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.

Happy Birthday to Me!

When I reluctantly entered this weekend, I was 30 years old. As if that wasn’t bad enough, I was 31 on exit. The youngest I’ll ever be and the oldest I’ve ever been, all in one middle aged approaching moment.

I got some nice presents; perfume, a magazine subscription, deck chairs, picnic hamper and six prominently placed scabby zits on my cheeks and chin. Yes, the boobs may have sagged, the bottom may have more dimples than an avocado but I still have the sebaceous glands of a thirteen year old.

My kind friend, Wuce, helped put a plan in place to navigate me through the day as quickly as possible. Wuce, Meerkat, Poff, Accountant, Chickie and I would meet at Woodies Diner for pancakes at 10am. A visit to the Fire Station’s Open Day would follow so Wuce and I could check out the Firemen and the boys and babies could play with the Fire Engines. Finally, a yummy din dins at my favourite restaurant where I planned to gorge myself silly following my two weeks of eating rice and peas after discovering I was almost back to my full term pregnancy weight albeit without the baby.

Then Accountant upset the Birthday Girl. Following his third “I’m too lazy to fill my car up with petrol and too stupid to learn my lesson” roadside rescue in a month, and prompted by the overpowering fumes of the fuel canister he’d thoughtfully left in the back of my car, he informed me at 9.50am that he needed to fill up the aforementioned canister and return it forthwith to Brother-in-Law. A Brother-in-Law who had been plucked from the comfort of his armchair to rescue aforementioned moron from the roadside at 9.30pm the previous evening which had gone down a little something like this:

"If there's one thing I hate in this world, it's snotty kids” grumbled Brother-In-Law. Sister sniffed, mopping her crusty red nose for the 1000th time. "How's your sore throat?" she asked Brother-In-Law, concerned. "It still hurts" he confirmed miserably. "May be you should have an early night and go to bed" she suggested.

When diagnosing Chickie's 'hayfever' based on his watery eyes and sniffles, I didn't realise I was actually unleashing the toddler equivalent of the virus carrying chimp in ‘Outbreak’ upon my unsuspecting sister and her family. Now, collectively and somewhat impressively, their symptoms covered the whole range listed on the back of their Beechams Cold and Flu capsules.

Each day, feeling guiltier than the last, I rang, in the vain hope someone's condition had improved. Each day, someone mucous filled would reply, feebly, that all were stable but none were out of the woods yet.

Brother-In-Law fancied Sister's suggestion, a hot drink and bed sounded appealing. Then the phone rang. It was Accountant, on the A24, somewhere outside Steyning. Now you’re up to speed.

I had tried concealing my irritation whilst watching Accountant mosey around the house in the buff for the preceding half hour as if time and underwear were something that only applied to other people. When the fumes hit my nostrils as I got into my car, my irritation shifted to annoyance. Then he mentioned his new petrol delivery round. Annoyance got a complimentary upgrade to anger. Then the petrol canister reminded me of the time he’d left a petrol canister in the car before and me and my migraine had requested he not do it again. Then that reminded me of the time he’d left a second degree dirty nappy in the car overnight and the car had stunk like poop for a month and anger turned to resentment. Then I threw in his inability to fill up a petrol tank into my big bag of marital exasperation and I was brewing for a popping.

I did, admirably, make initial attempts to remain calm, suggesting in the most carefree tone I could fabricate, that he call Meerkat to mention we were running very late. Then I helpfully suggested he shouldn’t leave petrol cans in the car, due to the noxious gases, and queried as to whether he had any recollection of the last time I’d asked.

His reply? “SHUT UP! Just SHUT UP!”

My reply, “You’ve ruined my birthday! I don’t want to spend the day with you”

Him: “Fine. Give me the keys”

Keys duly and forcefully lobbed from driver’s side of car at Accountant’s head.

Accountant stomps to front door in a self righteous strop. I watch from the car as he tries every key in turn. Two minutes pass and each key is tried again. Further fumbling and some muttered expletives. Three minutes and the Accountant/Key fiasco is proving delightfully amusing. More futile attempts to find the one key, out of a potential four, that will open the door. Jingle Jangle. Four minutes. Finally, after demonstrating the dexterity of a cocktail sausage and illustrating my ‘gross incompetence’ point brilliantly, he finds the winning combination and scurries indoors, out of earshot of my sniggers.

The rest of the day was spent stuffing my face whilst awarding marks out of ten to the fireman's bottoms. For information purposes, the firemen with the big biceps, who effortlessly lifted Chickie in his buggy over the peripheral fence,and made me wish I was in the buggy instead, you get a 9/10. Once the judging was over, Chickie and Poff spent the afternoon going round and round and round and round on every miniature train ride at the Fire Station followed by every miniature train ride at the Fair. They still had the audacity to scream in outrage when their plans for ride number 32 were scuppered.

Where was Accountant whilst all the fun was going on - sulking at home!

The Night I Slept In A Field

Nothing about the situation I found myself in was what I’d describe as satisfactory. Zipping shut our ‘bedroom’ door so that the insects congregating outside could have their own room, I stepped over the candles which illuminated the shortcomings of the evening’s accommodation. I descended with caution toward the only air bed I’d ever had the misfortune of meeting and the husband who lay curled on top, snoring like a cat worn out from his day’s adventures.

The unexpected buoyancy of the mattress sent me lurching backwards, waking Accountant who cushioned my fall. His smug ‘camping’ smile returned immediately. It had arrived around the same time he’d successfully pitched our borrowed tent in a sheltered spot at the far end of the finest field the Sheep Farm had to offer, and coincided with the last time I’d managed a smile.

Burrowing under the covers for comfort, I did a final inspection. Vest tucked into knickers – check. Trousers tucked into socks –check. Jumper tucked into trousers – check. And finally, the ear plugs, the benefits of which I now realised were to be threefold.

1.To keep wee beasties, whose country home I’d been forced to share, from moving into the only fully insulated orifice not covered by my ‘tucking in’ scheme.
2.To block out Accountant’s persistent beer induced snorts
3.To mute the “BANG BANG BANGs!!!” of the Cowboys and Indians who had our tent surrounded.

On returning from our trip to the beach earlier in the day, we had glanced at each other in dismay. The terraced tent I’d been only too happy to leave behind was now part of a canvas housing estate. Five more tents and a camper van had formed a semi-circular barricade between our tent and potential escape. The fifteen hyperactive children that accompanied were a delightful addition, as were their relentless machine gun imitations.

Lying in the dark on the stone cold airbed, which was now vibrating from the force of Accountant’s snoring, I wiped my nose again and swallowed painfully. My second cold of the month, compliments of Chickie, was reaching it’s peak. As the chill from the mattress penetrated my multi-layers and spread down my body, I wondered what pneumonia would be like and whether next weekend’s romantic weekend away at Worthing Hospital would be better than this. At least I wouldn’t have to pay £1 for a shower.

When my Sister had offered to have Chickie for the weekend so we could have a weekend away, I wasted no time. Paris, Bruges, New York? I’d been to them all in another life and how sweet it would be to return.

Then the oven broke - £71. Then Accountant’s exhaust fell off - £200. Then some oik stole the radiator grill off my car - £100. Replacement fridge filters £62. Rubbish clearance from my gardening exploits - £110.

For eight years, I’ve consistently declined 99% of Accountant’s suggestions on the grounds of being completely stupid. This included repeated requests to go camping. It’s taken two years of full-time motherhood and the associated financial forfeit to break me.

On arrival home, I unpacked the wellies and kagool I never thought I’d own, and put them away, hoping not to see them again for a long time. Then a sticky Chickie was collected from a Sister, weary from her impending illness and from spending two days mopping up the endless thick, yellow goop being produced by the little germ factory up Chick’s nose.

“How nice is it to be in a proper bed?” I asked Accountant that night, taking a long, snotty sniff of my soft, freshly laundered pillow. “Mmmm, it is lovely” Accountant agreed, the novelty of camping having worn off after sampling the toilet facilities the following morning. “I don’t think I’ll be going camping again sweetheart” I said. “No, me neither” replied Accountant.

Relieved, I snuggled down, never more appreciative of each and every one of the 400 threads in my Egyptian cotton sheets and grateful that my night of disrupted sleep and backache had not been in vain. I never had to go camping again!

"I know" chirped Accountant suddenly, interrupting my moment, “we should go caravanning instead”.

Creative What?

As my old neighbour, Mr P., handed me a copy of his latest book, "From Darkness to Light", I wondered whether I should mention I was 31 years behind on my philosophy reading.

As I glimpsed at the back page and read his closing paragraph, "And so it is that my substance is not, and yet it is in this that I am not, that I who am not must Be" I thought it best to keep to myself that I'd once forgotten how old I was and that, up until a few days ago, had thought Labradoodles were comedy pets.

Perhaps it was the gormlessness of my expression that encouraged him to seek out my thoughts on 'Life Essence' and 'Creative Consciousness'. Unfortunately for me, no matter how hard I tried, Mr P. would not be steered toward my favourite topics of weight loss, chocolate and the uselessness of men, opting instead for politics, spirituality and the arts, using words like, 'untrammelled universality' and 'self-agrandisement'.

I had nothing intelligent to say when I lived next door and things have only deteriorated since. However, I nodded and 'hmmm'd' in all the right places and then off we went.

Whilst not the best philosophy student he's ever had, I think Mr P. quite enjoyed hearing all about Chickie's bowel movements and how, after a long and difficult search, I've finally found the most delightfully fragranced fabric conditioner money can buy.

Labra...Doodle...Do

“Slurp” went Bridget as she licked Chickie’s face from chin to forehead like an ice cream. Ironic really as I’d only seconds before been discussing what stinky little germ incubators dog’s mouths really were. I laughed along with the crowd, all avidly watching the cute exchange between pooch and child from their pub benches.

“What breed is she?” I enquired trying to pretend I couldn't see Chickie’s tongue travelling in a southerly direction to sample the fresh doggie drool curdling on his chin. “A Labradoodle” said the owner, who was also feigning nonchalance about her newly stained linen trousers. Chickie’s arrival to pet Bridget had resulted in an exuberant bounding routine, sending her water bowl flying through the air and landing at her owner’s feet.

“A Labradoodle” I scoffed, laughing. As I waited for her to tell me the real breed, I realised that she wasn’t actually joking and Bridget really was a Labradoodle. I’ve checked on Google and it’s true. Labradoodle’s exist and I met one today.

This weekend it would seem I’ve reached my personal stupid best. I’ve enquired as to whether Scotland is a separate country, I’ve admitted to thinking people weren’t allowed to honk their car horns between 7am and 11pm at night because the Highway Code said so and I topped it off with my tumbleweed moment, laughing far too hard at Bridget’s owner’s genius fabrication of Labradoodles.

Yes, it’s time to go back to work. It seems that a woman can’t live on ironing, cooking, cleaning and sewage management alone without losing a few brain cells in the process.

Mushroom Packing - A Perilous Pursuit?

“Is that a varicose vein in your leg?”, Glam-Nan enquired, leaning forward to squint curiously at Accountant’s lily white leg, poking out of the end of his shorts.

“Yes it is” replied Accountant enthusiastically, perking up at Glam-Nan’s interest in the long term condition that had never caused him a day’s discomfort.

“How’ve you got that then?” said Glam-Nan, not as savvy as I at avoiding any interest in Accountant’s bodily functions.

“I don’t know really” replied Accountant somberly, rubbing the offending vein as if to ease the pain he’d shouldered silently for so many years.

“Well, has anyone in your family got them?” said Glam-Nan. I rolled my eyes at Snowy, who I assumed was finding the pointlessness of her continued enquiries as tedious as I.

“No, I don’t think so” said Accountant, his brow furrowed with the concentration of a man working his way back five generations for any history of knotted legs. “I did work in a mushroom factory once though”

“Oh really?” replied Glam-Nan who I knew was working up to the disclosure of her very own pair of varicose encrusted legs, waiting for the optimum moment to reveal her own personal suffering as she stood for years, without breaks, hairdressing for a shilling a week.

“Yes. There were men and women who had worked there for thirty years and I always remember their legs were all gnarled up from standing for so long” said Accountant, his words tinged with concern as to the toll his time at the factory may have taken on his own health.

"How long did you work there?” I enquired, momentarily interested.

Accountant took a second to calculate, then delivered his answer with the utmost gravity, “About ten weeks”.

Laughing at Accountant continued for about an hour. It stopped for the “America’s Got Talent” Results, and then recommenced in earnest.

Accountant pretended he didn’t care but his sideway evils told a different story.

I Warn You Now, This May Be Nauseating

I’m not great at mush, as you’ve probably noticed. I struggle to write heartfelt sentiments without sounding like the hormonally imbalanced woman that I am. However, I wouldn’t be doing motherhood justice if I didn’t, once in a while, throw the Evening Primrose Oil to one side and have a good old slush session. So here it is.

Looking down at my little boy as he slept, his chubby little hand still clutching his new red car, my heart welled with a bittersweet mixture of love and wistfulness.

Every night I go in and see him and stroke his fluffy hair as he snores gently, unaware that I’m there. Every night I’m amazed at just how beautiful he is, how we managed to make something as perfect as him. One more day of his childhood has come and gone, a day he won’t even remember but I always will.

The other evening, I was looking through albums, seeing the little boy we know now in the pudgy face of a then tiny stranger. We didn’t know how he’d spend endless hours playing with his little cars, how he’d love getting up to mischief with his naughty cousins, how thrilled he’d be to see his daddy when he came home from work, running down the hallway to administer 'cuggles'.

Neither did I know just how proud my husband would be of the little man who idolises him. A husband who has embraced fatherhood with gentleness and devotion.

A child changes everything. They change your circumstances, they change your relationships and they change who you are. They deserve the best that we have to give them so we keep trying, to nuture their innocence and protect their childhood, knowing that every night is a night closer to losing both forever.

To my boys - love you xxx