème fraiche?”
“Yes”
“Dips?”
“Yes”
“Two packets of sausage rolls?”
“Of course I want the sausage rolls”
“Cocktail sausages?”
“What do you think?”
“Leftover sausage casserole?”
“What?”
“Do you want the remnants of the casserole?”
“Yes. The buffet wouldn’t be complete without it!”
“What?”
“I don’t want the sodding leftover casserole, you utter baffoon!”
“I can’t hear her, she’s cutting out!” he says to Snowy. The line goes dead.

A withdrawn Glam-Nan arrives, the pressure of supplying a homemade ‘choo choo’ birthday cake, one of her trifles, forty five choc chip cookies and a selection of cream cheese blini’s with parsley garnish all too much. I see the panic in her eyes.

“What do you want me to do?” she asks.
“Erm.... put the crisps in the bowl!”
“Okay, which bowl?”
“This one”
“Is that one big enough?”
“It’ll be fine, just put the crisps in!”
“All the same flavour, or different flavours?”
“I don’t care. Any bowl, any crisps”
“Okay” .... “I’m putting all different flavours in, is that okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine”
“May be we should use a bigger bowl?”
“AARRRRRGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Accountant, Snowy and Birthday Chickie arrive and unload the food.

"Where are the carrot sticks?”, I enquire casually.
“I asked if we should bring them but he said no” explains Snowy, nodding at the bouncy castle where Accountant, as useful as ever, was diving headfirst into the inflated activity stations.
“Tell me please, what possible reason do you think I could have had for spending half of Friday chopping up 50 perfectly proportioned carrot sticks if they weren't for this party?” I hissed.

Snowy shrugged and wandered away from his mad, red faced and sweaty daughter to start scoffing the buffet, and there he remained with a fairy cake lodged in each cheek for the rest of the party.

Chickie's MoT

"Yes, that's fine for tomorrow afternoon at 2pm, lovely, see you then", I said in my sweetest mummy voice. As I put the phone down, I turned to face a still red and blotchy Chickie who had reacted badly to his new moisturiser but was well enough to chomp his way through a yellow crayon.

"It's show time" I informed him but he had little interest in the Health Visitor's impending visit to put him through his developmental paces. Scooping lumps of sunflower coloured Crayola from the inside of his cheeks, I issued my 128th warning about consuming non consumables. Even if I don't catch him in the act, the crayons have a colourful way of giving him away on exit.

The next day, the scene was set. The house gleamed and so did Chickie having been buffed and coiffed to peachy 'my mummy looks after me fabulously' perfection. That is, apart from a few stubborn red blotches, some new baldy spots where he'd pulled his hair out the previous night and the flourescent goo that was sliming its way down his face.

I wondered whether to bring the rocking chair down from his room for the 'reading on mummy's lap' domestic bliss scene or 'colouring together at the kitchen table'. Both had merits of their own but I went with the colouring as it looked more authentic. In matching mother and son spotty aprons, we set about the drawing and colouring in of choo choos, cars and all his other vehicular obsessions.

Right on cue, the doorbell rings. "The health visitor's here sweetheart, now you be a good boy. No tantrums, no eating bad things and no throwing things at the lady, okay!" "Okay" he said earnestly to the point where I almost believed him.

I let the Health Visitor in and led her back to the table where Chickie had been instructed to remain to colour in Mummy's brillianty drawn choo choo's. "Oh!" exclaimed the Health Visitor in surprise as he turned around, displaying bright red lips that he'd coloured in with felt tip. "Why, you little ....!" I thought to myself. "What a silly boy" I said sweetly, through gritted teeth as a tug of war began over the red felt tip, Chickie screaming in defiance at it's forced removal. "Let's just clean you up so you can talk to the nice lady!". More screaming and throwing of crayons at mummy's head whilst the Health Visitor stood by my side, cowering behind her briefcase.

I don't know whether it prompted her first question about whether I had any concerns but after an hour of "Is it normal that he pulls his hair out? Why is he so obsessed with transport? Should I be worried that he's made up his own language that no one can understand? Why won't he eat fruit? Why doesn't he poo? He eats crayons and woodlice and Sudacrem and play doh - why? I can hear him snoring at night from downstairs, is that okay? He answers 'No' to every question - should he be doing that. He's scared of the smoke alarm and gazoos and balloons and the door bell? " I think she was regretting asking.

A Rumble in My Bumble

One day you’re trotting along wondering how everyone else got so weird and thanking God for your lucky escape and then something happens that proves you’re just as bonkers as everyone else.

On Tuesday, the stomach ache began. On Wednesday, the niggling pains with occasional toilet visits. On Thursday, I could have flown to Boston and back during the time I sat in my bathroom wondering if I’d ever step outside again.

In retrospect, I shouldn’t have eaten anything at all but I did. I ate cheese crackers (intended for Chickie’s party), I ate vegetable crisps (for Chickie’s party) and I ate a mini bag of Haribo (yes, for Chickie’s party).

When the gurgling began, I knew it was bad. My digestive track churned in outrage and on toilet visit No 24, it punished me accordingly. Things turned nasty and a worrying colour. As sensitive as ever to my delicate state, Accountant eased my pain by trying to gas me with solvents, spraying an entire can of Lynx Africa under the bathroom door, before scurrying off to gag down the hallway.

As I sat on the brink of hyperventilation, struggling to breathe from the fumes and blind panic, I wondered whether I should phone Glam-Nan or an ambulance. I opted for Glam-Nan, who was thrilled to hear from her hysterical daughter at 11pm on a Thursday night. Whilst Glam-Nan and Snowy rushed over in their dressing gowns, I rang the on-call doctor. “It’s red. Am I going to die?” I squeaked pathetically. “I doubt it” said the doctor drolly. In no mood for sarcastic medical professionals, I explained again how it was red in case he’d missed it. “That can happen in situations like this” he said “or it could even be haemorrhoids” he added helpfully.

Unconvinced that the doctor had fully grasped the ‘redness’, I resigned myself to a malpractice suit and bid him farewell, looking up pathetically at Glam-Nan and Snowy who had arrived in their pyjamas. They tried their best to control my sobs and convulsions, as I broke down, convinced I was going to die soon, with a camera up my bottom.

“It’s fine” they said, exchanging worried glances as I shook uncontrollably. “It’s not” I wailed. “It’s really not”. They began whispering. “Don’t whisper. I hate it when you whisper” I ordered from the bed.

An hour of placating later and I was ready to risk a snooze, on the strict condition that Glam-Nan remained by my side. Glam-Nan eyed up my 15 togger miserably, used to sleeping in nothing hotter than an 8 herself. “Do you always sleep with this over you?” she asked 22 times before asking a further 22 times “don’t you get hot?”. Followed 22 times by “I only have an eight tog”. I was beginning to wonder whether I’d made a mistake and whether it was too late to swap her for Snowy who lay curled on the lounge floor, his 67 year old frame having a creaking competition with the floorboards.

The next morning, calmed by the lack of action during the night, I felt brave enough to drink a glass of water in bed whilst Glam-Nan endeavoured to scrape Snowy off of the floor and dealt with an exuberant Chickie. Forbidden to leave me alone, Snowy and Glam-Nan took it in turns to return to the comfort of their own home to clean their teeth.

Later that day, Glam-Nan heard three little words she wasn’t looking forward to, as I summoned her from the top of the stairs. “Mum, I’ve been!”. As Glan-Nan trudged up the stairs for her role as colour consultant, my mind cast back to the vegetable crisps I’d eaten the night before. The beetroot crisps. The red beetroot crisps.

Getting the bag out of the bin, I found a small remnant. Never a great fan of science, I decided, just this once, to conduct a little experiment. Dropping the crisp into a glass of water, I watched with interest as the water turned pink, gradually deepening to a dark shade of claret. A very familiar shade of claret.

Nun Night Gnasher

“Come and look at Gnasher” said Accountant for the fiftieth time since Gnasher had arrived the previous day. “No thanks, Sweetheart” I replied. It was going to take more than a back flipping hamster to entice me out from under the cosy depths of my 15 tog goose down duvet.

“No, seriously, come and look” he repeated. “There’s nothing that hamster can do that I haven’t seen already” I said wearily, having spent most of the weekend ‘oohing’ and ‘aahing’ in all the right places as my nephew put his furry birthday present through it’s paces.

Accountant and Chickie had both thoroughly enjoyed the ‘Gnasher Show’, gleefully watching him roll around the room in his yellow ball as my nephew proudly commentated.

“Just come and look” said Accountant, insistently. “This better be good” I grumbled, begrudgingly poking two winceyette clad legs out from underneath the covers.

On entering the guest room where Gnasher had spent a comfortable weekend, Accountant was in the corner, his peanut shaped head craning over the base of the cage. “Look” he whispered, gesturing me closer. “What?” I whispered back, the lapse into undertones casting a sinister mood. “Do you think he’s dead?” Accountant asked suddenly. Unamused by Accountant’s attempt at practical trickery, I launched into my “don’t ever get me out of bed again unless there’s chocolate involved” speech. Accountant interrupted my ranting, just when I was at my most outraged. “I’m not joking” he cut in gravely. “He’s not breathing. Look!”.

As I reluctantly closed my mouth and inspected the red fur ball, curled in the corner of its cage, it struck me that he had been in that exact spot when Chickie had loudly bid him ‘Nun night’ five hours earlier. “May be hamsters don’t need to breathe when they sleep?” I offered hopefully. Accountant shook his head. Unable to believe or accept that Gnasher, at two months of age, could have expired on my watch, I became desperate. “Poke him” I said. Accountant prodded a finger into the strawberry blonde fur. Nothing.

“Perhaps he’s hibernating?” I tried, still optimistic that Gnasher was just a heavy sleeper. “Pick him up” I suggested helpfully. “I’m not picking him up!” said Accountant in disgust. “You pick him up!” he added. “No way!” I yelped in horror, backing away from what I was gradually coming to realise was rodent remains. “It’s your nephew’s hamster” Accountant kindly pointed out. “My dad wouldn’t expect my mum to pick up a dead hamster” I muttered, hoping to shame him into action. Ignoring me, Accountant began shaking the cage. “Well, if he wasn’t dead, he is now” I said, secretly quite pleased by his over vigorous jigging which seemed like an excellent cause of death to share with family members, leaving me innocent of all involvement.

“It’s dead” declared Accountant, with the self-assurance of a mortician. “He can’t be!” I said, incredulously. “He’s definitely dead” Accountant repeated slowly, no doubt wondering whether I would apply this level of denial to all unsavoury episodes I encountered in life. “Maybe he’s revivable” I squeaked as my panic levels rose. “I saw Eddie Murphy revive a rat in Dr. Doolittle. He gave it CPR”. Accountant shook his head again.

Glancing down at Gnasher, a ball of lonesome ginger fluff, I finally allowed myself to accept that Accountant might, for once, be right. Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at his little blue house that he’d never snuggle into again and the Willy Wonka style plastic tube that he’d been wedged into when he’d arrived.

As I began to sob for the vermin I barely knew, I wondered how my nephew would take the news that his beloved Gnasher would be leaving our care in a body bag. The crying stepped up a notch as I pictured his devastation as my Sister informed him that Accountant had shaken his cage just that little bit too hard. Then I imagined Chickie’s expectant little face as he requested to visit his new fuzzy friend, ‘NASHSHER” the next morning.

Accountant put a comforting arm around his now hysterical wife, blaming her hormone imbalance for the theatrical reaction.

The next morning, I cast a pair of red and swollen eyes over a still dead Gnasher, having hoped that my prayers alone may have been enough to resurrect him during the night. Closing the door behind me, I went into Chickie’s room. “Mum-mmmy” he shrieked excitedly. “Yes, Sweetheart” I replied, lifting him out of his cot for a cuddle. “NASHSHER” he said. “Gnasher’s asleep, Sweetheart” I replied, his innocence touching my heart, making me well up all over again. Now committed to spending the rest of the day a puffy wreck, I let the tears roll down my cheeks, wondering how I could stop the day coming along that would leave my little boy broken hearted.

Chickie looked at me and cocked his head to one side. “Choo Choo?” he enquired, Gnasher forgotten. “Let’s go watch the Choo Choo’s” I replied, kissing his little head, grateful that, for now, there was nothing more to be said.

Premature Hair Loss

Chickie’s new hair pulling obsession found him back at the Barber’s for a rather severe but necessary No 4 all over. To teach mummy that any efforts on her part to control him were futile, he reached up a chubby hand to twiddle his new do. On discovery that stubble wasn’t twiddlable, he rather resourcefully began pinching it out instead.

That night as I sewed mittens onto the arms of his pyjamas and wondered whether the permanent wear of a bicycle helmet would single him out as ‘different’ from the other children at pre-school, I wondered how Chickie would get out of this one. Twelve hours later, the amazing Chickie had managed it. I still don’t know how he did, but he did, and he looked smug about it too.

This lunchtime I purchased 3 giant t-shirts and spent half an hour sewing the arms shut. A balding Chickie watched me as I chuckled evilly at my genius. “Let’s see you get out of this one, Chickie”. “Bring it on Mummy – bring it on!” (okay, whilst he didn’t actually say those exact words, I could tell what he was thinking. Mummies know these things!)

Rolled Off The Wagon

I feel dirty, dirty and ashamed.

It all began when my friend who bakes, Vicster S, became "Little Miss Weight Watcher 2007", refusing to eat her own calorie loaded wares, making her friends with no will power, i.e. me, eat them instead. Then my friend Sarah H, began shunning all things carbohydrate, and became "Little Miss Atkins 2007", dropping 7lbs in 2 weeks. Then there's the ever lightweight Six-Pack-Simmie who puts all women to shame, with her "why drive 30 miles when you can jog?" policy. A recent conversation with her has ruined my every subsequent squirt, her words coming back to haunt me as I guility munch, "mayonnaise is the devil's food, it's loaded with saturated fat...devil's food...fat, fat, fat..."

Slightly resentful to be pressured into action by the fact that everyone around me would soon be featuring in weight loss commercials, with their chubby friend, me, saying something trite like "Yes, she's a new woman" and Accountant muttering in the background that "he couldn't help noticing how 'well' she looked in those pink lycra hotpants", I decided a serious attempt to cut back on the scoffing should be made.

The contents of the 'yummy' cupboard were dutifully binged upon in order to start with a clean 'plate', as it were. So, four days ago, it began. No mid-morning packet of Jammy Dodgers with my tea, no scrumptious salt-free Lurpak lathered on sweet, sweet waffles, no dastardly mayonnaise, just boiled rice with boiled peas and boiled fish for dinner. The weight loss initially was encouraging. A 4lb bag of sugar was positioned, as a bodyguard, in front of the cracker cupboard, my next stop after the 'yummy' cupboard, to obstruct entry and serve as a reminder that the equivalent weight in blubber is not attractive.

It was going well, my resistance strong, until today, when, for the second day running, I was a 1lb heavier. Where that pesky pound came from, I just don't know but I hated it and it needed to be punished. After making a serious effort to eat my "Weighwatchers" tomato and lentil gloop this evening, I could take no more. Scrumptious wafts of Accountant's 456 calorie four cheese pizza bubbling in the oven didn't help. Two slices of pizza later and the diet was over.

A further five minutes and 16 party rings (purchased for Chickie's party) later and, high from the sugar rush, I felt an odd combination of shame and elation. Sugar, my dear, dear friend, was back in my life, let us never be parted again. Damn my sweet tooth, well actually, sweet teeth, complete with 13 fillings, I blame Snowy. A greedy pig himself, with a cholestrol reading regularly cause for debate with doctor and daughter. I never stood a chance.

P.S. The party rings are no more. I ate the whole lot. Snowy, you've got a lot to answer for.

Does My Nappy Look Big In This?

Baby clothes shopping is so much more satisfying than mummy clothes shopping, or at least it was. The simplicity of the ‘one baby fits all’ rule, a little piece of retail bliss in the fashion maze facing those getting to grips with decorating their post-baby shape with snot resistant fabrics.

That was until my child reached the age where his morning greeting is, “Choo Choo”, Postman Pat is the best thing since sliced apple rings and the accompanying slipper, pyjama and scarf set are must have accessories . It would seem my days of browsing the Verbaudet catalogue for cord sailing trousers and lambswool tank tops in classic shades of mocha and putty are already behind me as family members gleefully bestow gaudy coloured garments emblazoned with CBeebies cast members upon a thrilled Chickie. My scowls of distaste just seem to spur them on if the luminous blue Thomas the Tank Engine scarf my Sister smugly wrapped around Chickie’s neck is anything to go by. She’d fished it out especially, knowing how pleased I’d be to see it.

Chickie really was pleased to see it and kisses the choo choo each morning before breakfast. It’s been hard to suppress my urge to hide it. A strategy that has served me well in the past when confronted with an Accountant in a ridiculous cricket hat not meant for a skin tone whiter than his whites, an Accountant in a West Ham beanie not meant for an egg shaped head and an Accountant wearing a hideous festive tie that, when squeezed in the right spot, played Christmas carols. It may seem harsh, but it was for his own protection.

However, with every step of motherhood, comes self-analysis, something I managed to skim over when performing my amazing disappearing hat trick. Whilst the fact I’m a perfection seeking control freak served me well at work, it goes about as well with children as black knickers with white trousers. So, a change and apology to a poor, bewildered Accountant must be made and the Postman Pat pyjamas turned around quickly in the wash so Chickie can sleep happy in the knowledge that he and Pat are both very happy men.

Hair We Go Again

You’d think I’d learn that being impulsive and optimistic is a disastrous combination, especially when it comes to hair cuts, but no. As always, I decided, after 12 months and with no forethought whatsoever, today was the day to get my hair done after spending a year growing it back from my last unfortunate encounter with a savage hairdresser and some over enthusiastic layering.

My spate of bad luck with hairdressers began at childhood when my mother, an alleged hairdresser although nothing she did to me or my sister’s hair would verify her story, permed me. Blessed with fine hair, but plenty of it, my hair poufed in indignation, swelling to five times it’s normal size like a mousy shroud of candy floss around my head. Glam-Nan set the supposed ‘ringlets’ off with a bulging quiff at the front, kept in place with an industrial strength Alice band. The kids at school were cruel. When I reported back to Glam-Nan that I was now known as Elvis she reapplied the perm solution and straightened it back out.

Things haven’t improved in recent years and the search continues for my follicle soul mate. I envy those women who have found that special someone to groom them like a monkey. Someone who knows that hair prone to frizzing should never, ever be razored. That the chinless shouldn’t go chin length and blonde highlights, no matter how good they look on Jennifer Aniston, will always make me look jaundiced.

Despite all of this, I still remain optimistic that I’m just one cut away from having perfectly gorgeous Mandy Moore hair (PGMMH). When my hairdresser this afternoon actually thought I was the Mandy Moore in the photograph, perhaps I should have been alerted that all was not well. “I can’t believe that’s you” she said, incredulous. “It’s not. It’s Mandy Moore” I replied.

I ignored my gut instinct that had become a devil type character with a comb-over floating above my left shoulder, “Leave now, it’s going to be the 2006 bob crisis all over again”. Then popped up my optimistic angel, with the PGMMH, she was treading water over my right shoulder. “It’ll be fine. She’s the one. In 30 minutes, you’ll have the manageable, perfectly coiffed hair of your dreams, just sit tight”.

30 minutes later, Comb-Over Devil was rubbing his hands together gleefully, “I told you but you wouldn’t listen. This is even worse than last time. This is the worst cut you’ve EVER had”. Comb-Over Devil was right, it really was.

Whilst I could feel disaster was imminent from the two layered bowl cut that was emerging from the wreckage of my hair, and evasive action was desperately needed, I was bound by British politeness to stay routed to the spot. However, when she asked her colleague for advice on how to deal with the “thick chunky bit she just couldn’t get to blend in”, I knew this was my only chance and I took it.

“I’m sorry to interrupt” I said, surprised by my calmness, “and I don’t wish to be rude, but would you mind if your colleague finished the hair cut please?”. Altogether as polite and as rude as can be in one sentence but I’d be jiggered if I was going to sit there any longer and watch the upper bowl reach eyebrow level.

“No, no, of course not” she lied and mumbled something about the perils of cutting dry hair. An uncomfortable 30 minutes ensued whilst de-scissored hairdresser sat in the chair next to me, glaring at every snip saviour hairdresser made in her attempts to make two bowls become one.

Clutching my crumpled photo of PGMMH, I wandered out of the shop, now so used to looking like I’ve been attacked with a hedge trimmer, I didn't even cry.

The Pit of Love

"Happy Anniversary”. An excellent start. May be I could dig myself out of this Greeting Card catastrophe after all. On opening, it turned sour, “To A Special Couple”. Whilst there’s no doubt we are a “SPECIAL” couple, and not in a good way, my reserve card stash wasn’t offering anything I could fob off as pre-selected for my husband in celebration of our 3rd wedding anniversary, which was approaching faster than I could pop out to purchase the card I could have sworn I’d already bought.

As Accountant proudly bestowed his offering, delighted with himself for its early dispatch and tasteful frontage as opposed to the usual last minute petrol station dash to purchase mixed carnations and any card where a teddy and love heart had become inextricably entwined. It seemed as though our repeated 'chats' over my floral and stationery standards had finally paid off.

As he waited expectantly for his ‘good boy’ pat, I felt bad. Largely because I knew that all future arguments would now centre around the day I forgot to buy him an anniversary card. The day I became fallible. The day one of those pesky 3,420 balls I’d juggled so brilliantly for 31 years, slipped from my grasp and tumbled to the floor in slow motion. Drat. Drat. Drat. That’s when I decided my misplacement of one sodding ball wasn’t going find me slung into the ball pit with an Accountant for company.

I had two options:

Option One: Lie and Hope He Forgets.

Me: “That’s lovely, Sweetheart. Thank you. I’ve got your card but as it’s not our anniversary officially for another 2 hours, I’ll wait till then to give it to you so it’s extra special.”

Option Two: Distract and Hope He Forgets.

Me: “Thank you Sweetheart. I love my card, it’s lovely”

Apply hug of appreciation whilst turning over tv behind Accountant’s back to Baywatch reruns.

Me: “ Oh my god, what does Pamela Anderson think she looks like in that pvc thong?”

Accountant: “Where?”


After careful consideration, I went with Option Two. Job Done.

To Be Wound Up to The Point Your Head Might Explode, Please Press 1

A friend said to me the other day that I must be the kind of person who sees the humour in everything. Generally, that’s true, and it’s usually when I shouldn’t.

Take the time a colleague went kasplat into the glass wall of our office with an impact so forceful, her glasses needed replacing. A concerned enquiry as to her general well being and a helpful tug to her feet would have been the appropriate response, but hard to pull off sincerely when it ranks in the Top Ten of your funniest comedy accidents of all time.

However, today I have struggled very hard to find anything vaguely amusing about my telethon with Virgin Media after trying to connect my highly anticipated and awaited new laptop to the internet.

By telephone call number eight, I’m ashamed to say that I was intermittenly sobbing. It may sound pathetic and, you’d be right, it completely is.

“Hello, Virgin Media, Before we continue I need to inform you.....”

I helpfully interject at this point “calls are 25p per minute, networks and mobiles may vary and you will be charged a 10p connection fee –I KNOW! ”

Virgin Operator now realises they are dealing with a nutjob and proceeds with caution. “How may I help you today, Miss Ruby?”

“This is my eighth phonecall to Virgin” I whisper in the tone of a horror baddie teetering on the edge of sanity. “I have been on the phone trying to resolve this issue for what is now approaching 5 hours” snarl, snarl. “Four members of your staff have said they’ll call me back - they haven’t”. Big dramatic breath. “All I want to do is connect my new laptop to the internet and for my old laptop to also remain connected to the internet rather than your operator connecting my new one whilst disconnecting my old one despite my queries to the operator of “are you sure you’re not disconnecting my old one?”. Huge huff.

“Okay Miss Ruby” says the robot operator turning to the script in her manual entitled “How To Fobb Off The Mentally Unbalanced Customer”. “What I need you to do is click on start, then type in cmd” she starts.

Now completely in character for my role as “Sarcastic Customer From Hell”, I jump ahead 10 stages and give her the IP address she’s trying to guide me through like the moron she assumes I am. Robot continues in monosyllabic tone, unimpressed by my newly acquired technical abilites and reports that there’s a fault. A fault that lies with Virgin. A fault that has been ongoing for 3 weeks and she has no idea when it might be resolved.

“So I have spent 3 hours on the phone to Dell at a cost of £10 for them to tell me there’s a problem with Virgin. A further 2 hours on the phone to Virgin at a cost of £30 for you to tell me it’s your fault but you have no idea when it might be fixed and now both my laptops aren’t working when previously at least my old one was”, I summarised helpfully.

“That is correct Miss Ruby” said the Robot with the indifference and superiority of someone far, far away and whose personal internet connection was just peachy.

Chickie begins giggling. He’s watered the rug with his blackcurrant fruit smoothie and is now using the spillage to colour in the white stripes purple.

That’s when the tears began to well and with a pathetic gurgle in my voice I wished the robot a good day and ended the call. Blaming my theatrical reaction on my hormone imbalance, I rang Snowy for some sympathy. “Calm down” he suggested. Big mistake. Snowy got an earful. Phone call terminated. More crying.

This blog will double up nicely as my letter of complaint to Mr Branson.

The Impenetrable Bottom

"Ooooh, a Ninky Nonk”, I said, genuinely excited. Lifting up the brightly coloured little train in it’s box, I pretended to be engrossed in it’s design to avoid the sympathetic glance of the saleswoman who, probably quite justly, was looking at me like I needed to go out with three dimensional grown ups more often.

The thing is, I do, they come with the children. However, most of them would be equally as excited at the prospect of a Ninky Nonk, Pinky Ponk or Tombliboo now available in a Mothercare near you. For the uninitiated, your tot won’t stand a chance of being the coolest kid at nursery if he doesn’t know his Trubliphone from his Og-Pog so make sure he’s tuned in to ‘In the Night Garden’. It's the latest craze to hit CBeebies and casts an entrancing spell over all children who watch it, instantly hushing their whining and making them sleepy, very sleepy. All of the above feature heavily and the opportunity to purchase the promise of something which may hypnotise your child into a temporarily mute state or, my personal favourite, unconsciousness is delightful.

The only slight spanner in the works is Chickie’s curious distrust of ‘The Tittifers’. A singing toucan group, yet to appear on X-Factor, who pop up from time to time. Their appearance is cause for immediate alarm and all the soothing benefits of Iggle Piggle and Upsy Daisy are lost as he quivers behind my legs, eyes firmly averted.

This is the latest in a growing list of “Reasons to Hide Behind Mummy’s Big Bottom” which Chickie obviously feels is of sufficient density to shield him from all evils in this world.

Is It A Bird? Is It A Plane? No, It's SuperPants

Oh Oh Oh They're Magic

Now that my flesh coloured, waist height magic knickers (currently blowing in the breeze on the washing line, cloaked by a large towel after wearing them for ten agonising and intensely elasticated hours yesterday) are a big part of my life and my blog, public outings both on and off, have become increasingly regular.

As no one has taken me aside to explain required etiquette of the semi-public airing of one’s smalls, or in our case, larges, I have devised a cunning strategy to disguise the XXL Boxer Shorts with a hole in exactly the place you’d expect Accountant to have made one, aforementioned giant pants and padded bras that weigh down our line and credibility.

I remember our old next door neighbour used to proudly peg up a bountiful array of miniscule lacy thongs in a rainbow of racy colours which used to leave Accountant drooling at the back bedroom window like a fifteen year old.

With a bottom all wrong for thongs, I peg my M&S car covers on the West (where our neighbour is too old to focus) with something larger and more attractive to the East (where younger 20/20 vision couple reside). If they are super-sized and, therefore, super embarrassing, they are hung to the North West end of the line, where extra privacy is afforded by the parasol.

Whilst this strategy currently works well for me, I remain interested in what lengths, if any, other big panted women, partial to outdoor airing, go to in order to disguise their blubber covers. Answers on an email to peaseyweasey@yahoo.co.uk please.

Chickie's Party Piece

Ignore, what I now realise from watching these clips, is my very odd laugh and just check out my baby's eyebrows. Genius.

Blue Fringe Benefits

As Chickie happily watched two bunnies getting jiggy with it at Haskins Garden Centre, a cunning plan was hatching between two mummies, one of whom was me.

It had all begun when something blue and tassely was kindly popped into a party bag with Chickie’s name on it the day before. He’d had a lovely time at his friend’s birthday party until daddy had whipped out the fringed noisemaker and tooted it in his face. A terror-struck Chick fastened himself to Mummy sobbing. It took half an hour to lever him off.

When I rediscovered the noisemaker the next day, I gave it a whirl, not thinking that the child engrossed in Thomas the Tank Engine Episode 3452 –“The One Where Thomas Cops Another Strop” would be phased by distant gazooing. “CUGGLE, CUGGLE” he shrieked, springing into my arms where he clung, shaking. When he spotted the blue tassels on the worktop, glimmering in the sunlight, he began climbing up my body, hysterical.

When I retold events to my friend ‘M’ later that day she happened to joke what a handy tool such a device would be for disciplinary purposes. “Why, yes it would!” I realised, stroking my double chin menacingly, wondering how best to sterilise it after it had sat stewing in the bin all afternoon.

Recalling the sound of Chickie’s mocking laughter as he’d sat on the naughty step and flashbacking to the time he rammed stones into his mouth defiantly, biting me as I tried to scoop them out, I was spurred on. Yes, this plan was excellent, I liked it a lot.

As soon as I got home, Operation ‘Naughty Noisemaker’ got underway. As I retrieved, scrubbed and buffed my hope for a brighter future, Chickie wandered in to see what all the smug chuckling was about. Eyeing me suspiciously, he caught a glimpse of metallic blue fringe. And that was all it took.

After Chickie had laid on my lap in the foetal position for a good 45 minutes, his small body racked by the occasional sob, I decided we couldn’t afford the counselling fees and the ‘Naughty Noisemaker’, along with all it's promise, was thrown into the bin once more. Chickie watched it go and now drives round the house on his little red car using the recently developed bin-bypass.

Unrelated but, as I can now upload video: take 4 new parents, some babysitters and ....

Windowlene'd Pets and A Baby Called Shrek

The most dramatic thing to happen this week has been the untimely demise of my washing line as it ‘pinged’ into two smaller unusable washing lines under the strain of my 20th load of post-holiday laundry. That, coupled with the packing, preparation and general bad attitude of children and husbands when abroad, has me wondering whether a ‘holiday’ in the true sense of the word [a time or period of exemption from any requirement, duty, assessment] can or will ever be had again.

A recurring soundtrack of washing machine rinse cycles, Chickie’s squeals of general dissatisfaction and Ringo Star’s droning as Thomas gets into yet another debate with Percy about whether blue engines are more useful than green, now accompanies my every move whilst at home or away.

The shroud of cloud that has engulfed England for the last three months is turning me into the granny version of Kate Winslet in Titanic, with pruney hands, a sallow complexion and too many daily sproutings of fresh white hairs to cull. The initial buzz of spending Accountant’s bonus on a new French wardrobe and bike now fading as constant downpours prevent my anticipated jaunts to the local co-op to purchase baguettes, sitting atop my shiny new bike with Le Chickié behind, looking all stripey and continental. Mais non.

It’s not all misery though. A few things have happened that have temporarily lifted my spirits.

My friend Jules has produced a new sproglet. A baby girl named ‘Shrek’ to add to her growing collection of baby girls.

Glam-Nan amused me with an update on a friend’s little boy, one year older and naughtier that Chick who ‘Windowlene'd’ his pet guinea pigs (both alive and well, and with no smears) and then wee’d up his dad’s suit by way of farewell as he left to go to work for the day.

Accountant tried out a new hair-do after repeated requests from friends and family that something should really be done about his very Accountant shaped head. After five minutes blow-drying and an introduction to hair straightener’s, Accountant’s new do was a sight to behold. Unfortunately, he found nothing amusing about the voluminous 3” poker straight Elvis quiff I created. It took five applications of water and lots of tutting to flatten it.

Incidentally, Jules’ new baby isn’t really called ‘Shrek’, it’s really ‘Collette’. Eloise, her big sister (aged 3), came up with a more pronounceable alternative which, personally, I rather like.

P.S. Windowlening furry things is bad, don't do it.

I'll Have the Hamburger Please...

The problem with being confined to a rusty old ferry, bouncing it’s way across the English Channel, is the distinct lack of hiding places on board. Not necessarily an issue for your average foot passenger but it is for me. Why? Because strange people love me, they’re drawn to me like toddlers to milk chocolate buttons.

As my new Belgian acquaintance and her toothless beau scrolled through their full mobile photographic catalogue of Toto, the dead dog, I marvelled at how the simple act of getting up and walking down the corridor in search of a restaurant where food was on plates rather than the floor, had resulted in this bizarre over-familiar exchange. An exchange I could see being as long and choppy as our ride to France.

The sound of ripping Velcro refocused my attention from my ‘Cunning Escape Plan’ to the "Look At My Gruesome Arm Injury” show. As she whipped off the plastic cast that concealed an 8” scar on her forearm, I once again found myself speechless, struggling to find the appropriate words in the face of beloved pets departed and disturbing mutilation.

Our unscheduled trip to France had been a flight of whim and fancy on my part, booking it up the day before after negotiating a rate with the French hostess to her husband’s unmuted background screams of, “NON! NON! Bleu bleu bleu… (something in French, I couldn’t understand, but I imagine along the lines of “NO, NO, zat cheeky English madam, she cannot ‘ave ‘zee money off, NO NO, I will zimply not allow zit!) ”. Thankfully, it would seem women are the same the world over as she overruled him, the rate was agreed and we were on our way to meet ‘zee scary ‘usband’.

As we entered France under the cover of darkness, it was only a matter of minutes before we were lost, repeatedly driving past a man balancing one legged on a 2ft wall, arms outstretched as if negotiating a death defying tightrope without the safety of a net. To be fair, when you’re that drunk, it’s quite an achievement. Each time we passed, he bowed theatrically, seemingly pleased that we appreciated his talent so much, we kept driving back for more. The scenery wasn’t as attractive as I’d hoped, the chateaus and vineyards I’d envisioned replaced by giant sardine cans of industry. Sardine cans, it would transpire later, that were home to shops. Big ones!

When we awoke the next morning, the familiar pitter patter of tiny feet and rain, greeted our ears. An intolerable combination that cast a depressing sepia tone over the next five days. Accountant’s sorrowful face as another day of trawling retail outlets lay before him was almost too much to bear. Thankfully, I’m highly skilled in the art of ignoring him, so shopping recommenced with gusto. When Chickie’s face took on a similar droop and I’d tried on enough pairs of trousers to realise that, in France, I was a size bigger and a foot shorter, I knew the gig was up.

A nice lunch would lift our spirits and give us a chance to rethink activities. Ten minutes on and my spirits were certainly lifting. “I think I’ve ordered a hamburger” said Accountant, having panicked under the waiter’s impatient stare and ordered in haste. One circular portion or raw mince with a raw egg garnish later and Accountant realised a hamburger, it most definitely was not. “What am I going to do?” he whispered, leaning in, keeping lip movement to a minimum so as not to attract attention from the adjoining French table. Discretion being my middle name, I zoomed in with my camera to capture the moment, the flash bulb of my camera, coupled with my laughter, focused two more pairs of neighbouring eyes onto Accountant’s confused little face.

Now under intense scrutiny and needing to act, Accountant moved his hand slowly towards his fork. One lump of raw mince made it’s approach and in it went. Whilst I appreciate that ‘Steak Tartare’ is a delicacy to the cultured, to the e-coli / listeria / cjd / salmonella (delete as applicable) fearing Great British general public, it holds little appeal.

At this point, the French ladies intervened, helpfully pointing out that the egg (raw) and accompanying green stuff needed to be mixed into the mince (raw) before consumption. Personally, I’d have recommended 30 minutes at 190°c before consumption, but who was I to interfere. Thanking them for their input and encouragement, Accountant knew he now had no choice but to eat it all and, bless his heart, he did. The French ladies were very proud of their protégé, assuring him he was now “a big brave man”. The rest of the day was spent monitoring big, brave man’s vital signs to ensure his bacteria cocktail didn’t require treatment with antibiotics.

On our final day, the sun shone, the bucket and spade were removed from their netting and we went to ‘La Plage’. Chickie had a wonderful time throwing sand at mummy and daddy. Mummy had a rotten time removing every grain of sand from absolutely everything. Daddy dug a big hole with a specially purchased ‘big’ spade. Daddy repeatedly told Chickie off for throwing sand back into his special big hole and made a request that pesky, anti-hole Chickie be kept away whilst digging was in progress.

That night, as I went to bed, sand grating my legs despite my shower, I realised that family holidays were going to take a lot more thought in future. Impromptu jaunts, whilst a lovely idea, weren’t going to work anymore. Sproglets and husbands need sand, spades and holes to keep them happy. Mummies need big shopping cans, cappuccinos and sproglets/husbands who love to watch them shop and sip chocolate sprinkled beverages. A problem, you might agree.

The only solution, as pitched to Accountant, is clearly a biannual all expenses paid girlie shopping trip abroad to ensure all ‘family’ holidays focus solely on digging and whatever other means of entertainment two boys and a spade can conjure.

Holiday Blues

A blog is coming. We've just got back from the French version of Milton Keynes so the associated joys of washing, ironing, food shopping, washing, ironing, washing, ironing have suppressed my spirits and availability to produce witty ditties until at least tomorrow. Even then, more ironing awaits.

Shopping With Toddlers - Just Don't!

Remember 'Perfect Poffy'? Well just look at her now.


I listened with interest as Wuce listed Poff's most recent anti-social activities which included terrorising 'Midge' the cat whenever he ventures out from behind the sofa, screaming 'Pat Now!' by way of request that her Postman Pat cd be played at once, turning purple from rage when strapped into her buggy and spending increasing amounts of time practising her Tae Kwun Do moves. Next time Grandma tried to put her down for her afternoon nap, Poff was going to be ready.

As I waited downstairs with Poff and Chickie, whilst Wuce visited strange new floors in the furniture shop, where no buggy had gone before or would be going any time soon, I nurtured Poff's new foraging interest, encouraging her to stick her finger as far up her nose as her nasal cavity would allow. The new naughty Poff was only too happy to oblige and I knew how pleased Wuce would be that her daughter had acquired a brand new skill in the time it had taken her to walk up and down one flight of stairs.

As they were pushed from shop to shop in hot pursuit of the perfect wedding outfit i.e. bottom flattening, belly skimming, boob enlarging, dumpy leg extending, bingo wing camouflaging, skin tone enhancing and tan mark complying, Poff was particularly helpful, shaking her head in disgust at the shocking pink lycra number and remarking "gor-jush" to the skintight stripey red dress, although I had serious reservations largely centred around "skin" and "tight".

Chickie, genetically predisposed to being a retail menace, chose to miss the Flump fashion show, opting instead for a tug of war with a disapproving shop assistant. Five minutes of "let go!" later and the pink velour jumper was finally released from his grubby clutches. Or so I thought, when I turned around a minute later, the pull had recommenced, same jumper, same shop assistant. Chickie conceded when the call of nature distracted him momentarily. The shop assistant scuttled off to escape the fumes, clutching the pink jumper victoriously.

The afternoon flew by in a haze of nappy changes, frantic costume changes, counselling sessions following my entanglement in a medium sized dress, more counselling when the large wasn't as large as I'd hoped. Wuce remained calm as she watched me buggy dash around Zara, throwing anything under £45 on top of my sleeping child. "Is this too black for a wedding? is the cream too cream for my skin tone? is this too short? is this too young? what will go with this? oh dear God, what am I going to wear?".

When the babies woke up from their naps during my third trying on of the "is this too black? dress", those shoppers still awaiting a changing room opted for vacancies farthest away from us rather than venture down the end where a half dressed, stressed out mummy stood with her sobbing baby clinging to her like a tree frog.

It was our cue to leave, empty handed, unless you count the miserable toddler suckered to my side and the guilty burden of having confined him to a buggy all afternoon.