Fancy Fiasco

There are moments in every childhood where your parents unwittingly do something that scars you forever. The 12 August 1984 was when it happened to me and I was eight.
I was invited to a fancy dress party at the Village Hall. Everyone was going to be there including James Grey, the boy I loved. It was a big deal. I gave my mother a specific design brief. Something classy, not too girly (I was a tomboy) and cool. Above all else, it must be cool. Mum looked suitably contemplative as I ruled out dresses, ra ra skirts, ribbons, sequins, catsuits or anything with ears. She didn’t write anything down but assured me she’d work magic.
The big day arrived and my costume was still to be revealed. I imagined myself strutting in as Minnie the Minx, a red and black striped beacon of super cool. James would see me and realise he loved me too. I got my Gnasher badge out ready (available to Beano fan club members only). Or perhaps ‘The Naughtiest Girl in the School’? - I loved her. She was the reason I’d requested to go to boarding school, to which my mother ran out of the room sobbing. I went to Chatsmore when they told me I’d have to wear a straw hat.
Then my mum appeared clutching yellow crepe paper, a stapler and a pair of scissors. I was confused. I couldn’t remember her mentioning any pending craft projects? When she whipped out the tape measure, I realised with a cold, creeping horror that I was the craft project.
What happened in that kitchen that day, and later at the party, has never left me. Why she stapled me into a tissue paper mini skirt and matching tankini I’ll never understand. I still don’t even know what I was supposed to be. She’d had three weeks notice and I know she got housekeeping money, and yet I was sent into a hall with all my polyester clad friends in a yellow tissue bikini.
After five minutes, it became clear that not only had my costume failed on every count of style, it wasn’t winning any durability contests either. Everywhere I went, strands of yellow tissue paper floated in my wake. Before long, there was more on the floor than me. Kindly helpers began to bring over cardigans and blankets as exposed and humiliated, I shook in the corner, waiting to die.
I had to give the blankets back when we left, so walked home through the village in just my shoes, a pair of white pants and a solitary yellow band of yellow crepe paper stapled around my waist. The only suggestion that I’d ever been wearing more.
So mum, fifteen years from now, when it’s the ‘Senior Citizens Fancy Dress Day’ at the retirement home, I’ll be sure to buy a lovely packet of lilac crepe paper just for you! I almost can’t wait.

Hide And Seek

“SSSshhhhh!” I whispered, burrowing into the bush.
“Dadddddddddyyyyyyyyy!” yelled Chickie.
“Be quiet!” I firmly reiterated the rules of hide and seek.
“DAADDDDYYYYYY!”

And that’s when I did it. Much like Moses, Chick was wrapped up (in leaves) and left in the reeds. He’d left me no choice, he’d compromised our position.

Days later, Accountant is still going on about the moment he found Chick, abandoned. When he tells the story to friends and family, he winces, to fully convey his deep regret and shock over the ‘abandonment’.

“It’s not like I left him on a doorstep” I pipe up. Everyone looks at me as if I did.
“We were in my parent’s garden not a National Park. I was only on the other side of the bush!” Glances are exchanged.
“He knew the rules and I asked him to be quiet” I grumble as I get up and leave the grand jury to their deliberations.

It wasn’t fair. Being partnered with a two year old is much the same as being painted fluorescent pink and having a siren stuck to your head and then being told to ‘hide’. Whilst the rest of the family were all neatly tucked under tree roots and wheelbarrows, I was left running around in circles, wondering whether scaling a tree with Chickie hanging from my neck was viable?

With time running out, and Chickie unwilling to even try to climb onto the shed roof, I panicked and ended up cowering behind a bush. Feeling exposed (not helped by Chickie’s, “We’re over here!”), I buckled. The coveted title of “Best Hider” could NOT go to my sister for a second year. It was to be mine. I just had to ditch the toddler.

The fact Accountant found me sprinting away just seconds after locating Chickie didn’t really make all the scandal worth it. Once the gig was up, I started towards the sofa to watch ‘The Chipmunks’ but a little hand grabbed mine. The toddler was back, this time in ‘seek’ mode. I hoped it was better than his ‘hide’ mode.

We ventured into the undergrowth to excavate my sister and nephews. The nephews were easy but my sister taunted us for over an hour from wherever she was. She still won’t say. Every so often a ‘hurry up’ would be heard and we’d all go running towards the voice but no one was ever found.

I suggested that, since it was nearly dark, we should all go and have a nice cup of tea. “Leave the ‘best hider’ in the bushes, she’ll come out eventually!” I shouted, knowing she was listening from somewhere poky and heavily populated by spiders.

Accountant looked at me as if he’d never seen me before, horrified that I’d so readily give up both my son and sister when the going had got noisy or boring.

I bid him ‘toodle pip’ as I left them all to seek out chocolate biscuits instead.

Who's The Mummy!

It could be that Chickie’s finally grasped that I’m the one who dispenses all the jelly babies, but I’m in favour. He’s declared me ‘favourite primary care giver’ and pushed daddy out of our bed with his feet, curling up like a hedgehog in the warm trench left behind. He then suggested to daddy, sat on the floor, that he might like to try the toddler bed in the other room.

Accountant, unused to being as unpopular as me, looked up at him like an unwanted puppy. Seizing the opportunity to capitalise on such a cruel and physical rejection, I asked Chickie who he liked best.

“Mummy” he trilled, looking up at me adoringly.
“You’ve chosen wisely, grasshopper. Let’s get Daddy to get you a jelly baby!”
“Yeah!” His expectant face turned to Accountant, who scowled back.
“Get it Daddy” encouraged Chickie when Daddy didn’t spring to his feet.
“Daddy’s rubbish. Mummy would have got you three by now!”
“Yes Daddy. Get move on”. Chickie’s conversational skills were blossoming. Daddy trudged off all huffy and puffy.
“Smashing” declared Chickie in a Bolton accent, on receiving the goods.
“Smashing?” Accountant’s face crumpled in bewilderment.

Whilst I knew why Chickie was doing Peter Kay impressions, I didn’t really want to tell Accountant that it was from Roary the Racing Car. Nor did I want to mention why he could now pronounce, “Madagascar” perfectly, or how he could fully explain the pollination process thanks to Bee Movie.

It had all started so innocently. He was ill and I found Shrek in the cupboard. It soothed him. As we snuggled under the blanket together we suddenly realised we shared a deep, unbreakable bond that would connect us forever. We both LOVED snuggling under blankets and watching telly.

When he started getting better, we still had Garfield and The Chipmunks to watch and we didn’t want to miss those. As days turned into weeks, Chickie became reluctant to do anything that didn’t involve one of his new computer-animated friends. I’d created a monster - one that was quiet for hours and worshipped me. The old monster spat my name from his lips and was as soothing to my nerves as a root canal. Finally an effective parenting tool, after pouring through all those heavyweight manuals (not one of which ever mentioned the astonishing results of television addiction).

But when Chickie’s skin turned a reclusive shade of beige and he started to refuse to go out unless his dvd box could come too, I knew our blissful fortnight as couch potatoes must end. So Chickie’s in rehab and we’re back to mood swings, temper tantrums and an unwillingness to co-operate.

But, on second thoughts, what good is fresh air and an ability to interact in society if you don’t know the names of all the Mister Men?

Nothing But Worry

“No binge drinking, dancing with girls/near girls, or swearing and don’t forget your inhaler, which you shouldn’t need because you’re not to smoke or get over-excited” I said. “Run from fights. Don’t get stabbed. No motorbikes. And stay away from Peanut!” Accountant’s best friend and a social menace.

Accountant nodded, edging towards the door. “You’ve packed your inhaler?” He held it up. “Anti-histamines? Savlon? Imodium?” Accountant had inched his way onto the doorstep.

He kissed my cheek before telling me not to worry, and then was gone. We watched him skip down the road.
“What about your eye mask and ear plugs?” I hollered down the empty street.
“Where’s daddy gone?”
“On a stag weekend. Which, by the way, you’re never allowed to do” I replied, stroking Chick’s hair. He felt very hot.

If temperature goes over 39 degrees or remains above normal for more than two days SEEK MEDICAL ADVICE. I re-read the box. Did that mean his temperature had to be over 39 degrees for two days or just over 39 degrees? I hated maths and thermometer boxes. That’s why I married an Accountant. An Accountant who pretended I was a wrong number when I phoned him at work to ask how to work out a percentage, whether 4000 x 0 was 4000 or 0 and, if I folded something smaller, would it weigh less in my suitcase?

A 39.9 degree Chickie whined feebly as I grappled with the logic. I patted him with a cold flannel, sending him into orbit with outrage. As he writhed, I read again. Why was SEEK MEDICAL ADVICE in capitals? I panicked. No wonder my poor baby was screaming – he was so ill he was UPPER CASE. I rang the doctor who was all lower case. Chickie was to be stripped, monitored and medicated.

5ml. Up to 4 times a day. Don’t give more than 4 doses in 24 hours. Don’t give for more than 3 days. That was the Calpol but the Nurofen was different. My head span. Different doses, different 24 hour thing, no more than 3 days. The numbers and letters jumbled in front of my eyes. It was like High School algebra all over again. A + B = C. Where did all the numbers go? Why are there letters in my maths? I asked my teacher who subsequently lowered my predicted grade from a B to a C. Added together did that make an A?

For the next few days, Chickie’s temperature bopped around like a Tellytubby. His father, clubbing in Edinburgh, did the same. On Day 3, the doctor was consulted as per the Calpol instructions. When he went all clammy, the Doctor listened graciously to my concerns about cholera contracted from the fountain in France.

Once Accountant returned in one portly piece and Chickie descended to a toasty 36.6 degrees, I finally relaxed.

Happy Chick + Happy Daddy = Happy Mummy.

Oh La La

The scene was practically perfect. I stopped my bike and watched as the swans glided past on the river. Butterflies waltzed around the wild poppies and the long feathery leaves of the willow trees swished on the gentle summer breeze.

All until a piercing scream cut through the valley, alerting me, the fishermen down river and all local wildlife that Chickie had caught up on the back of daddy’s bike. I ignored his dramatic entrance, allowing the mellow setting to soften my parenting style. “Are you enjoying your cycle ride?”

Chickie’s expression reminded me of one of those unsavoury characters from middle earth in Lord of the Rings, just moments away from gouging out the eyes of some nice little hobbit.

“I WANT MY DUM DUM NOW!” More birds flew the nest as news of Chickie’s arrival at the lakeside got round.

I tried a more educational approach. “Look at the buzzy bees”. I pointed to the only creatures remaining in the area.

“DUM DUM NOW!”

This wasn’t the touching family day out I’d planned. Inspired by the Loire Tourist Board brochure, featuring a wholesome family all smiling happily under their cycling helmets, it had all seemed so achievable. One daddy, one mummy, one toddler, two velos and voila.

“Be kind sweetheart”.
“No chance” came the reply.
Accountant, wholly responsible for the introduction of ‘no chance’ to Chickie’s vocabulary, amongst other choice phrases that shall remain unwritten and, please God, unspoken, smirked at the floor.
“I think I need a holiday” I whined, massaging my temples.
“We’re on holiday!” replied Accountant.

This was no holiday. At least, it was nothing like the one I’d enjoyed three weeks ago. I was clearly being punished.

In the car on the way home, I wondered what all those French mummies had done to get all their petit filous scented children to bid us ‘Bonjour’ as they’d all trotted past earlier in a neat little row. All perfectly presented, not a smudge on one of them - and all so horribly polite.

I viewed Chickie via the safety of the wing mirror. Finally unconscious and sporting a fine film of filth from running off to wedge himself inside a tractor wheel, he wasn’t looking very French.

The next day ended with a soggy Chickie who’d sampled every puddle and attempted to climb into the village fountain, topped off with a thick application of strawberry ice cream from eyebrows to trousers.

Whilst, admittedly, some days I long for a clean child that will consider at least one of my suggestions, how vibrant the memories of this particular childhood will be. And in forty years time, I know I’ll be smiling as I look back at the photos of my mischievous little boy, beautiful and exuberant, enjoying his holiday in France.

Chickie's Sleepover

“He’s 2. He doesn’t even know what a sleepover is!”
“It’ll be fun. Go on, he’ll love having Bella to stay” replied Accountant.

Accountant and son gave me their best “you’re no fun, but here’s your chance to redeem yourself” faces.

I asked what I thought was a sensible question. “Why would we want to borrow more children when we still can’t work the one we’ve got?”

Four big, imploring eyes stared at my bewildered face. Was I being dull or was I right to be wary of Accountant’s latest great idea? I cast my mind back to his previous strokes of genius.

1. “Let’s go to St Ives for the weekend”. A round trip that took longer than the holiday itself.

2. “Let’s go camping”. A night of sheer misery.

3. “Let’s have a baby!” A lifetime of sheer ....bliss. Bliss!

I asked another sensible question. “Won’t she get upset and wonder where her mummy is?”

“She’ll be fine. Plus, I’ll be there to help!” His enthusiasm was touching.

That weekend, I sat rocking a puce little girl who, between those high drama moments when you wonder whether they’re actually ever going to breathe again, managed to wail, “I...sob....sob..... WANT ...deep quivery breath.....MY ...face contorts to expression of deep sorrow...MUMMMMMYYYYYY!!....”

Had Accountant actually been in the house, this would have been precisely the moment I would have hunted him down and hurt him, lots. However, he was a whole postcode away, swigging beer and watching football whilst I enjoyed the upbeat mood of the little ones in my care. I’d get him later.

Much ssshhing and hair stroking later and Bella was tucked up neatly in her Barbie Princess blow up bed next to Chickie. Stories were read, promises were made by two little people who vowed to go straight to sleep. I tippy toed out of the room thinking how adorable they were - all giggly and snugly.

By 9pm, I was finding them less adorable. Chickie was bouncing on Barbie’s head whilst Bella had reached a dizzying height of frenzy. I pictured Accountant far, far away, wishing I hadn’t been forced to look cool in front of his friend who could see no reason why Accountant couldn’t come out to play. Surely I could cope with two little toddlers on my own, couldn’t I?

No, no I couldn’t. “Please go to sleep. PLEASE? Mummy’s tired. I’ve been up here 432 times in two hours.”
“I need a wee wee” said Chickie the merciless.
“Yes, so do I” chirped in Bella.
No sooner were the necessaries done.
“I need a wee wee!”
“Yes, so do I”
“You’ve just been. Go to sleep”.
“Wee Wees!”
“Yes, wee wees!”
“GO TO SLEEP!”
“No!”
“Yes, No!”

When Accountant returned home at midnight to find one snoring mummy and two toddlers all squeezed into one Barbie Princess inflatable bed, he knew he was in trouble.

A New Chick In Town

There are some people you should never shop with.

1. My mother, who says things like, “Do you really need it?” Who cares? I really want it and that’s what matters.

2. My husband, “Why spend hundreds on tasteful garden furniture when that yellow plastic set over there costs just £9.99? And it comes with a free terracotta fringed parasol and avocado seat pads”.

3. And me. “Go on, buy it! Who cares about the mortgage? That’s why God invented overdrafts!”

“God didn’t invent overdrafts.” My friend was sure on this point. She’d worked in a bank.
“Whatever. They’re divine and it would be sacrilege not to use them!” I wafted the gorgeous red bag under her nose, recognising the wanton glimmer in her eyes. She was wavering and just needed a helpful nudge. Her future happiness depended on it. “It can be your break-up bag.” She reached out tentatively and stroked it.

“I deserve a break-up bag” she whispered.
“Yes, you do. It’s an essential part of the healing process.” Modelling it for her, I tried not to get too attached as whiffs of fine leather tantalised my nostrils.

I demonstrated its many features. “It’s fully lined, with mobile phone holder, inner pocket and matching mirror.”
“Ooh, look at the mirror” she cooed with big, round eyes.
In her trance like state, it was easy to discreetly ditch her tartan flannel satchel and replace it with the real handbag.
“See how it transforms your outfit” I said, repositioning her in front of the mirror.
She nodded, dumbfounded. She was like a chick that had just peeked out of the nest. Teetering on shaky legs, on the cusp of a new world she’d never known. Fortunately, I was there to direct her straight from the treetops and into the shops.
“This white one would look fabulous too”. I swiftly installed it on her shoulder.
“I didn’t think I liked white handbags but now I think I might” she said with reverence.

It had taken eight years, but I felt we might just be on the brink of a retail revolution.

“And we could straighten your hair and put it in a tousled side bun”. I demonstrated as I spoke. She was glazed from the information overload. A classic tomboy with no sisters - I had so much to teach her.

That night, coiffed to within an inch of her life, and 6ft in her heels, the promenade was her catwalk. She was like Pretty Woman, when she gets the credit card and I was Barney, the one who encouraged the spending.

However, by the end of the week, Glamour Chick was higher maintenance than the Chick I’d left at home. Chirping at 7am each morning for her feathers to be de-frizzed and unable to grasp the most basic of grooming theory, I felt it was time for a chat.

“I’ve been thinking, I actually really like your hair curly!”

Practically Horizontal...

What are good friends for if not to point out when you’re being completely delusional?

I didn’t realise there were any personality flaws left that hadn’t already been brilliantly and publically illuminated upon my grand entrance to motherhood. Patience? Didn’t have as much of that as I’d hoped. Tolerance – no, none of that either. Selflessness – it’s a daily struggle. Materialism – I just like pretty things, preferably luxury goods, purchased in bulk.

But there was one redeeming quality I still possessed. My laid back attitude to life.
“Where shall we eat?” my friend asked as we tottered precariously over the cobbled streets of Bellagio.
“I don’t mind” I replied. “I’m laid back”.
“No you’re not!” she laughed, scanning my face for signs it was all a big joke.
“I am too!” I exclaimed, outraged.
“Name one thing you’re laid back about!”
I took a moment. “Excess baggage charges” I replied triumphantly. I’d hardly batted an eyelid when slapped with a £35 charge and a ‘heavy’ label for my bulging suitcase.
“That doesn’t count! What about the fact you were praying in tongues on the flight and went to the loo six times? ”
“Aeroplanes are unnatural” I responded, cursing as one of my heels got caught in a drain. “And I have a sensitive stomach”. I clung to her arm whilst bending down to yank at my most recent purchase currently being mauled by one of the most impractical walking surfaces I’d ever encountered. I muttered under my breath –“stupid place for a drain...cobbles...rubbish...haven’t they heard of tarmac?”
“You were like it on the ferry too!” her voice badgered me from above, unwilling to let the debate slide.
“Same principle. The science is all wrong. Big, heavy items, constructed of metal, are not suited to floating.”

With an almighty effort, my shoe came free. I spent the next five minutes mourning the savage attack of my innocent shoe and ranting about suing the Mayor and the Town Planners office.

“What about that guy you had a go at for pushing in the queue!” She was back again, like a mosquito desperate for blood.
“He had it coming “. Appearing from nowhere and sidling up to us as if he were a long lost friend after we’d been queuing for check-in for an hour, was a mistake on his part. I merely pointed this out to him, and the people behind us. They told the people behind them, who told the people behind them. There was a ripple of applause as he skulked to the back of the queue, with his little wheelie case between his legs. I smiled all the way home (between toilet visits).

“And the fact you left your husband a 20 page typed and bound manual entitled ‘Housewifery for Morons’?”

I looked at her calmly before saying. “You can cite examples all day, my dear friend, but I don’t care because I’m sooooo laid back!”

It'll Be Fun! (Not if I have anything to do with it!)

We’ve got to check out Disco RanDan!” my friend’s voice squeaked with excitement.
“We do?” I hated the sound of it. ‘Disco’, ‘Ran’ and ‘Dan’ all sounded horrid.
“It’s only 200m from our hotel”.
“How convenient” I mumbled, wishing I hadn’t given her the website address of our hotel in Italy.

I hate clubbing. When all my friends were out bopping away years ago, I could be found on my sofa, scoffing egg foo yung, eagerly memorising all the items passing by on the Generation Game conveyor belt. Truthfully, I’ve been ready for middle age since I was about ten.

My friends tried hard to squeeze me into lycra and onto the dance floor but the fact I was prone to nodding off amidst all the snogging, still wearing my duffle coat, made me something of a party pooper. My love of comfortable shoes and warm clothes coupled with strict views on noise levels and reasonable toilet waiting times soon found me reunited with Brucey.

“We’re going” my friend said. “It’ll be fun”. I groaned inwardly and then outwardly before looking up to find myself caught in her most serious ‘single woman’ glare. Telling me, without words, that her future husband could be just a RanDan away and I, all selfishly betrothed, was not to stand in the way of continental romance.

I nodded in resignation, picturing the passive smoke clogging my bronchial tubes whilst cheesy Euro pop ravaged my ears and left me humming ‘Macarena’ for weeks. But it was a price I would have to pay. This was my friend who, despite everything I had shared with her about marriage, still insisted she wanted a man.

Having been to Italy before, I researched some useful phrases. ‘Vada prego via (Go away). I underlined it. ‘Penso che sia ora di partire’( I’m afraid we’ve got to leave now). I highlighted it in pink.

Now for clothing. Were velour tracksuits hip in Clubland? Probably not. I reached into the depths of the wardrobe, returning with an oldie but a goodie. Yes, the serious perfunctory blandness of my little black dress made it perfect. It said, ’I am no fun’. ‘No fun at all’.

One week later, I did an excellent impression of a girl disappointed when informed that RanDan had closed down. My friend’s lip drooped further when I pointed out we could now get in an excellent night’s reading.

After repacking the dress, I lay in my bunk feeling slightly sorry that she was in her No-Fun-pyjamas by 9.30pm. “We could try and find George Clooney’s villa tomorrow?” I suggested.

It worked wonders. Her book was launched across the room, instantly replaced by maps and a compass. I rechecked my phrase book, suspecting that tomorrow would require a new approach. George, sei stupendo – George, you look great. George, ecco il mio numero. George, here’ my number. George, posso baciarti...

Yes, I know he’s American but when in Lake Como!

Little Miss Wincyette

Stood in front of me in the queue at Costa’s was gorgeous girl. Teetering on fabulously high heels, wearing dry clean only fabrics and organising social engagements on her mobile, minus the toddler screaming, "Chickie talk to Nanna" "CHICKIE TALK TO NANNA!". I admit it, I was jealous.

I knew I was being shallow - a shameful state when you're a mother, but, at that moment, I wanted a Furla handbag stuffed with dosh instead of a potty in a plastic bag, I wanted to be wearing perfume instead of Vanish spray and I wanted to be 6 inches taller and 10 years younger. When life still had to reveal who I'd love, what I'd achieve and whether I might have a daughter or a son. It was all there waiting to unravel.

Whilst I hoped all the exciting events of my life weren't behind me, it did feel a bit like the best ones were taken. First kisses were gone, the wedding day done and the sproglet duly extracted.

I watched Chickie stir my cappucino with his finger. Gorgeous girl was accompanied by gorgeous boy and she sat twiddling her chestnut hair, fluttering her long black lashes. I raised a hand to my own eyelashes, stumpy and curled to within a millimetre of their life since the age of 12. I disliked her even more.

Chickie had begun lapping at the froth of my cappucino like a stray cat. Catching my glare, he bolted. Fifteen laps of Costas later and my spirits and eyelashes were drooping. Gorgeous girl never became unseated and her eyelashes were almost touching her eyebrows.

My best friend called me that evening. She’d let her boyfriend go. Commitment phobic and eating into her fertile years, she'd finally kicked him to the kerb.

"I know it sucks now, but, just think, it's all ahead of you" I enthused to her sobs, picturing how exciting her life would be.
"I'm so tired of this. I just want to settle down".
"But you're free. You can go on fabulous holidays, have fun, do whatever you want"
"I want to get married and have babies" she wailed.
"Are you sure? There's snot, lots of it. Not to mention ridiculous amounts of laundry, over familiarity and poverty to consider"
"I don't care. I don't want to be on my own anymore. I want to share my life with someone".
"You've got your budgies" I offered.
More crying.
As I nestled on Accountant’s chest that bedtime, he told me that my Velcro hair rollers were itchy and enquired as to their purpose.

“Volume” I told him, without mentioning it was part of my ‘revamp’, inspired by Little Miss Lashes.
“You look sweet”.
“Really?”
“Yes. Even sweeter than normal”.

My vintage love. Perhaps not as exciting as when it first fluttered, but as snug and cosy as the pink slipper socks and winceyette pyjamas I was wearing.

My Little Holiday

It turns out Chickie hadn’t given me chicken pox after all. My bountiful spots were just an allergic reaction to the thought of having chicken pox. I therefore remained hopeful enough to forcefully request Accountant stay home and tend to Chickie instead of going cycling in Wales as he’d planned.

Leaving Accountant holding a spotty yet otherwise unfazed baby, I sped off to B&Q to buy provisions. Although tempted, I decided that the full body suit could be seen as excessive, so opted for heavy duty vinyl gloves and a dust mask with contoured nose bridge. I drove home feeling my chances for a healthy future were significantly improved.

It proved quite tricky getting into my face mask and rubber gloves on the doorstep without the neighbours seeing. Trickier still to get from the front door to my bedroom without breathing. Plus the mask was uncomfortable and messed up my hair. In the end I went out after sealing off the bedroom with masking tape.

Whilst slurping my French Onion soup and reading the paper, my mobile rang. It was Accountant.
“Where are you?”
“Cafe Rouge”. I answered, feeling a twinge of guilt.
“Enjoying yourself?” I was rather but felt it best not to mention it. “No, I’m sat all alone and I’m missing you so much” I said, trying to sound genuine.

The next day, I was in Zara, loaded up like a shopaholic mule with a delicious assortment of belts, bags and other essentials, when the mobile rang.
“Where?” said the despondent voice of my housebound husband.
“Oh, just in Brighton.”
“You’re not buying anything are you?”
“No”. Well, it wasn’t technically buying when it was already bought.

Day 3.
“Where?”
“I can’t talk now Sweetheart, I’m under the dryer!”

Cruising home with the windows down, bopping along to Rhythm is a Dancer, intermittently checking out my new highlights in the rearview mirror, I felt twenty two again. I looked over at the passenger seat and placed a loving hand on my shopping bags letting happy little endorphins whiz around my body.

The next day, the mood changed. Chick was no longer amused by his circumstances, nor was Daddy and nor was I. I missed my family. The husband who gave up his holiday for me. The big spotty baby. I rang downstairs from upstairs.

“Love you Sweetheart” I said when Accountant answered.
“Who is this?”
“It’s me!”
“I’m not bringing you any more cups of tea”. I let his cynicism slide.

One week later, with Chickie nicely scabbed over, I resumed my housewifey endeavours with renewed vigour. I even baked cup cakes.

Whilst Accountant sat eating them, I thought it a prudent time to point out the morale boosting benefits of my three day shopathon. However, as fluffy as the cupcakes were, my motion was denied.

The Chickie Pox

Chickie was thrilled this morning to see his mummy dressed as a Ninja in a black hood and mask.


Having suspected his suspicious rash from the day before might be thinking about being chicken pox, I was taking no chances. My Italian girlie holiday was just a 21 day incubation period away. Without a anti-contamination suit handy, I got creative, fashioning a balaclava out of a pair of knickers. Accountant peered at me from underneath his eye mask as I crept out of the bedroom wearing my new frilly high leg hat. He let out a snort before turning over to resume his snooze, uncaring that this might be the day I’d been dreading my whole adult life.

Wearing woolly gloves and, using extreme caution, I lifted Chickie’s pyjama top. “Baddies” confirmed Chickie excitedly as I scowled at the sinister gathering of red spots scattered across his torso. I retreated slowly.

“Chickie’s got chicken pox” I informed the back of Accountant’s grunting head.
“Chickie pox?” he drooled into his pillow.
“This isn’t funny. I haven’t had it”. Or at least I didn’t think I had.
“You’ve had glandular fever. Oh, and whooping cough” said my mother.
“Yes but what about chicken pox?”
“Ohhhh, I don’t know?”
“How can you not know? Everyone knows whether they’ve had chicken pox?”
“Well, you’ve definitely had glandular fever and your father had scarlet fever and double quinsies”.

It seemed no one was taking this seriously. The pox at my age were no laughing matter if the images on Google were to be believed. Not to mention that flesh eating scabs were not considered lakeside chic.

“Would you mind if I moved out this week?” I mumbled through my pants to a sleeping Accountant whilst Chickie counted his dots. “That was the Emergency Plan in the event of an outbreak”.
Ever the forward planner, I had considered this scenario and remembered Accountant vaguely nodding along to my suggestion that, in the event our child contracted any infectious disease to which my immunity wasn’t guaranteed, a quarantine period would apply.
“2, 8, 7, 3”, said Chickie poking his finger into each of his new blotches in turn.

Resigned to the fact I wasn’t going away, Accountant turned toward me. Accepting of my eccentricities concerning preventative health measures, he made no comment about my homemade face mask. “You’ve probably already got it. You’ve been with him all week” he said reassuringly.

I thought back, reliving the moment Chickie sneezed into my beef sandwich and when he’d tenderly kissed the end of my nose. A heart warming gesture I’d thought at the time but, no, just the point of entry for his infected airborne respiratory droplets.

Some days later, I sat counting my very own batch of Chickie pox. “145, 146, 147...”. I sighed, wondering if God had chuckled to himself when I’d bought a polka dot swimming cossie in anticipation of my holiday.

Not So Magic

Recently, whilst watching the Gardening channel, I began wondering what it was about Alan Titchmarsh that was so appealing. Was it his soft Yorkshire accent, the way he filled his wellies or how tenderly he handled the delphiniums in his care? I couldn’t tell. I flicked over to the Hallmark Channel to see if there were any cheesy Canadian straight-to-TV films on. Disappointed and not in the mood for spending my time productively or like an Under 50, I trawled the channels, finally landing on ‘How to Look Good Naked’.

It left me with a burning question that needed answering. Can any woman really live happily ever after if, behind her glamourous new facade, she’s secretly been compressed into a punishing polyester/elastane mix body suit with out so much as an air hole? Wouldn’t she feel like a fraud – knowing that beneath that washboard stomach and super pert bottom was a suffocating weeble desperate to get out? Wouldn’t she always worry about that unexpected gust of wind that sends her skirt flying around her ears and publically outs her Spanx flesh coloured power panties? And how good for your internal organs can it really be?

In the name of research, I decided to find out.

One ‘Better Bum Control’ expense claim later and I had the perfect occasion to trial my new ‘wonderwear’. A wedding.

At 7am, I tucked flabby tum tums into the ultra snug pants and, for security reasons, wore two vests that got tucked in too. Underneath, a padded bra, for propping and inflation. And finally, a pair of tights, pulled up to my armpits. Et voila. The foundations of my new fake body were built.

The chafing began at midday, a numb right bottom cheek followed at 3pm and complete loss of circulation in both legs at 8pm. Toilet visits took ages as the unpeeling, untucking, repeeling and retucking ritual left me considering flushing the lot down the loo. It was only the thought of the astonished gasps of my fellow guests as I returned to the table one stone heavier that stopped me.

Dancing was out of the question with such a strong chance of severing a leg, plus I was dizzy from all the shallow breathing. I longed for a deep breath but the pants forbade it.
Tired and bleeding, I hobbled back to the car where, under the cover of darkness, I spent ten minutes negotiating my release from my elasticated nightmare. It was with gratitude that I received the feeling back into my legs and my lower respiratory tract began to function again.

So, whilst magic knickers may flatten out those lumps and bumps, proceed with caution. Or, even better, let’s love our lumps – we’ve all got them after all! Let’s embrace our mummy tummies, use the damned pants to clean the windows and all enjoy a wobble around the dance floor together with a full oxygen supply!

Laid Back Mummy

I’ve become disenchanted with housewifery. Specifically, the maintenance of the house, husband and toddler part.

My days are whiled away mopping up substances not meant for home furnishings, trawling round supermarkets whilst Chickie clobbers me with whatever he considers will cause the most pain from the trolley and ironing clothes so they’ll look their best when thrown on the floor. All of which prevents me from fully engaging in more enjoyable activities, such as shopping, reading and eating out.

Stuck in a rut and in need of a plan to inject some excitement into Groundhog Day, I secretly remortgaged the house and booked a one way flight to Rio. Okay, not really. Instead, I pondered my predicament whilst standing at the end of my road watching a cement mixer go round and round whilst Chickie pointed out the 136 litre drum capacity and patented mix and tip design. Three builders looked back at the gleeful toddler doing his excited little penguin dance and the glazed mummy who they all thought fancied them. The Refuse Collectors also cast me sorry glances as, every week, I wait outside (with Chickie!) to bid them good morning and wave at the driver of the truck as he crawls past.

Yes, it was definitely time for a lifestyle review. But first I had to deal with the time consuming and inconvenient problem of domestic responsibilities. It proved easier than anticipated. I stopped ironing altogether and adopted a new approach to housework. I called it, “The Speed Clean”. You dust only when others are due round and then, only the bits from their eye line down. Then, invigorated by three Red Bulls and two big bags of Skittles, you do it really, really quickly – shaving three hours off of the weekly dust.

Next I rescheduled supermarket shopping to the evening. Genius on three counts. One, Chickie can’t attack me when he’s at home asleep. Two, Tesco’s half empty so it’s twice as fast. Three, I get to go out after 6pm!

That just left my small, but time thirsty, companion. He turned round, on cue, his “I’ve just been naughty” face set to “extremely naughty”. His lips and nostrils sported a heavy layering of sand and bark and his eyes sparkled with anticipation as he waited for the fireworks.

And that’s when the brainwave hit. If my calculations were correct, I could save a whopping 70 hours a week by disregarding discipline altogether. Round trips to the naughty step alone took up 3 hours a day, tongue scraping a further 30 minutes, not to mention the endless negotiations and blackmail necessary to ‘motivate’ my poppet to comply with any of my suggestions.
Chickie, perplexed by my lack of interest, began filling his pants with sand.

I lay back in my deck chair, opened my magazine and took a long sip of lemonade, surprised how easy it was to be a Laidback Mummy after all.

All Sewn Up

It’s amazing what you can come to consider as normal because you’ve grown accustomed to it.
A husband snoring by your side sporting a lime green eye mask with ‘Sleep Tight’ printed seductively across the front in a girly font. A Nanna pretending to be a Smash Robot, jerking around the lounge in pursuit of potatoes for peeling (Chickie’s the potato). Or even your child nestling down to snoozies with three pairs of socks on each hand and a t-shirt with the sleeves sewn up.

Fortunately, I have a sister who monitors the family closely to nip any disturbing new trends in the bud. In my defence, and this is exactly what I’ll tell Social Services, my child’s homemade straight jacket was fashioned out of necessity and, I like to think, an element of cunning.

My research proves that it’s very hard for a child who pulls his hair to do so when wearing his entire sock drawer on his hands. Even harder when the sleeves are sewn up too. And so the ritual began. I rather liked it. Chickie averted an incoming comb-over and the socks were proving excellent value for money.

My sister wasn’t so keen. “What if he gets attached to the socks?”
“He doesn’t care about the socks”
“But he might think he can’t go to sleep without them?”
“He has no interest in the socks” I reiterated.
“What if he develops a sock fixation?”
“Isn’t it better than a hair pulling fixation?”
“I don’t like the socks”

Months passed with my sister not liking the socks. She recruited mum to her cause. A weekly enquiry would be made as to whether they were still in circulation and disapproving grunts made upon confirmation. Renewed hair growth and Chickie’s complete disinterest in his alternative nightwear did nothing to reassure them. The tuts got louder until the day my sister presented her findings following her extensive research into compulsive hair pulling, or Trichotilomania, as it’s known officially.

Whilst the prognosis for younger children was encouraging and likely linked to habit, it was a habit that needed breaking. My sister closed with her recommendation.

The following morning, Chickie sat statue still in the Barber’s chair whilst I ordered a Number One all over. The Barber raised his Number Five eyebrow. “It’ll look quite severe” he warned. I nodded gravely before giving the order to proceed.

Ten minutes later, a fuzzy Chick checked out his new do, stroking a curious hand over his bristles. He attempted a small tug but, being male, soon lost interest when it became clear pulling it would now require effort.

Sister was thrilled to hear that Chickie went to sleep that night a free man, all ten digits released into the evening air thanks to her relentless campaigning.

Now freed up for other projects, it seemed an excellent time to mention Accountant’s worrying new attachment to a ladies eye mask.

So ‘Sleep Tight’ Sweetheart, while you still can!

What's Up With Chickie?

Motherhood is a common phenomenon with lots of women producing at least one child at some point. A portion of these women will go on to appoint themselves expert child psychologists. Even some with no parenting experience will find something helpful to add.

New mummies to the market are particularly vulnerable. Thrust into a chaotic Sudacrem scented haze, they’re confused and highly absorbent. Even 2½ years into my house arrest, I remain bewildered. The passing of time serving only to dish up fresh challenges at precisely the moment I think I’ve got it sorted.

Last week’s internet searches focused on summer getaways, swimwear suggestions for the pear-shaped and seasonal accessories. My most pressing concern, whether the tummy control panel in the new knickers I’d just ordered, could really pass me off as having stomach muscles.

This week, hair pulling, separation anxiety and sleep apnea were gingerly typed into the computer by someone who promised her G.P. and family that she’d never Google symptoms ever again.

Chickie, sensing mummy’s attention wandering, began the transfer of mud from pot plant to carpet. Finally turning from the laptop to find Chickie standing atop his new indoor flower bed, I felt too sorry for him to be angry. According to on-line experts, I’d been right to be worried.

I phoned my sister. “It’s just a phase”. I felt better.
I phoned my mother. “You do cuddle him a lot and I’m sure he could still use a nap”
I spoke to friends. “Perhaps he’s on the cusp of a developmental leap? Or his blood sugar levels have dropped?”

More followed. “Has something happened?”
“Nope. Everything’s exactly the same”.
“He could be under-stimulated, do you play with him enough?”
“Does he have enough independent play without you?”
“He’s over-tired”
“Try a swimming cap?”
“Perhaps he went to a big bed too soon?
“Too much chocolate?”
“Dehydration?”
“Demonic possession?”

Then came the article. ‘Successful Parenting’. Reading about mothers neatly categorised into Tuned-in, Sorted and Laid-Back– I hated them all. No mention that laid-back mummy, whilst chilled and trusting of her child’s judgment, sits back mutely whilst her free range poppet destroys property, freely attacks others and uses smaller children as trampolines.

I devised my own category. “Uptight Mummy”. I had 2,986 potential triggers to deliberate before I could become “Tuned In Mummy” and instinctively understand all the reasons behind my child’s behaviour.

Whilst considering the merits of Trigger No. 1823, ‘Overuse of the naughty step’, I made a decision, all by myself.

If I’d considered the obvious and still didn’t know why my child had suddenly decided to vacpac himself to my leg, then no one else was likely to know either. It was time to have confidence in my own judgment. I was ‘Uptight Mummy’ after all. Besides, I really liked my sister’s suggestion. Trigger No. 1. “It’s probably just a phase”.

The Worm's Turned

If there’s one thing guaranteed to upset the smooth running of my marriage, it’s the undertaking of a joint DIY project.

After the IKEA flat packing incident of 2004, where things were said that can never be forgotten, all manual endeavours have been lovingly redirected towards my father. As much as I know he enjoys the scale and range of DIY challenges presented, I’ve noticed my mother isn’t particularly supportive as she rants bitterly about the outstanding jobs in their own home. Plus, an increased interest in golf has caused service levels to drop and it can sometimes feel a bit mean eating Custard Creams at the base of the ladder whilst the senior citizen at the top sways perilously in the breeze.

So, this week, I ignored my better judgement and appointed Accountant as my labourer, to assist in the makeover of our front garden. To avoid arguments, I reiterated that I was Project Leader and he was to do what I said. He looked at me with the same sad eyes as when I’d informed him his holiday was to be usefully applied to hard labour. I handed him his spade.

As I managed his days sawing out thick tree roots, digging trenches and lugging heavy bags of gravel, I took to the serious work of designing my new feature garden. As tiring as the internet research was, I devised a perfect plan.

Chickie, entranced by all the mud, followed daddy round with his little wheelbarrow, helpfully collecting all the snails and worms who had lost their homes and relocating them to a happier place. Well, most of them - apart from the ones he ate. But even Chickie’s disturbing new hobby couldn’t dampen my spirits. My creative juices were pumping and I was about to spend a lot of money. I was very happy. Until I took my labourer with me to B&Q. Again, I was specific as to his function. He was to provide a carry to car and investment service. No more, no less.

On the way there, my previously meek employee became difficult when talks turned to budget. Accountant’s suggestion that we revamp the garden for 50p or less didn’t allow for the 100 box hedges, 2 topiary trees, 4 tier traditional water feature and hot pink gardening gloves essential to creating the classic English garden.

As I put my case forward to the man I’d hoped to have broken by now, I was battered with intense questioning and forced to present a cost/benefit analysis. Wishing more than ever that I could generate my own income without compromising my cushy lifestyle, I conceded the hot pink gloves in the hope of winning him over.

Thanks to Accountant’s audit and subsequent negotiations, planting commenced hours later than scheduled. Looking up from my trench, Accountant’s smug face peered back through the window. His first self-appointed task as New Project Leader, to watch Arsenal v Liverpool from the comfort of his sofa.

Teething Troubles

Peeling my son off of the paving slabs outside McDonalds whilst dodging the flailing limbs propelling around my head, I wasn’t the only one who noticed that motherhood wasn’t going as well for me as anticipated.

Nanna looked on with furrowed brow whilst my sister bit the lip which was quivering with the satisfaction of a woman who would never again endure such torment. Passers-by scowled as I struggled to restrain my portable delinquent.

A month after the arrival of the terrible twos, I’ve become accustomed to the disapproving stares of those who’ve never experienced or forgotten what it is like to be on the receiving end of a toddler.

When Chickie hatched, he showed all the signs of being a timid soul. He’d cry when he came into contact with other children. If the other child cried too, he would become inconsolable. Loud noises upset him, as did quiet ones.

Then, inexplicably, it all changed. We all sighed with relief, happy that he’d come out of himself. Now talks are being held to see how to put him back in.

In-depth analysis of sleeping patterns, diet, bowel movements, peer group, parenting style and Accountant’s gene pool proved inconclusive. Although, I had strong suspicions a rogue chromosome from Accountant’s side of the family was to blame, I had no evidence. Yet, all those critical eyes remained fixed on me - expecting reformation.

In desperation, I consulted Accountant, recounting colourful examples of the verbal abuse and anti-social activities his son was engaged in whilst he spent his days sipping coffee in his tranquil office. I tried to keep the bitterness from my voice as I remembered my own tranquil little office of three years before. Accountant chuckled. “Chickie” he said lovingly, shaking his head before wandering off to who knows where.

Easter holidays meant my temperamental companion was due to spend some 336 hours by my side. With public outings now a perilous minefield fraught with humiliation and condemnation, there was a strong chance they’d all be spent in the house. I begged Accountant not to leave me alone. He agreed, then ‘forgot’ to submit his holiday form.
T
Dejected and at a loss as to why my son had chosen the wrong road so early in life, I let the guilt I’d been trying to ignore wash over me. I was the mother, I should have done something.

It was my Mother-in-Law who eventually suggested he might be teething. At last, a tangible reason that wasn’t my fault. I felt much better. Once confirmed, I rang up stakeholders to redeem myself and my offspring. My sister sounded unconvinced but played along.

Then I stopped to consider why I hadn’t noticed his new molars. Red cheeks, runny nose, disrupted sleep. Oh God, this was basic stuff.

I went to bed that night wondering when I might hope to grasp the basic principles of parenting, and what on earth I was going to do if the Calpol ever stopped working.

Chuckie

A hush fell over the room. Nanna looked at Grandad. Grandad looked at Mummy and Mummy stared at her son. Grandad’s hand hovered over a bowl of fudge. No one moved, fearing the slightest stirring may re-detonate the puce toddler currently eye-balling us through the glass bowl.

Regrettably, the silence was but a fleeting interlude born of Chickie’s need to refill the small but forceful lungs he had drained of all oxygen. As he picked up where he left off, this time accompanied by a dramatic full body drop to the floor, I had to admit this performance was impressive.

Grandad remained frozen. “Put the F-U-D-G-E down” I spelt. He did. “Look, Grandad’s put it back.” I offered the bowl. He took a brief moment from pounding the floor to swipe it out of my hands causing him to head butt the chair. Then, from somewhere deep within, a repellent screeching began that just wouldn’t stop. Concerned he might pop something, I looked to my parents, with their combined eighty years experience, for suggestions.

“He should have had a nap” said Nanna.

Not as useful as I’d hoped. I turned to my father for something more solution orientated but, it was hard for him to speak through all the fudge that was swelling his cheeks. It seemed the distraction caused by Chickie’s second meltdown had suited one particular senior citizen very nicely. Grandad was heading for the naughty step but not before Chuckie.

A rigid Chick was folded into a seated position, read his rights and deposited onto the step. Where he remained for two seconds. When the door began shaking on its hinges as Chickie rammed it from the other side, Grandad, finally swallowing, spoke, “Perhaps you should call the police?”

I’ve noticed that those family members who are just a free bus ride away from freedom, find these situations more amusing than the parent. I mustered an eyebrow raise before deliberating my next move. What would my Supermum friends do?

They’d drop to their knees, maintaining a soothing yet authoritative eye contact whilst explaining in tones straight off a relaxation tape why the behaviour was unacceptable. Child would then nod in mute agreement, apologise to the family for any unpleasantness before sitting down quietly to read “Expressing Your Feelings: The Alternatives”.

I had a better idea. “Chickie?”
“NO!” said the door.
“Grandad’s been very naughty”
Grandad frowned.
“I think he needs to go on the Naughty Step”
Silence.

I opened the door and a delighted Chickie strutted in to collect his bewildered prisoner. From the comfort of our respective sofas, Nanna and I watched Chickie lead Grandad away, gleefully explaining how naughty he was.

The rules of the Naughty Step are simple. One minute spent on the step for every year of age. Which meant a fine vintage like Grandad required ‘guarding’ for exactly 1 hour and 9 minutes!

Mum and I thought of him briefly as we sipped our tea, dunked our biscuits and watched Deal or No Deal.

Rain on Mummy's Parade

It was a morning, much like all the others, with a sky the colour of old knickers spitting a fine drizzle over the lucky occupants of Southern England. Chickie looked up at his Director of Entertainment, expecting to be amused.

I racked my brains for alternate options to spending my day buried up to the eyebrows in plastic balls, whiling away the dreary hours in the technicolour nightmare that is an Indoor Children’s Activity Centre. Whilst I had no doubt Chickie would happily amuse himself feeding mummy through the giant mangler and making her swing from the monkey bars, I fancied something less energetic.

Eventually, a cunning plan developed. It was risky but filled with possibilities. M&S Holmbush - undercover shopping.

Chickie was wedged into the trolley seat at the front. His new potty, a full range of snacks and his toy car collection, placed in the compartment at the back. I was prepared. How bad could it be?

After a successful start that found my trolley brimming with summer wear, things took a downward turn in Home Furnishings when, entranced by loo roll holders, I made my first mistake.

Never position toddler within two metres of anything you don’t wish to be harmed. A kind lady picked up the pile of towels Chickie had swept onto the floor. As Chickie loudly informed her that she was a ,” NAUGHTY LADY”, I muttered my apologies and pushed him away. Straight into the toy department.

Mistake Number Two. Avoid the toy department at all costs.

“Choo Choo!” screamed Chickie at the first sight of Thomas and his friends. After Chickie had made a full appraisal of each and every toy, mummy was losing interest. It took an Emergency Vehicle Set and a packet of chocolate biscuits to secure a quiet exit.

Next came, “Potty Mummy”. A twenty minute round trip that produced nothing other than a fully mobile Chickie who refused to get back into the trolley once released. A 100m sprint through menswear, finally led to the changing rooms and Mistake Numéro Trois.

Avoid changing rooms with curtains. I had just stepped into the pencil skirt when Chickie bolted. Ignoring my shrieks, he ran straight out, past the assistants on the desk and onto the shop floor. A little pink bullet, cackling like a looney.

In hot pursuit, came mummy, sporting grey ankle socks set off beautifully by the knee length skirt she was holding up like a towel. “Come back here NOW!” I said, trying to convey my utter seriousness whilst pretending to be good humoured to my fellow shoppers. Chickie picked up speed.

By the time I returned to the changing rooms, flushed from exertion and humiliation, the assistant had kindly moved my belongings to a new changing room with a lock. Chickie pressed the ‘Assistance’ button on entry and there his finger remained.

Chickie slept soundly that night, having had a lovely day at the Indoor Children’s Activity Centre that is Marks and Spencer.