Tired

Am getting a bit worried now. Praying I have only joined the green ink brigade on a temporary basis. Find myself getting hugely frustrated (though obviously not as much as the Michael Douglas character in that film). Is it because I don’t smoke?

Much as I love technology, automated phone systems are crap. Would like to change my comms supplier, but am scarred by the business of changing energy supplier. For dull complicated reasons I have two gas and two electricity meters. ‘The computer says no’ said Npower – their computer kept deleting my second account. After 48 hours on the phone and numerous emails, it was finally resolved a mere three and a half months later.

Have been trying to speak to Virgin Media for a very long time. Tonight I found a form on their website and typed…

“Are there any real virgin people?

Am hugely frustrated and v fed up with the number of attempts I've made to speak to a real virgin person for more than a month now.

In general I don't have more than half hour at a time to spend in a telephone queue during your working hours. My husband found some new route round your automated telephone system last night and managed to leave a call back request. Today the sales team called - and gave me another number to ring. Tried to get through tonight for 20 mins but then my time ran out (without boring you, as well as hanging about in 'phone queues I work plus have three beautiful kids to taxi about, feed, entertain, bath, and put to bed. One of these days I'll fit my own life in somewhere).

Am fed up with kids bending my ears about their disappointment re loss of sky1 and husband same re skynews. Now I am disappointed to discover how much cheaper SKY services seem to be.

Would now like to disconnect from you but this form says I need a password to do that. I don't have one. This form says if I don't have one; just contact the customer care team on 0845... Am losing the will to live. Help! Please?”

But when I pressed ‘send’ Step 2 came up asking for my password again. A box below that suggested I ring…. I ignored all that and gave them every other bit of info they requested, just stopping short of my bra size.

Am just so v tired by it all. All day wearing of MBT trainers hardly helps. My legs are especially tired. Why it’s as if I’ve done a work out or something. It may just be the extra bulk I’m carrying on the edge of my feet. Ankle weights would have been the cheaper option and less likely to give blisters. But have made the investment now so will be wearing them ‘til either they fall off me or I fall off them.

Supersis’s boss now ‘needs’ a pair too. She reckons within a month of wearing them her body will be transformed. Although she’s a bit worried she’ll look like an alien embryo with elongated over-developed legs. Mmm attractive.

Captain Chaos didn’t think much of the new shoes and certainly doesn’t buy into the marketing hype of what they do for the figure. When I told him to watch the arses of Supersis and myself as they become more defined he quipped he’d keep a close eye on the back of our knees. Bastard.

Went to bed with Paul again last night. Not sure whether you are supposed to nod off as soon as the McKenna starts muttering in the ears. Woke with a start at 3am as the ipod dropped to the floor. So obviously didn’t hear the bit about opening eyes and feeling refreshed etc. Some of it is working: I got up and glanced in the mirror this morning and instead of thinking how round my face is, I thought ‘hello gorgeous’. When I explained this to the Forensic Examiner she questioned whether my feelings of inner loveliness would remain when in a bikini on a beach this summer?

Tad harsh me thinks!

The Pain of the Gain

The non-smoking podge is getting out of hand. As was the weighing obsession. Weighed myself at Supersis’s as a test of whether my scales were as out as much as He-who-must-be-adored reckons. Hers weighed me 41lb heavier than at home. Could I put that down to the munch moment I’d had on the way round? Probably not. Sadly, since giving up the fags I now weigh over 20lb more. So you can see where the obsessive bit has come in. I mean it’s just not possible for your entire wardrobe to shrink is it? Comments from Captain Chaos about my ‘rounded’ face don’t help either.

So, persuaded He-who-must-be-adored to kindly hide the damn scales. I never used to weigh myself so often, but then I never used to weigh so much so I didn’t need to. Thought it might all be having a detrimental effect on my daughter’s attitudes to the self-image, but realised as they both have perfect bodies I’m the only one with a mental affect.

New week, new approach. In fact a two pronged approach to my burgeoning figure. One was the purchase of MBTs – a training shoe that acts like a workout. Working your muscles with every step you take. Hooray. As someone who has a slight lack of motivation to exercise plus a penchant for all things calorific this seems like the answer to my prayers. Pity I can’t wear them in bed, now that would be a best seller. Anyway felt slightly nauseous trying them on as you have to get used to the strange rocking sensation. But I wore them for a couple of hours last night and did feel very Tigger like – had a strong desire to bounce. Very odd. Within a couple of months my buttocks will be perfectly worked and formed. Out of respect to the manufacturer I took them off to eat chocolate cake.

The second prong is going to bed with Paul McKenna. Have put his CD on the ipod and am letting him brainwash me into not over-eating. Apparently I have to love myself more and ask am I really hungry? I know I am not but as what I’m really hungry for is a cigarette, calories will have to do. Except they don’t do it for me in the same way as nicotine. Yet I can no longer stand the smell of fags. Yet I eat because I can’t smoke. Yet I don’t want to smoke! Confused? Yes. So Paul to the rescue. He’s going to show me how to love my energetic healthy self. Can’t say it’s working yet, but it is only day 2. Will keep you posted on developments.

An update on the Boots super cream: well I’ve only got the serum and that’s doing wonders for a more youthful face. Although it has to be said, now my face is rounder, so the lines are less obvious. If only I could keep the weight on my face instead of round my middle. But Supersis attempted to accelerate the anti-aging process by using the serum and the cream. The result? Not a pretty sight. Her face, especially her eyes rejected her attempts to turn back time by puffing her face out of all recognition. Poor thing woke believing she had elephantiasis. Luckily it is on the way down now. So she’s also bought some MBTs to alleviate the pain.

The nature of things

Determined to do my green bit I carry a bag of Mary Poppins proportions, but with less style. A small trip down the High Street with the Little One saw us refuse at least of six plastic bags. With hindsight throwing a half pound of butter into the mix of ‘my life in a big bag’ wasn’t the best idea for a sunny afternoon. Three cheers though for the London bag designer with the slogan “I’m not a smug twat.”

Should move to Modbury where plastic bags have been banned - a local resident – a wildlife camerawoman - shocked shopkeepers with pictures of the effect of bags on Pacific marine life. Can’t imagine having the same success in Palmers Green even though most local trees have at least one plastic bag in them – and why is it always that unfashionable blue hue.

Inspector Gadget complained again last week about his nickname before turning to He-who-must-be-adored to ask did our trees needed trimming. His latest internet-purchased toy is an extendable chain saw type thing. The danger bells were ringing loud as Inspector Gadget reckons we no longer need tree surgeons. But I just know if He-who-must-be-adored has a go at the trees himself they’ll be half destroyed, will never recover their beautiful natural shape and I’ll have to do the driving to A&E.

Class 1’s latest topic is a hot box of fun and the Little One’s stationery obsession pales into insignificance as she hunts the garden for ‘mini-beasts’. I share the enthusiasm by buying a bug box – mainly so the creepy things aren’t crawling round my kitchen. Persuaded her to share her pet snail and other ‘mini-beasts’ with Class 1 as after only one night in the bug box they looked half dead. Let’s hope they fare better in the classroom.

The Little One woke crying about a small personal problem. The following morning I was at the chemist, but obviously not the nearest one as the pharmacist is a mum at the school. I traipsed further afield to discover that particular mother had moved jobs. Is there no privacy in this world? She asked how I’d diagnosed the problem. My response was slightly louder than it needed to be, but she was left in no doubt as to how and the queue behind me visibly retreated. I wonder whether Class 1’s mini-beast display would be improved with the addition of a small collection of threadworms? Anyway, we’ve all taken the worming tablets now and are all clear.

That episode sent me on a rare cleaning frenzy. The playroom especially as I’d forgotten the colour of the carpet and couldn’t remember the last time I cleaned in there. I set about with great gusto, ruthless in my ambition to make it look like a room and not a long-forgotten dumping ground. Now the toys that get played with can be reached, outgrown toys are in a pile to go – somewhere, anywhere, out of here. I threw away all sorts of useless things. As I put bits of tutt in the rubbish I wonder where they all come from, and whether He-who-must-be-adored would later quiz me on their whereabouts, as is His nature. I gave up with the clear up when the wheel fell of the hoover.

Nothing seems to work properly for long in our house. He-who-must-be-adored returned from a Doctors check up to cheerfully inform me our bathroom scales were out by half a stone. I agreed I’d noticed the numbers notching up rather quickly. Sadly, He informed me ours were weighing half a stone LIGHT. The non-smoking podge is even worse than I feared.

The next day He-who-must-be-adored called asking whether I’d seen a wing nut? If only I knew what a wing nut was? It’s like the bike all over again! It’s small, round and metal, he said. And it helps the wheels stay on the hoover. I asked did it have little bits sticking out? Yes he said.

In that case it’s in one of the many rubbish bags

Everybody's Talkin'

Everybody’s talkin’ about the Anya Hindmarch bags as sold by Sainsbury’s. I was keen to show off my green credentials with ‘I’m am not a plastic bag’ writ large. Hindmarch. Spindmarch! He-who-must-be-adored thought I should get up at 4am and queue. Don’t be ridiculous, I said, it’s a bag! I asked Sainsbury’s Manager at Highlands Village the previous day and she said, quite plainly, as did the website, the bags would be on sale at 8.00am when the stores opened.

I relented and got to Sainsbury’s Highlands Village at 7.30am. Was surprised at the lack of queue but did spot about six women sitting in their cars. Imagine then, my surprise, when at 7.45am I decided to form an orderly queue and read a hand-written sign on the store door saying they were all sold out. To add insult to injury they suggested if you really wanted one, look on Ebay. Gutted I was. Not only that they were sold out, without a queue, but before the store was actually open! Shock took over. Firstly by another customer’s angry reaction to the security guard – as if it was his fault, and no amount of shouting would make a bag materialise. Then by the store’s admission that the manager handed out tickets at 4am. 4am! Are these people mad? What happened to an 8am opening?

Worse was the thought of admitting defeat to He-who-must-be-adored. I drove to Sainsbury’s Winchmore Hill and was pleased to see a rather long queue. They had 90 bags and had already given out 90 tickets, but at least there is honesty in a queue. Three people were on standby to go to their local stores, on my behalf, in my desperation for one of the damn bags, including the pensioner mother of the Forensic Examiner. They all drew a blank.

headed home downhearted for He-who-must-be-adored’s ‘told you so’. He was surprisingly kind, saying if He’d known it was a ticket system, He would have got up at 4am for me, but there was no way He was prepared to fight with women over bags. Fair point.

As usual Supersis cheered me up. Not with a bag, unfortunately, but I’m trying to convince myself, unconvincingly, that I didn’t’ want one anyway. But I do. I have a pathological hatred of plastic bags at the best of times. I use the re-usable bags from M&S and Tesco for the weekly shop but they keep ripping at the bottom and the handles pop out which the Little One then uses as drumsticks in a really unhelpful and annoying manner. The Anya bag looked lovely, rather strong, and with comfy handles too. But, I’m over it now. NOT!

Supersis, being a Super Sis came to my retailing rescue last night by turning up with the other product everybody’s talkin’ about. The Boots No 7 cream - as featured on Horizon, as the only cream that really halts the march of time on the faces of oldies. And I now have some. A star my Supersis is. Just watch this face. In four weeks time I’ll be visibly younger. And everybody really will be talking about that.

Just the two of us

He-who-must-be-adored and me had a rare day off together yesterday. Let’s face it though it’s hardly a day off when it only lasts ‘til school pick-up. Weekdays obviously still include sorting the dustbin lids out with breakfast and lunches; dropping them off; quick supermarket sweep for more milk and fruit; the compulsory couple of loads of laundry; plus impressions of a taxi driver for evening activities. Without wanting to sound ungrateful or resentful (moi?) …A half-day off was had and out to lunch we went. Together. Just the two of us. Just like it used to be.

Aimed for the Italian sarnie centre with cosy chairs but the route there took us past the pub. As it was just we two, and we being adults ‘n all, He and me dived into the pub. Twas all a bit odd though, just being two, instead of five. At least it was a non-smoking pub as the thought of being in a smoky old hole during daylight hours is so far removed from my reality I don’t think I’d have coped. So He and me had a pub lunch. Food was average. But as I wasn’t involved in its preparation it seemed averagely fab.

As soon as we’d eaten He-who-must-be-adored thought we might as well push off and do something useful. I made him sit there. And relax. Good time slightly marred by me having to explain that having lunch together isn’t just about the food. Now am not certain he sees the point in small talk and really think He regretted not bringing his Soduko book.

Wonder is it because he mixes with the Gorgeous Boy too much that after 20 minutes he’d hit his sitting-still-threshold. You could see him squirming in his seat. It being a day off, I relented and let him go.

Neither of us generally does booze during the day. Not because we have an aversion to it or have some sort of moral objections. In the case of He-who-must-be-adored nothing could be further from the truth. The reality is a combination of children that need entertaining/sorting/driving about and us both being over 40.

Booze slows us down. Things that need to done take twice as long with booze inside you. Then we get grumpy with the lids and it’s hardly their fault that they interfere with our drinking schedule. So beer-o-clock is put back to after the dustbin lids are abed. But rules are made to be broken. On holiday it slips forward to their bath-time. Other times its after the evening meal has been prepared. And obviously on h-days (high days, holidays and hormonal days) the rules go out the window.

For a long time I didn’t bother with booze at all. Couldn’t be doing with small demanding children in the night, or early mornings with a hangover. So just sort of stopped it. However, since giving up fags it’s all become rather attractive again. Yesterday I threw caution to the wind and had one lunchtime spritzer. Lethal. I had to have a lie down before I could prepare supper. How sad is that? A strange sensation came over me at 3.30 with my eyelids becoming horribly horribly heavy. As if lead weights were hanging off them. When I woke 20 minutes later the Little One was hanging off them. Think she was just trying to prize them open.

Something got me started

It’s so long since I smoked I’ve given up counting. The smugness of me grows daily.

Benefit of giving up No 329: losing the grey pallor from my face. My new healthy glow has been noted and commented upon. It makes me happy ‘til the penny drops. With hindsight being a wonderful thing I can see now how they might have possibly jumped to the wrong conclusion given that a) I am not smoking b) healthy glow c) enlarged chest and stomach d) smock tops. So for the record: I am not expecting. Anything. At all. In any way, shape or form.

Believe that weight and debt have a lot in common: so easy for the numbers of both to creep up quickly without you noticing but it takes a long slow hard slog to get them down again. Trying to break the vicious cycle by moving my butt more in free activities – like cycling.

All’s not well with Gorgeous Boy’s new bike. First the flat tyre. Although we have a guarantee from toys r us, neither of us can face taking it back. Their prices are kept low by discouraging any inkling of returns or complaints, by making anything other than buying as difficult as possible. Sometimes this even extends to buying. A policy that works, as I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than face their customer services.

So, He-who-has-to-be-adored ordered an Internet inner tube. Strangely it didn’t show up. After a week He rang: they’d been busy, what with Easter n’all. Silly us, we believe Internet buying to be quicker, easier and more convenient than visiting shops…at the opposite end of the country perhaps?

Meanwhile we return to the boy riding his sister’s bike, she riding mine with me running along behind.

Hurrahs all round this morning as postie brings an inner tube that He-who-must-be-adored gallantly fits before going to save London on ‘lates’. I cycled down on the boy’s bike for after-school pick-up. More of a free wheel really as its mostly downhill with just a tad of difficulty dismounting the cross bar wearing a skirt. All so my Gorgeous Boy could enjoy his bike. He makes it to the zebra crossing outside school when the chain comes off. Not for the first time I picture myself taking a large hammer to the new bike. Instead I try, along with two other mothers, to get the chain back on. I fail. Defeated I wheel the thing up the hill.

Don’t suppose He-who-must-be-adored will want to fix that damn bike again. Secretly, without any pressure whatsoever, I hope he will so I don’t have to take it back to that damn shop. Am having a bit of a hate hate thing with the bike.

Also…have been trying the equally trying customer services at Virgin media. To close my account. Am disgusted with poor service, and loss of the Simpsons and News on the Hour, whatever the hour, since they took over from Telewest and fell out with Sky. Have now given up holding for a real person on four occasions. Shouldn’t have bothered as am certain they won’t speak to me as the account is in He-who-must-be-adored’s name. At work today Captain Chaos managed to get through and spent two hours discussing, with an extraordinary large number of people, the case of crossed wires between Virgin Media and BT. All this because he foolishly thought he could change suppliers on Friday 13th. Since then he’s had no land line and the phone number he’s had for the past 15 years has now been issued to a new customer. Think I may just leave well alone as am rather attached to my number.

It’s almost enough to make you want to leave the country. Or the city at least. But not quite. Think it’s just a reaction to having spent a blissful weekend with Supersis at her place in the country. A real green fix. Looking out on fields. Seeing children romping in the open air. Watching horses do their thing. The sight of Gorgeous Boy carrying a trophy of a dead pigeon after his first shoot was obviously the low point. But I’m told that’s what country folk do: have a more practical attitude to animals than us townies. There, animals either have a purpose ie dinner, or they are pests. I was happy when I could get away with being an over-controlling parent who banned all weapons of any type, real or toy. Mums don’t do guns.

Except water pistols. Maybe.

I want to ride my bicycle

Holidays are over. Normal service has resumed: wake dustbin lids earlier than they want; run around like headless chickens stuffing lunchboxes, finding uniforms, homework etc until the lids go to their various institutions. Then the day really begins: dash to work, dash round the supermarket, dump car at home, collect lids, keep the peace, cook, do laundry, taxi them about. And smile. Miss them during the day like a love-sick puppy. For all of three minutes.

I like the holidays. You can sleep in. You don’t have to be anywhere. You can ride bikes. You can play in the park for ages. You can go swimming. And freeze. And not clock watch. And half freeze to death on the beaches of Suffolk even though the rest of the country is enjoying a freak heat wave.

Gorgeous boy’s bike is too small for him, so he rides the tweenager’s and she rides mine. I run along behind the Little One shouting encouragement. Last week I got a tad fed up with this so went off in search of new wheels for the lad.

Needing instant gratification we couldn’t wait three days for the sports shop to build one and they won’t sell ‘em flat packed. Halfords tried to sell me a flat pack and couldn’t get why I wouldn’t part with dosh on a bike in a box of which we had no idea of size or, more importantly, style.

Finally surrendered to the hell of Toys R Us and was shocked to find an adult sales assistant who knew his biking onions. Only half an hour later gorgeous boy, the little one and myself struggled across the car park with a large flat pack.

My marriage is a partnership with distinct divisions of labour: I give birth and deal with all emotional issues: He understands instructions and tools and does all the building stuff. But the Tweenager has feminist leanings, so as not to appear completely useless I emptied the box (difficult in itself) and studied the instructions, after all He-who-must-be-adored was doing a martyrish long shift saving London.

After 20 minutes discussion gorgeous boy decisively showed us the tools needed (despite our feminist leanings neither Tweenager nor I know the names of tools other than hammer and even I could tell that wasn’t needed).

Line one of the instructions stated that if you have nuts on the front wheel remove them. Tweenager, gorgeous boy and I struggled with spanners and wrenches for ages and finally dislodged the nuts and all the ball bearing things fell on the floor. We agreed this was a bad thing. Resisting the temptation to bash the bike to buggery with a hammer, we tied the bolts back up, left the bits of bike on the kitchen floor and went to watch telly whilst awaiting the return of He-who-must-be-adored.

We were all very keen to go on a bike ride the next day so didn’t think 10pm was too late to ask a man to build a bike. Surely its better to get these sort of jobs out of the way before you go to bed? He-who-must-be-adored did that shaky head thing that my father used to do. I decided this was not a good sign. When He asked why on earth we’d undone the bolts I went to tackle the urgent laundry and left the lids to explain. (It was their idea to have a go, when you’ve got 6 brothers and a husband why would you even try?)

From the laundry I heard him ask whether the ball bearings had fallen out. At this point I remembered some other urgent business upstairs so didn’t hear the response. By the time I came down the bike was built and the gorgeous boy was riding, in the dark, up and down the street with He supervising. Normal service was resumed.

At bedtime the Tweenager whispered to me that the nuts the instructions referred to were for transporting purposes and our front wheel didn’t have any of them. And how the hell were we supposed to just ‘know’ these things?

By the end of the following day I never wanted to ride a bike ever again. I had saddle sores and was grateful when Gorgeous Boy got a flat tyre so I could wheel his home whilst he rode mine. Think I preferred running along behind.

Chocolate

So that’s Easter done and dusted. Fab weather for the time of year - not so fab for warm little hands holding chocolate.

The best Easter news was the arrival of my new great nephew on what would have been my mother’s birthday. Just hope the lovely little fella isn’t blessed with her balmier aspects.

Easter Sunday started early with the Little One excitedly demanding the treasure hunt begin. In hangover fog I noticed He-who-must-be-adored wasn’t in bed. Thought he might be making tea. No such luck. As I slowly came round to the real world, I remembered he was off saving London. I was on my own, again, as the only responsible adult.

Don’t normally find that too difficult a prospect but Easter Sunday is different. It’s the Easter Hunt. That involves deciphering He-who-must-be-adored’s difficult clues. With the added problem that I remember He giving me instructions but too hungover to remember them. Was I supposed to hide eggs and bunnies and other such stuff? He couldn’t be that daft to rely on me for such crucial elements? Surely? This had the potential to go down as the worst hunt ever. Imagine the dustbin lids spending ages working out clues to find….nothing. The only upside being the potential to keep future therapists in business. As I battled with gravity to get my head off the pillow a vague memory flooded back of me stuffing kinder eggs in the freezer. All therefore could not be quite lost.

A few crucial texts later and we were all on track. Somehow, the Little One put gorgeous boy, the tweenager and me to shame by outwitting us all and resolving the hardest of His cryptic clues. There were only two that we decided would have to wait til He returned home at some point in the future. Once the majority of the edible treasure was found they all returned to my bed for the choc fest of all choc fests. The chocolate orange eggs were the only big mistake as fairly soon after eating them at xmas we were all struck down with the vomit bug – not a great association.

Regardless, much choc was chomped. Would never have eaten so much had He-who-must-be-adored been here to tell us enough was enough. By 10am we all had tummy aches. It was declared the best Easter Hunt ever.

Returning later to make the bed I decided melted choc is not such a good look for a white bedspread.

So I managed the whole of lent without a smoke, of which I am extremely proud. And I’ve only gained 16lbs, which over 40 days and 40 nights I deem not a bad achievement. More difficult is to go without chocolate and therefore to fit into the clothes I wore as a smoker. They mostly hurt round the mid-rift. And am only slightly depressed by the reality of my largest, most comfy, linen trousers no longer meeting in the middle.

Easter weekend is clearly not the time to be contemplating such matters when every surface I look at contains Easter treats. Moving up to the next size would allow me to look normal again, if slightly larger. Whereas squidging myself into clothes (not to mention underwear) suitable for a frame at least 16lbs lighter looks weirdly grotesque. No fabric can stretch that far, no matter how much lyrca it contains.

The double whammy is the bosoms. Strange old things at the best of times, mine have now become a large joke – and not just with Mr Smut. Weight gain now congregates around the bust and mid-rift. In an obviously attractive way – and again not just to Mr Smut.

The Little One and I have a game we play (stick with this it will make sense): when saying good bye to visitors we run along the pavement alongside their vehicle waving until we reach the end of the road, or we run out of steam. Last week we played this game and I was horrified to realise my bosoms had managed to both work their way lose from their holsters as I ran. So not a good look.

Then at the weekend I tried on a bikini. We were in a fairly inexpensive shop so I thought I’d go up two sizes to compensate for cheap cutting. Horrified that even two sizes up there was still no where near enough supportive fabric to even cover my nipples.
What do I do to console myself? Cook the meal with the highest possible fat content. It’s a comfort replacement thing.

On the road again

Easter holidays are going well. Have been visited by my two fave nieces (before noses are out of joint I have 17 fave nieces). He-who-must-be-adored has sort of relaxed for a few days, inbetween dropping and picking up various dustbin lids and pals and cousins. Was pleased to discover friends of the little-one also have a pit of despair outside their back door.

Weather not too bad either. Spring is certainly sprung. Just like the mattress of gorgeous boy. Spent yesterday trekking round the north peculiar to visit giant Swedish store. It’s cheap. The experience is crap. We know this to be the case. And still we go.

Beds and mattresses chosen we realise we can’t all fit in the car with the goods. I get the job of entertaining the lids in store whilst He-who-must-be-adored does check out and drive home. After parting I realise He has all the cash and wouldn’t it be nice to have lunch while we’re about it. Dumped my bag to catch He in the car park. But first had to spend a long time negotiating with children and the rabbit warren routes through the store.

Back in store, I wonder what did I have in that heavy shopping bag earlier? Clearly nothing neither needed nor useful. Again believe this to be all part of the Swedish shopping experience.

After a hearty lunch we meet up with He for more retail torture. Gorgeous boy has adopted same shopping technique as He ie asking on a minute by minute basis are we done yet. Finally head onto north peculiar with another large bag of unnecessary goods. We dismantle old beds, and count the broken wooden slats – of course my dustbin lids all deny ever jumping on any beds. Obviously those pesky burglars again.

Once the spaces were hovered and ancient smelly socks and other odd finds were removed we unpack the new beds. At this point I am tempted to surrender and drown my sorrows. One metal side is more bent than a nine-bob note and will never fit to anything. Negotiations between He and Me are swift and I get the short straw. Back on the north peculiar again. When I mentally factor in time and petrol I reckon it would have cost the same to pay through the nose at a proper department store, and have the damn things delivered.

My expectations of the customer service department are not huge, but was impressed with the new deli-style ticketing system. Got slightly scared by the customer having a tantrum (to herself) asking why oh why do they hate their customers so. The chap who served me was confused as to why I was only returning one box of a two-box product. I explained very slowly: am not returning it – want new one – not bent - tonight – for my child – to sleep in - the old bed is in pieces. After only an hour’s wait I could see a worried glint in his eyes as I insisted on opening the box to inspect the product. Just couldn’t face a fourth trip on the north peculiar.

Two beds built later, along with promises of never jumping on them, we finally sit down with a glass of wine at 10pm. All children abed. Hurrah. 10.10pm gorgeous boy and the little one are down complaining new beds are itchy.

Can’t think of a better way for He-who-must-be-adored to spend his time off.

Into the Garden

Hurrah. He-who-must-be-adored has taken some time off from saving London to play happy families. What with the weather being so nice n’all we spent Sunday in the garden – getting rid of that wintry neglected look, ready for the fun and frolics of summer.

Some time ago, when the weather was not so nice, two fence panels deserted us. Such dull chores were neglected due to the bad bad weather and the busyness of us. The Easter holidays are just the time to attend to deserted chores. Trouble is, the whole of norf London has the same idea and fence panels are nowhere to be found. Heigh ho, onto another job.

Long before the fence panels moved on and before He-who-must-be-adored spent 18 months limping due to injury, I asked for a hard standing for the swinging bench. The lawn was worn out by all those happy feet. He-who-must-be-adored loves this sort of request as it involves digging. Digging is His thing. When stressed, digging is THE thing, so He says. The very next week a skip appeared, he took time off, and he started to dig. And dug he did. A lot. The result? A pit of despair some 16ft by 10ft. Since when his leg wasn’t capable of doing anything and then London needed a lot of saving. Two years later the pit of despair stands in the very middle of my garden full to bursting with weeds. Is this a good time to discuss it again?

We have, for the most part, been successful in avoiding talk of the pit. Mention of it erupts into a negative atmosphere between us. And it is fair to say we have enough of those. But do we really want a third summer with the pit of despair staring forlornly back at us? Do we want visitors to enquire what IS the plan here? When we don’t have an agreed one. Shall I bite the bullet and just order ‘stuff’ to fill it? What ‘stuff’ do you order? Where do you go to order such ‘stuff’? He was so proud of his digging achievement but then considered his part done.

The swinging bench still swings on mud.

Oh the heaviness of gardening.

Cigarettes and Alcohol

Thought I'd mention, as am supposed to be blogging about being a non-smoker, that it's been a bloody long time since I had a fag. Today I really wanted one. But not enough to have one. Just wish my clothes didn't hurt - what with carrying all that extra weight. Alcohol am not doing so well on - although managing to keep it to weekends and only appear to be drinking fizzy stuff - a good thing me thinks!

The Roman Way

When looking for lost items what I mainly find is dirt, the odd bit of dust, and lots of hair ties. Made the mistake of attending domestic chores. Avoided breaking my neck bringing down dusty roman blind. Undoing knots is not in my skill-set so after 20 mins hacked off the strings with newly re-found sharp scissors. Pity I then used too hot a wash. Put blind back up hoping the crumpled shrunken edges wouldn’t notice. It notices. Will have to buy a new one. Surely it’d be cheaper and easier to employ a cleaner again? (That for the particular benefit of He-who-must-be-adored should he ever bother to read my blog).

Another weekend another costume drama. Despite providing Gorgeous Boy with white Roman costume ages ago, on Friday the school provided a red one. But School’s don’t cater for handsomely tall chaps like my Gorgeous Boy. Eventually discovered the cause of his bad mood on Friday evening was the thought of wearing a long red dress. Can’t have that, so spent Sunday afternoon running up a red Roman Soldier’s Tunic. Great he said. What about the grey bit? 4pm on Sunday is not a good time to discover the need for a grey bit. Somehow managed to find some silver fabric that I fashioned into Roman armour as drawn by 9-year-old boy. It wasn’t a masterpiece, and could have benefited from a tape measure being found (rather than all that guess work). But he was happy he no longer had to wear a dress. Drama over.

Should be at the junior school right now, enjoying gorgeous boy in An Evening of Roman Entertainment. Except they only allow 2 tickets per family. We are more than 2. And no, as I have said many times, my mother can’t help. What’s with the assumption that mothers are alive and prepared to baby-sit? Sometimes feel only families with one child and grandparents are catered for. Bitter and twisted? Moi?

So, rearranged work to watch the Roman Entertainment this afternoon and had to wipe away a tear of pride and joy at my boy’s solo singing. The voice of an angel. The little one was also allowed to watch during school time. She loved it so much she insisted on having the tweenager’s ticket for the evening performance. Now that’s dedication.

In truth was rather pleased at having to leave work early. Am getting distressed with Captain Chaos latest game. It’s something he and The Smiler have been doing since early childhood. But why am I suddenly included in their boy games? The shock of being jumped out on is no fun when your over 21 and despite your heart banging in your chest you pretend you knew they were hiding all along. Pretence being the most important aspect of the game. Of course. Just like the pretence that giving up your career (in a fashionable glass box in the city ) in exchange for being jumped out on by your brother (in a portacabin in the northest part of North London) is all you ever wanted. Bitter and twisted?

Doubly distressed to find a Maureen Lipman book on my shelf. Not that there's anything wrong with Maureen, just I have no recollection of buying, borrowing, nor reading the thing. Distress increases with quick read of page 2: “I have alas reached the stage when I can read a book until ¾ of the way through before realising I’ve already read it”. Now isn’t that something to look forward to?

All the small things

Twenty-eight days without smoking and one day without losing anything, including any weight! Not that I’m trying. Unless replacing crumpets with croissants count.

One person’s gain is another’s loss. Bestmumchum lost her car keys and with them the ability to demobilise the demobiliser. Calls to mechanics run anything but smoothly - if she could bring the car in she’d hardly need their services. In frustration she’s resorted to wearing trainers and running between appointments. And all this after being woken at 4am by the large cock next door - her neighbour has a rooster! If bestmumchum could mobilise her car she’d have bought an airgun by now. This seems out of character yet strangely not - since that chilling incident with the Truant Police.

The little one is under the weather after freezing on our wet Sunday out. Still we send her to school. A day at home is a waste when all she wants is to apply stickers. This is one of the few parenting issues we agree over – the irritating difficultly of removing stickers from household appliances, along with the embarrassment of not noticing them about your person. The lure of the school trip to the post office swung it for school.

Incapable of keeping a surprise we had to ring Supersis to warn her of impending mail. She asked was it true that I am all of a fluster at work? Captain Chaos’ hobby of ribbing me has gone too far.

True the majority of our customers would win, hands-down, any kind of ugly competition anywhere in the world. The exception is endearingly referred to as ze Charming French Bloke. The name gives some small hint of his special appeal. But no, his presence does not leave me flustered; nor do I flush red at mention of his name; nor have I been taking so much more care over my work appearance since his appearance. True he provides some light relief in an otherwise deadly dull place. But that’s all folks.

Breakfast in Bed

Yesterday Mother’s Day started brilliantly. Breakfast, handmade cards and Sunday papers all served in bed. Pity from then on a downward trend appeared.

For four years we’ve talked about the London St Patrick’s Day Parade. Mother’s Day was the perfect opportunity to do the deed. Despite being invited for lunch by Supersis we set off on the train.

Surfacing in town we were struck by the uncomfortable combination of freezing heavy winds and sheets of sheer ice sleeting upon us. A marathon trek finally landed us in a coffee shop with enough standing room to enter. We were lucky and found three seats for the five of us. Miserably sipping hot chocolate while defrosting the dustbin lids, He-who-must-be-adored asked whether it was worth seeing if the lunch invite still stood.

By the time the sun came out we’d managed to miss the big parade. Determined to enjoy the whole paddy experience we let the lids be conned out of their pocket money (and some more) in exchange for green and tacky memorabilia.

Covent Garden was a disappointment. Hearing the droning tones of Ken Livingstone in Trafalgar Square nearly finished us off. And comments from He-who-must-be-adored on the number of ‘traveller-types’ was not, apparently, an attempt to denigrate my cultural heritage.

The Irish dancing in Leicester square was the highlight of the day for me. Gorgeous boy, the Tweenager and the little one were horrified to see me joining in. Well if I can’t sing and prance about on Mother’s Day when can I?

The freak weather conditions took a turn for the worse again, and faced with three miserable children and a non-speaking partner I decided Hamleys was just the ticket. It did the trick, temporarily.

Homeward bound He made us run from the tube to our train. But then he’s not the one with little legs or a weakened bladder. Or both. I was hugely relieved to make it onto the train without anyone (including myself) either getting lost or wetting themselves.

Exhausted and chilled to the bone He asked whether I’d taken any meat out of the freezer for supper? Silly me. I had presumed that on Mother’s Day I would be absolved from any kind of catering responsibility.

He saw the writing on the wall and did what he does: chucked alcohol at the situation. He knows me well, as after two glasses of chilled champagne, I thought what could be more perfect and special as a Mother’s Day meal than kebab and chips?

Hung over this morning, me not working and him working lates, thought we might have a relaxing morning together. But the hunt for the missing item continued. We were searching for a necklace of mine, purchased by He after great effort in tracking down a supplier in London from a small picture in a magazine. The Tweenager borrowed it for a party and swears blind it came back into the black hole that is this house. All cupboards and hiding places have been emptied, sorted and searched.

The good news is I found my long lost bangle, wedding ring and the sharp scissors. No sign of any necklace though. The hunt continues.

Don't stop me now

Yesterday was one of those days where the plan changed and changed again. I planned to walk to and from the Gym in a 5k circuit, do a Pilates class then attack the domestic mountain of chores. Dull I know, but the work out was needed to address the expanding girth and on the domestic front a 3 week leave of absence is starting to show. The plan changed at 9.05 after speaking to the Forensic Examiner whose day had already gone wrong. If hers had then mine would too.

After no persuasion I settled for just the walk. Half-way through my face was puce and my legs were like jello. Twas all I could do but turn round and head home. Thank god for the upbeat tempo on my ipod or I would never have made it. So very pleased heart attack sensations were relieved once home and sports bra (purchased when stone lighter) was removed.

Once recovered I set off to meet the Forensic Examiner at the designer’s house. Unfortunately the designer didn’t get the text saying we were visiting. After tracking her down in the Highstreet I wondered if being out was a deliberate act.

The designer baby was abed so couldn’t admire him. The forensic twins are beautiful, gorgeous and lovely. But twin babes are hardly conducive to a girly chat over coffee. The Designer saw the writing on the wall and headed off to an appointment, probably fictitious. After a 15 minute nap both twins woke screaming. Now I know why we haven’t met up during the day for over a year. The Forensic Examiner is right. What’s the point? Taking them out of their routine is a mistake. Also mistaken was the man asking for directions. Clearly blind and deaf he didn’t see us both struggling with kicking twins or hear their screams that they did not want to be put in a buggy under any circumstances.

Though the Designer was out it didn’t stop us banging on her door and demanding the lovely au-pair let us in to restore good humour to the babes. I made my escape soon after.

En route on the daily banana hunt I realised how completely over the whole babe thing I am. Then why, I ask myself, have I agreed to a summer holiday with my family, the Designer, the Forensic Examiner and all their families and babies? Pool looked good?

The Irish Rover

St Patrick’s Day. To be sure, there have been times in my past, when St Paddy’s night was spent jigging about with a belly full of the black stuff. Not so now.

He-who-must-be-adored spent the morning in grumpy git mode lecturing us about lost property, before heading off to save London. Just as well. Had he stayed a moment longer he would have needed saving himself.

My little one has promised to try really hard to not pick her nose all day tomorrow. Well it is Mother’s Day. Ah the joys of motherhood.

Those were the days of our lives

National no smoking day today. It’s enough to make you want to smoke. Or is that just me?

My little one had her first school assembly this morning. A proud moment. Even if she did have but three words to say. I like to think they were meaningful. And important.

He-who-must-be-adored took a day off from saving London to attend. And the school’s open afternoon. I’ve attended them for the last five years so thought it only fair that he should have a turn. Except I forgot he has a bit of problem with the whole school environment. In general. And the school our dustbin lids attend in particular. For some reason he keeps getting told off. And he doesn’t take kindly to that. I am there every day and never get told off. He got told off four times today. So then he comes home grumping that its like, its like, well like being back at school again. That’s because it is a school I say.

Off He harrumphs. For a cigarette. Behind the shed. So much for no smoking day.

Reflections

A sad day. Last year, on a beautifully glorious sunny spring day like today, I would have been in some green space with my little one. With some friends, with picnics and flasks, with bikes, trikes, buggies and gossip. Lots of gossip. Now my little one is institutionalised. She spends her days inside. As do I. Not even venturing out for a smoke. Twenty-one days is an awful long time. Three weeks and not one single little puff has passed my lips. Roll me a fag and call me a liar. But I still wouldn’t smoke it. Not now.

Have given up the patches as well and am missing the stimulating nature of nicotine. I liked the fact I used to be able to stay awake past 9pm. Have made deliberate effort tonight to not live the life of a slug – double dose of coffee helped.

So pleased one of my new year’s resolutions is finally holding. Even though I didn’t quite get into the swing of it til February.

Another reso was to finish the hallway. We’re on the home straight having made it down to the ground floor. It’s a kinda slow old business, what with life, the kids, He-who-must-be-adored saving London so much, etc etc. When I’m not sleeping I could pick up a brush. But have learnt after numerous demonstrations and lectures that my brushstrokes do not meet the high standards of He who normally wields the brush. Is three years to decorate a hallway excessive?

When it is all done and dusted (hardly likely) I’ve decided the long narrow space needs some reflection. Not the sort that questions life – just mirrors. And not just to widen the hallway and get rid of that Alice in Wonderland feeling. I have another motive: the strictly strategic reason of me saving face.

One morning, a while ago, in my former, smoking life, I was carefully beautifying myself with precision application of expensive cosmetics (ie 2 minute slap attack) when I was called away on a peace-keeping mission. Some time later (much later) that very same day I happened to briefly catch my reflection. All was not well in the face department. It took a few moments to work out. My averagely freakish appearance is usually enhanced with the magic of a mascara wand. This was a tad more tragic. I’d only got as far as applying mascara to one eye. Freaky one eye was disappearing into the back of my head whilst the other was swollen wide with long lashes. Worse was mentally counting all the bastards I’d bumped into during day who’d not mentioned it. What’s worse – them thinking that’s normal for me or just not noticing?

So far I have one small mirror hung quite near the front door. The recent sunshine – much as it is welcome and lovely – is not kind on the reflection of faces like mine, past the first flush of youth. Despite the position of new mirror, am still failing to remember to check my appearance before leaving. Plan to line the entire length of hallway with mirrors of all shapes and sizes in the hope that one will catch my unmascara-ed beady little eye.

I now wonder – those references to my being pale last week - could I have got disturbed when I’d only got as far as the base coat? Too grim to contemplate.

My bed beckons.

I Try

Major miracle alert. Made it through to the third Sunday of Lent without smoking. Feeling ever so slightly smug.

Haven't blogged for a few days. Would love to say due to wild partying and general galavanting. Sadly, spent past three evenings sofa snoozing. The tabs for 'general well being' have generally left me being not quite so well. According to the great teller of medical truths, the Internet, when you take iron at the same time as thyroxine, as I have been, they cancel each other out. General tiredness therefore rules OK. Heigh ho, all bad things must come to an end. At least no more morning horse tabs for me.

My resolve to get out more – if only for the sake of the blog – took me to the west end on Friday. Arranged to meet my old pal, The Producer, to run round a gallery. How very cultural (and unlike me). But the sun was shining and after such a long dull winter, who can resist that feeling of warm sun on your face? So we had frothy alfresco instead. So pleased that after knowing each other for nearly 20 years age has not withered us – well not our tongues anyway. Did animated yackety yacking non-stop for more than three hours. Came away wondering why it's been so long. Oh yeah I remember. The small matter of my life not being my own.

Paid the price for an interesting Friday, by spending Saturday in Tescos. That was after I'd not resolved the issue of the mislaid bank card. I know it is in that big box of lost items in Morrisons. That's where it always is when not in my purse. Not that I have much previous for this. I haven't been anywhere else. Except the post office, and have already checked their box (surprisingly large number of spectacles this week). Despite this being a regular routine, and despite being married for a decade and a half, do try to keep this aspect of me behind the back of He-who-must-be-adored. For some reason I forgot this time. Lucikly I had Barclays lost and stolen pre-recorded option list to shush his lecture on how many years He has held a bank card, without loss.

Supersis came to the rescue, as ever, inviting us over for Saturday night supper. Delighted we accepted. When she called back half an hour later saying, she couldn't actually be bothered to cook, and had booked a table halfway between me and she, He couldn't get to grips with what sort of invitation was that? Perhaps it's because we're related but I couldn't see the prob. Great overindulgent time had by all. Think He-who-must-be-adored and Mr Pacing-with-fag/fone enjoyed themselves. It is not easy to determine as they spent most of the evening outside. Smoking.

Oh the smugness of me.

Mama

Have gone off email. Something's wrong when the junk outweighs the interest by 20 to 1. And, as if I don't waste enough of my life on the great banana hunt, the Supermarkets can get at me via email. Today Sainsburys told me to 'treat you mother'. John Lewis said 'spoil your mum this mother's day. It's a special day, so whatever kind of mum she is; new, embarassing, best friend, super - make sure you treat her…'. Nowhere did it make reference to mothers like mine – long ago dead and buried. Unlike the camp florist who says everyone has a mother, alive or dead. And they all love flowers. Kerching.

John Lewis slightly redeemed themselves by stating 'If you're having problems with this message click here'. Thought click to reincarnate sounded rather catchy.

Tweenager is dropping big hints on what I might like for mother's day, even though it's still some way off. I thought a day off from peace-keeping missions and general dogsbody duties. She thought 'the slummy mummy handbook'.

Felt like a bad mother at swimming tonight. And it wasn't just my ipod head bopping (how can you resist ABBA?). I marveled, through steamed up glasses, at how well my little one was doing. 'Til I noticed there was more than one little one in a blue swimsuit.

Can take heart from the fact I am not as bad as bestmumchum. Usually she wins the best mum contest hands down. (My hands being permanently up in the 'surrender' position). Where she can generally put us mere mommy mortals to shame I can have the last laugh this week. Yup, shock horror, bestmumchum got 'done' as they say, by the Truant Police. But what's to do when bowl patrol is over, and their institutions won't have them back 'til they've not upchucked for 24 hours. Shopping for sports wear may not have been the best choice.

Congratulations

Congratulations to me. (Well, if I don’t say it no other bugger will.) Two weeks sans cigs. The idea of cigarettes still pops into my mind. Frequently. But it’s getting easier to dismiss. Less easy to dismiss is the state of my stomach. In addition to the increasing girth and the fluff-enhanced sticky residue left by nicotine patches, I now have some squares filled in with an eczema-like rash. Hmm attractive. Presume using out-of-date patches found at back of drawer from previous giving-up attempts wasn’t one of my better ideas.

He-who-must-be-adored has turned into a yo-yo smoker. One day he does one day he doesn’t. So long as he doesn’t do it anywhere near me what does it matter? It’s not as if I ever see him these days anyway.

Congratulations to the NHS on their latest ruse to reduce waiting lists. I finally remembered to chase within designated hours. Low and behold after much to-ing and holding I hear I will see a consultant before the end of April. Can’t give me an exact date. Can’t give me an exact explanation. My theory is if they write to me they’ll put me on a computer. If I’m on a computer I’m on a list. If I’m on a list it must be a waiting list. Despite not being on an NHS waiting list I continue to wait.

Congratulations to me again on getting another complaint about my blog. My brother, Inspector Gadget, doesn’t think he’s been fairly portrayed. Let’s see: whose new clipper gadget gave him tyre-like tracks on the back of his head? Who wasted a whole weekend playing with a mobile phone hands free gadget? Ah the magic of magnets. And, exactly what kind of gadget caused the removal of a strip of his forearm hair?

And congratulations to Godper (boyfriend of my niece, the Capitalist) for knocking the Geek off the top spot in potential son-in-law rankings. The rock chick thinks buying your girlfriend’s father books is a sad attempt at getting in the good books. Jealous me thinks as her Ready-to-rock-star beau is too cool to compete.

Hey even more congratulations to me on surviving two Mary Poppin’s moments this week. I helped in Class 1 for a whole afternoon and retained a smile. What’s not to like about lots of little ones? Snot perhaps? Lots! Believe any one who survives a day in that environment without shouting must be super human. Perhaps should add DNA to new teacher checks to ensure they’re not all aliens. Had a rare night off from taxi-ing last night so I thought it’d be good idea for lids to have some friends over. With hindsight what was I thinking with seven? But they had a ball. In the kitchen. And the hallway. And the playroom. And every other space in the house.

Isn’t a bit of sunshine a marvellous thing?

Don't know why

I don't know why, but my bad mood blogs seem to have caused some confusion. To put the matter straight: I really love my family, especially the dustbin-lids.

I know as parents you are supposed to be the font of all knowledge. But I am only human and happily admit there's a lot I don't know. I don't know why most of my emails ask me to extend a penis I do not have. I don't know why, when I bother to write a blog my Internet browser will not allow me to view it. I can edit 'til the cows come home. So I must have loaded it. Just can't view it. As if I don't feel nervous enough sending my musings into cyberspace to then not be able to view it only encourages the conspiracy theorist within. On second thoughts, it's probably a good thing. Viewing your own is probably a cringe-maker too far.

I don't know why so many things beep in this house. The super-dooper-supposed-to –do-everything machine does nothing but bleep, like a hungry child. A discarded watch, beeps every hour, on the hour, yet I don't know why the beep doesn't last long enough to aid location and destruction.

I don't know why the boiler does nothing when it should chuck out heat. Nor why it chucks out heat when it should be doing nothing. I don't know why my telephone will not allow me to dial any phone number containing a 3 or a 6. Nor do I have any idea why every number I want to call contains a 3 or a 6? Why does the answerphone tell me that most messages are left in the wee small hours. Is everyone in my life an insomniac? Why does the wireless connection no longer work?

I don't know why when my doctor suggested I see an NHS consultant that 4 months later I still have no word of an appointment. Nor why can I only ring between 9 and 12 to chase the appointment. Or even why do I never remember this until 12.15?

I know not why, no matter how many bananas I buy there's never one left when I want one? And why brown bruised ones that have travelled to and from various schools, forgotten at the bottom of a bag, obviously no longer count as bananas.

And most shocking of all: I don't know why mother nature's evil and twisted twin, the wicked witch of aging, came and stole my glossy locks one night leaving in their place an outsized and past-its-sell-by-date brillo-pad?

Easy Like Sunday Morning

Considered starting smoking again when Friday's foul mood continued for the majority of Saturday. But then He-who-must-be-adored returned from work with a waft of woodbines. He stank. With the benefit of hindsight, it probably was not the best thing to say to a man, just home, after 16 hours at work. On a Saturday. Should have let him take his coat off first.

But his stench put my non-smoking resolve back on track. And I have survived without smoking through to the second Sunday of Lent. Even the truly honest tween says she prefers me shouting to smoking. And the little one likes the fact that I don't keep disappearing.

Last week three people told me I looked pale. Was I feeling OK? I was until three people told me I looked pale. It's my Celtic heritage. I'm always pale. Am so pale I have, on occasion, been mistaken for a corpse. But that's normal. Isn't it? On Friday I had to shop again for bananas (I'd only bought 45 at the beginning of the week and that's clearly not enough for this banana-obsessed family) when my eye was drawn to pills 'for general well-being'. I bought them. Hoping they'll do what they say on the can. In truth I don't hold much hope that one small brown pill of iron and multi-vits can shift my general ill feeling. As I don't think it's anything to do with being ill. Think it's tiredness. And being over 40. And motherhood. And domestic drudgery. And working. And having a husband that works long hours. And not having a live-in nanny. And giving up the fags. And OD'ing on super-strength patches. And sudden withdrawal of patches as I thought they were making me feel odd.

Took the first 'for general well-being' pill yesterday. Slept for 14 hours last night. Hope the two are not related.

Strangely, woke with much improved mood this morning. Slapped on a patch and greeted the day. Wanted to explain to lids that I am just an ordinary mommy and this is just an ordinary house. Not a café nor short order chef in sight. Instead bit my tongue and made four different breakfasts.

What I miss most about smoking is the escape, the break, the chance to re-gather your thoughts. Cig time was no-kid time. Children understand the fag-force-field they are not allowed near. It lasts just long enough for me to reclaim some small semblance of sanity. But being a non-smoker I have no escape. Just keep on going. For them, now every minute is a potential mad-mommy moment.

But spring was in the air today. The sun was shining. Blossom was on the trees. Green shoots were sprouting. The sound of men-folk playing out with their power tools. Except my man. He's at work. Again.

So I decided what this family needed was a day out. Perhaps a lovely woodland walk. Made four packed lunches (with the obligatory four different contents) whilst begging children to dress in suitable outdoor attire.

Some two and half hours later we were ready to leave. We piled in the car to the pitter patter of tiny raindrops on the windscreen. I ignored them hoping the lids wouldn't notice. Did feel a tad guilty when the pitter patter became huge wet dollops and the gentle kiddy moans grew to a giant crescendo of cries. But I needed to get out.

The tweenager made a call. Frantically. She sourced a family at home. And invited ourselves over.

Despite being technically true, eating our packed lunches round the Smiler family's table is not really a day out. Yet a good day was had by all. And, fresh tea is so much better than the stuff I'd stewed in the flask. And left at home.

Now I've got that Sunday night feeling. Homework not complete, (even though I personally don't have any). And regardless of the fact the washing machine has been on the go all weekend the laundry basket is full. And despite the declaration of war I cried on the domestic mess at the beginning of the weekend, it's still here. I did reclaim the dining room table at one point. But it was a short-lived thing. It's Sunday night and I surrender.

Anyway, have decided to subscribe to the belief that only dull women have clean homes (I must be sooooooooo interesting me).

Always look on the bright side of life

Since moving blog to mothergoat have been unable to log in. Ah the joys and wonders of modern technology.

Yesterday's most foul mood I have put down to experience and lack of patch. Thought I was doing well enough not to bother and the sticky residue was aggravating especially since every bit of fluff known to man was stuck around said sticky stuff.

He-who-must-be-adored was nearly He-who-is-no-longer. Luckily I had social arrangements last night and left him to his own devices. A quiet evening out. Met up with two dear old friends. Separately, they have recently endured more sadness than is fair, bearable or imaginable. Resolved on my way home to live life to the full, enjoy every moment as if it were my last and to celebrate every day.

New outlook slipped somewhat when tried to get into bed and found a child doing a starfish impression in my space. Struggled even further when greeted, at day-break, by a small cowboy looking for her gun. Ignoring this, Tigger returned 10 minutes later looking for her head.

This morning my spam filter asked if I wanted to add motherhood to my blocked list. Tempting....

Could be worse. I could be in his shoes. He-who-must-be-adored had to rise at 4am to work. Touching base via phones we manage a more civilised tone than yesterday (He also thought patches could be dispensed with hence his Cheery Bob routine).

Following my lead from last week, He spent the evening killing two birds with one stone: bought ten fags to satisfy craving and smoked them all, in quick succession, to destroy the evidence. Luckily for the future of our marriage He's at work and back on the patches today.

Pump up the volume (not)

Ten whole days since I trashed the ash and only ten pounds heavier. Could be worse.

In addition to looking for the little one’s off switch, there are times when a volume control is desirable.

On yesterday’s quiet walk to school we were greeted by a crowd. The little-one loudly asked if there was a wedding (the last reason our street was crowded). Too late to tell her to pipe down, she spotted a hearse. Shouting, she excitedly told the crowd she’d seen one of those before. It was a cage. To put dead things in. Well more of a wardrobe than a cage because it was made of wood and stuff and did you know you need a very big very special car if you've got a dead wardrobe. And flowers. We came the long way home.

Worked today. To make up time off on bowl patrol. He-who-must-be-adored played phone tag with me for most of the morning. But please don’t be confused by the word ‘played’ and think there was any sense of fun at all. When he eventually got through to lecture me on how many attempts blah blah blah I never did hear what he wanted to speak to me about. Is it because on ‘earlies’ he misses lecturing me in the mornings. You’d think by 40 I wouldn’t have to listen to it, so I didn’t. He cut off my sarky tones. And good riddance too.

Then had to endure boss bemoaning the difficulty of empire building when I’m talking bollocks on the phone. But it wasn't bollocks. Both supersis and the designer have repetitive strain injury from redailing ticket hotlines. Both have struck gold. Although isn’t it unfair that all UK venues believe that if you need a wheelchair space you can’t have any friends. The O2 dome hasn’t actually built the wheelchair spaces yet, so though dosh is debited, you’ll have to wait to find out where your seats are.

Supersis has a ticket. Her daughter has a ticket. The designer has a ticket, on her birthday, no-less. And I have a ticket. Hurrah, hurrah, hurrah. The truth is I never really got over the departure of Robbie, and although it’s never quite been the same since, I CAN’T WAIT to see Take That relight me fire. Oh yes indeedy.

Was brought down from this reliving of youth high by a customer turning up. Yes I could take his money, yes I could give him a receipt. No I cannot forgive Captain Choas for planting, in my drawer, the sound machine. And no I can’t see the funny side of turning my back on a customer to the sound of a woman re-enacting that famous when harry met sally scene.

What's the story, morning glory?

World Book Day today. For reasons best known to themselves the Infant and junior schools celebrated a day early. Wonder what kind of lesson is that?

So costume drama was added to yesterday's morning tasks. The Shoemaker's Elf's sadness at wearing wellies for the rain took longer than the time I'd allocated (none). Also failed to factor in time for making-up sensible q's for the English teacher, praying for the only pair of sharp scissors in the house to reveal their whereabouts, and how much longer it takes to make sandwiches with frozen bread, never mind costume alterations with a blunt instrument. Resisted temptation to do indescribable damage to something, anything, with same.

With no obvious temperatures or paleness I thought the kid's unwell moans were worries. Worries that everyone else will be in uniform because you got the wrong date. Easy to understand when World Book Day wasn't for another 24 hours. En-route we spotted a dinosaur, a cowboy, a fair number of fairies and princesses and more Harry Potter's than we cared to count. Phew. Though tempted to crawl back to bed I half-heartedly attacked the breakfast war zone and went to work.

Accidental turn of mobile to silent meant I missed the call from the junior medical room about my boy. Cardinal Sin No 2: he told them he'd told me. When I eventually called he'd got bored and gone for lunch. Can't have been that ill? Gave a solemn promise to Matron that I'd answer my phone and collect him should he show up in 'medical' again. Two minutes later I answered their call and made a joke about spelling test avoidance. But is was now the little-one was poorly. How many black marks could I get in one morning?

Driving in the driving rain I pondered the positive: we could miss swimming. A relief as the secondary school parent's night meant I had no slot in which to cook and feed the lids. As I tried to move the shoemaker's elf she vomited again. I didn't know I was on bowl patrol so only had my hand to hand. Finding the positive, again, it was a good thing I couldn't find my rings this morning, thereby saving time scrubbing sick out of the stones with a toothbrush.

Felt slightly surreal carrying a vomiting elf to car. Grabbed gorgeous boy as well considering chances of leaving house again any time soon were looking slim.

Much as I moan about the little one's live-wire nature (even Supersis looks for the off-switch), it's horrible to see her silently slumped with a glum face.Thank god He-who-must-be-adored tuned into the tone of my voice and abandoned saving London to save us. Wished he hadn't bothered when he walked in doing his bad Cheery Bob impression.

He still hasn't smoked though. He did parent's evening whilst I did bowl patrol in quarantine. Highly impressed that He took notes. He said he has previous experience of my interrogation techniques. He continued in hero mode whilst I wore the little one round my neck like an accessory. Bowl patrol only lasted eight hours.

Today the little one is on the mend. And the chat is back. Bestmumchum turned up with a take-away frothy knowing I was stuck indoors going stir crazy.

Actually quite busy in-between wearing the little one and reclaiming the ground floor from small plastic objects, stains and bugs. Considering buying shares in disinfectant manufacturer.

It's a shame

Regret the huge number of mast erection objections I've signed. My part of London (specifically my kitchen) has crap mobile reception. Yesterday afternoon I missed a mate's call offering me a west-end preview ticket.

So, sat in the kitchen of my brother, Inspector Gadget, while my eldest lids did youth club. The Inspector lost another argument with three of his daughters. He knows, as the only man in the house of a thousand hormones, he'll never win.

Without harping on, had I received the call, could have been up-west, warmed with V&Ts, enjoying the spectacle of the buff Dan Radcliffe. In the buff. Instead I got my brother's revenge plan: to publicly rank each of their boyfriends. (The IT fix puts The Geek in the lead.) Deep as my love is, for all my friends and family...

Today was another dull day: Wet on way to school. Played the perennial fave game of dodge the dog-do. Had mick taken before I got out of the car at work. Ever thankful for the afternoon's dry run.

Was a grumpy taxi-driver tonight and had a rare row with the gorgeous boy. He doesn't read enough. Nor puts much effort into choosing. Had he looked inside the latest one he'd have seen that Thumbelina would have trouble with the print. He said it was his love of penguins wot swayed it. The tweenager briefly broke off from manic texting to ask what kind of teacher puts the Penguin book of Zen Poetry in a Year 4 library anyway?

Homework from the Tween's English teacher: ask your parents for three questions they'd like to ask at parents evening. My suggestion, as ever, was rejected. I only wanted a view on Alan Bennett's belief that Auden is 'too difficult a poet to bother with'?

And Finally: He-who-must-be-adored must be congratulated for going a whole day without a cigarette. Am in shock. At his effort. And, my strength of feeling on realising he was wearing one of MY patches.

If only I could congratulate him on retaining his good humour and positive outlook.Cheery Bob he ain't.

Some kind of wonderful

Well polish my halo and call me a saint. It has been 7 whole days since my last cigarette. One since my last drop of drink. That's some kind of threshold.

Last night I had a dream. I found a solo cig in a packet while doing the domestic drudgery (I knew it must be a dream as I don't devote too much time to that kind of thing in reality). I put it in my pocket to save it for a rainy day. Even by the end of the dream, when I tried to have a conversation with the alarm on my mobile, I realised I hadn't smoked it. I'll admit I did keep getting it out of my pocket. And sniffing it. So now even in my dreams I'm a non-smoker.

Have returned to my senses. Taste, I lost again today on a too-hot cup of tea. Smell highlight: getting a sniff of my perfume, hours after administering it. Lowlight: the whiff of yesterday's broccoli when I open the bin. Scrummy time now.

A change is gonna come

Dispensed with the mommy-uniform of stains, denim and sensible coat. Used the time usually spent applying warm layers applying slap. A regret as the evil wind whipped round the playground.

A day-off obviously doesn't start 'til after morning bell and you're ensconced in the coffee shop. Felt virtuous having a frothy without a fag. Strike 6 to the Momma. Good feeling faded when a Lego knight revealed his position, poised for battle, in the left sleeve of the woolly excuse I chose as a coat today. I surrender to hatred of the way I lose the children and gain small plastic accessories.

The obligatory train delay allowed a chance meeting with an old mate, a theatre designer. Didn't chat much as she was in mobile-phone-work-mode. Noted that even designers wear warm coats. Couldn't help but overhear one call about a distressed old bag. Relieved to hear it was a costume accessory not an aging drama queen.

Finally hit the shops 40 minutes before my lunch date. That's 10 minutes longer than most solo shopping sessions since starting my family 12 years ago. Five years ago I gave it all up: the full-time career, lunch-hours and purchasing new-season wardrobes in said lunch-hours. Thought I ought to at least bring up one of my babies.

Time out of the west-end has taken its toll. Felt slightly sick at seeing fabrics back in fashion that I wore as a seven year old. Ran through the department store frantically searching for something, anything. Hitting the Dannimac section and pondering their practical aspects was the lowest point. Panic purchased a photo-album I neither like nor need.

Fancied a fag. But want my future 50 year-old face to have half a chance of not looking like a crumpled piece of old leather. On a pit stop realised the nicotine patch attached to knickers rather than belly was the cause of the craving.

Had a lovely grown up lunch with two entertaining male ex-colleagues. Wondered whether one glass and a half counts as falling off the wagon? No Mexican waves so judged to be doing ok.

After that had the afternoon in the west end to myself. Oh what to do? Can't go home before He and the kids. Too cold for the long walk to the bookshop. Head to Peter Jones. Disappointed by the do-up: same stuff, just not-so-stuffy surroundings. Heating was in overdrive so broke out in a hot flush. A change is gonna come. Wonder whether aged 40 and one month am too young to worry about the start of the change? Wonder will I ever enjoy shopping again? As a test headed towards handbags. Didn't have the heart to spend £64,000 I don't have on something in brown. Spotted shape-enhancing bikinis but presume I'll be a size 54 by the summer and the label clearly said enhancing not bloody miracle worker. Desperate for a day-off trophy I grabbed a smock top.

On the train, mood came further down, about the need for change. Listening to Nora Jones didn't help. Feeling the same way all over again. Neither fashionable nor freaky. Just mumsy. What an admission. Even worse: McFly lifted my mood.

My obvious joy of the intro beats was infectious. The woman opposite smiled at my head banging, foot-tapping grin. Managed to restrain myself from singing loudly and out of tune. A flying insect marred lifted mood. Reacted calmly by waving hands around in the style of one with mental health issues.

The thing with wings landed on her bag opposite. Decided me whacking her bag with my paper would not be considered a friendly gesture especially as she'd avoided eye contact with me since the hand waving. But we had shared a smile. I should say 'there's a flying thing on you, except its not flying now'. But that would break the sacred convention of tube-travellers. Only the insane strike up conversations with strangers. (Unless there are extraordinary factors. Such as the extreme weather you might find in autumn, when the trees do that surprise leaf-shedding business). Relieved my guilt by convincing myself she was probably not smiling but laughing at me earlier. And anyone that reads a choral prospectus is unlikely to appreciate kindness from someone uplifted by McFly.

Walking home I gave thanks to the Nolan sisters. For putting me in the mood for dancing, through the door, with a grin from my grand day out.

Blame it on the boogie

Paid the price for Friday's frolic with glue and varnish and the stupor-spent Saturday. The Sunday hell of homework, housework and other dull deeds.

The gorgeous boy's Angel and Smiles homework foiled me with the fact it was angles and similes. Angles require a protractor. I have bought many. None were found within these walls. No admission for protractor liability from any of our children.

Must be those pesky burglars. Rather than breaking and entering, they enter and break things, or steal them. Returning often, they leave sticky footprints and muddy fingerprints. They use the last of the toilet roll, and put empty-juice cartons back in the fridge. A trail of wrappers and peels in their wake, they add pen marks to paint work. They use and lose the hairbrush. And whatever happened to the DVD controls? Am bored of looking. Strange how none of my dustbin-lids, I am assured, would ever ever do such things.

He trekked out to purchase a protractor whilst I did the high frequency words with the little one. How much practice does the word 'am' need? I chose angles so he could help with tweenage chemistry (I couldn't make head nor tail of it and suspect it wasn't in English).

Morrison's with Mustang Sally on the ipod was bearable. Just. But, listening to the Commitments did not make me more committed. The only light relief, now I have a non-smoker's sense of smell, was in the smelly candle section. Hardly a highlight.

While in this mode have to admit I can't stand Supermarkets. It's all that man handling. Of goods. Off the shelf, into the trolley. Out of the trolley, onto the belt. Off the belt, into the bag. Out of the bag and put away. Only to be brought out again for consumption in milliseconds.

He was a star today. He cooked in a big pot, managing to disguise an extraordinary number of vegetables. Saint Jamie would be proud. But then He has some making-up to do for allowing the little one to chose her own sandwiches last week. Does Jam have any nutritional value?

So all in all, a dull old day. Nothing happened worth writing home about let alone blog about. Still, here I am. I blog. Therefore I am.

Pleased to get my first feedback email today: 'Can you do it in a bigger font as we're all over 40 here and the old mince pies are a bit iffy'. As I said, all in all a dull old day.

Happiness, Happiness

Happy yesterday is over. Happy to start a fifth fag-less day. Happy we had a great Friday night. I know this from the pictures in my inbox. Memory somewhat fogged in a champagne mist. Luckily didn't drink as much as I was served having lost my ability to hold a glass around 9.30pm. What a waste of good champagne: on my skirt, the carpet, the sofa and the designer's trousers. Vague memory of being told to close my mouth for pictures – thought it was due to my too-wide grin. Discovered it was to deal with my chronic verbal diarrhoea.

Relieved drunken antics didn't extend to that booze Britain fave-past-time of breast baring. Only just. Much to the Mr Smut's disappointment. Am off the bubbles. For a while. Don't like the delusions. Such as believing bullying the entire party into Mexican waving, repeatedly, is a good idea. A bubble-fuelled tradition I started at the black-tie wedding of the Designer. Well it all smacked a tad too much of a smart do.

Sitting in the Forensic's house, opposite a field of cows, sipping champagne, overlooking the swimming pool, I pondered how far we've all come. The proof of humble beginnings in the birthday photo album. More pictures have arrived in my inbox of a girly gang seaside trip to visit the Chef. They didn't make it into the album as I deleted them the first time they arrived. Have seen saner-looking groups of mass murderers. Oh but didn't we have a laugh. Except for the Forensic One. Though to be fair, being 5 foot 1 and 7 months pregnant with monster-sized twins hardly makes for a chirpy outlook.

Speaking of which, Mr Smut, why have you not married her yet? It's worth it for the days off from the baby business: at least one night for the hen celebrations. A honeymoon must be at least two. She may not like you much this week but that's hardly the point.So all in all I was a bit of a disgrace on Friday. My behaviour being the main reason the birthday girl went to bed.

Need to draw on the positive: I may have been lashed but I didn't smoke. And the pix do look rather jolly.

To my sister-in-law, SheShe, I am forever in your debt for the buckets of sweet-tea you served whilst catering and caring for my off-spring as I was incapacitated in hangover hell. To Supersis thanks for the copious carbs at tea-time. Just the ticket to reconnect head to body. Both kindnesses will be re-paid.

To my niece the Techno Whizzkid. Thanks for the links. Point taken. Myspace is dull and needs jazzing up with techno script.

Finally, though in danger of the old pot and kettle business, He-who-must-be-adored wasn't looking good yesterday.

ouch

would the person who hit me over the head and hoovered my mouth in the night please own up

Memories are made of this

An unusually calm atmosphere here with the dustbin-lids farmed out. Should be a stolen night of bliss but He-who-must-be-adored is having a rare sofa snooze. He's worn himself out, what with saving London all week and painting the hallway all day. It was dark and dingy, in a shabby rather than chic way. Now it's brilliant. White. Sunglasses are required if you pass that way.

My forensic friend is 40 today, and we're going over to commiserate. Looking forward to getting together with more of the girl gang (hardly at our age), especially Mrs Lipman's Twin. Others with prior engagements will be sorely missed. He is looking forward to catching up with Mr Sarcastic, The Major and The Smutty One.

Regretted starting the making of gifts. In my usual style the lion's share of the making was left to today. Wonder will I get all that varnish off my hands before this evening. No doubt she'll be looking fab having shopped til she dropped with the Designer this week. I'll have just enough time to scrub up, throw something on and try looking like I've made the effort. The opposite of the current trend of making an effort and looking like you just threw it on.

Made her a birthday album. Enjoyed going through old pix. Hated that the first 25 years took no time with just a stick of glue. The last 5 years were more painful: the printer/scanner/copier sooperdooper do everything machine proved to be a pile of useless junk. Strangely thumping the top didn't work.

And, now it's finished. Not certain she'll appreciate the effort. No doubt the dodgy hair and clothes-styles of the past 30 years (and there are a shockingly large number) will be considered best brushed under the carpet. Was tres diplomatique and hacked off all appearances of exes. Mine and hers. A strangely satisfying exercise...

Must Be Love (Madness)

Attempted an early night last night as He-who-must-be-adored was working even later than his normal 'late' (saving London takes a lot of time). The first time I came back downstairs was for make-up-remover, (note why make-up is not worth the bother). Back at the sink I remember my mobile is somewhere downstairs. As the bedroom phone is lost (presumed broken) and the bedside alarm is sabotaged beyond repair (damaged denied by the little blighters) I need my mobile. The bedside clock will show the time if you know which button to press. I haven't touched it since I set it screeching in the wee small hours some time ago. If I want to know the time, in the dark, I flip the mobile so it lights up and point it to my watch (which has big hands). Why? Obviously the mobile typeface is too small to read without my glasses. Crap system. But it works.

Downstairs 'phone hunting I half-packed the lunch boxes, to potentially save precious morning minutes in the quest to exit the house on time. Finally into bed and can't remember whether I've locked the front door. This, He informs me, often, is of vital importance.

The third time downstairs I don't find keys but do find I've already locked the door. Also of vital importance is for keys to be in designated place. Since the fire safety officer visited gorgeous boy's class we've had to have a fire plan. Ours is again, crap, but at least we have one. It used to include a whistle beside my bed but that too is lost, presumed dead. Pleased to find my special pen, but no sign of keys, so head to bed defeated. In bed the keys show themselves.

This is one reason I never go to bed until He is home. For all his faults, which are many and varied, he does the night routine. And the finding. Without question. In that solid dependable way of his. In bed I realise replacing fags with fruit tea has a negative effect on the thrice-pregnant bladder. Up again.

Back in bed notice glasses are neither on my face nor beside bed. Blindly hunting them with morning-brain-fog may waste minutes I don't have to spare. I mentally re-trace my steps (up, down, up down, round and round etc etc) and find them next to the sink.

Collapse into bed, defeated. Too tired to read. I wonder what am I supposed to do with my cold feet without He with the hot body? I miss him. And am buggered if I'm heading downstairs again for a hot-water bottle

Day 2

A miracle me thinks. Still no fags. Haven’t done this well in yonks. My lungs may be cleaner, but they’re getting larger. Much larger. Lets face it, apples don’t really do it. Despite patch-wearing am craving – mainly crumpets. And nuts. And I may have had the odd bit of chocco as well. Am taking Jermaine Jackson’s advice that kindness is a strength. Being strong by not smoking and kind to myself by having whatever I damn well feel like. This strategy may have to be re-assessed following the week-end weigh-in.

My super sweet and special sister has excelled this week in capturing the spirit of what’s important to the little one. This term Class 1’s enchanted forest will be replaced by a post-office. So the super sister has been mailing notes and stationery on a daily basis. However, the delighted little one is adamant the stationery is for her. See it has her name on the envelope. She can read her name. And it doesn’t say Class 1.

Luckily she awoke in fine fettle today. The difference of an early bedtime. Maybe me and He should try it. She wanted to pick-up on last night’s chat and asked exactly ‘how are babies made? Twas a bit much for 7.15am but as I embarked on age-appropriate details He-Who-Must-Be-Adored shouted from the bathroom ‘can we leave that for another day, and can you both get dressed now please’.

Unusually, the gorgeous boy woke moaning. His new Polish swimming instructor doesn’t believe in the namby pamby approach and has promised reaching the top group within two terms. Think this morning’s aching buttocks have made that particular promise lose its appeal somewhat.

Office bound today so the Tweenager happily missed the bus and got a ride to avoid the drizzle. It hasn’t stopped all day. All that rain could make a person turn to fags you know. My boss‘Captain Chaos’is one of my six brothers. Working with him has its novel moments. And upsides. The downside, because of course there is one, is being referred to by my most-hated childhood nickname. Another brother, the Smiler, also uses our work site sometimes. I am tortured when they’re both in mick-taking mode and am ashamed to admit I revert to the same responses I gave when aged 10.

No grumpy taxi-ing tonight as the Piano teacher is coming to us. Neither the tweenager nor the gorgeous boy have practiced. He-Who-Must-Be-Adored thinks I shouldn’t waste hard-earned cash on things they don’t appreciate. I think they should be given the opportunities I never had. He feels the same. But about Lego.

I am a loser. Not in all aspects of my life. Just in this house. He-who-must-be-adored is a finder. The fact is I mainly lose things that he’s tidied away. His says it’s his way of switching off from the day job of saving London.  Sometimes think he’d like to tidy me and the kids away.

Will have to ‘post’ this now as am off to get the dustbin-lids from school. See ya later.

Bright Side of the Road

Get the 'no fags' flags out. Two whole days and I am officially a non-smoker. Surely?

Marched to school this pm in the drizzling rain accompanied by Van Morrison's Bright Side of the Road. Considered 'Why does it always rain on me?' but needed to get in good mom mood. Laughed at a teenager who bounced on a stray balloon, bursting it. When he turned round looking embarrassed I scowled. Really I was jealous. My best mummy buddy asked if it was the end of my working week that caused me to bounce into the playground. Embarrassed to admit it was down to Kylie and the ipod.

Supersis rang. Laughingly informed me of the expansion of the Class 1 post-office support programme to her entire office (nearly). The stationery cupboard was raided, parcelled up and posted to the little one. Hope postie arrives before afternoon pick up tomorrow or Class 1 will miss out: as she'll have a whole weekend to stash the stationery treasure. With that kind of supportive Auntie it's no surprise that the family tree on the Class 1 wall includes the little one herself, her brother, her sister, her cousin and her Aunt. No mention of mom nor Daddy. That's bleeding gratitude.

Though not usually prone to navel gazing (much) think the tummy rash may be an allergic reaction to belt buckle. With hindsight the flare-up coincided with the increase in overhang of my yummy-mummy muffin-top-tummy. In an attractive manner. Obviously.

Plucked up the courage to tell a few close ones that I now blog. Thought it only fair as I'm sharing the details of my day with the whole wide world. Responses have been varied: He-who-must-be-adored: suppose I'm slated. Captain Chaos: Why? Tweenager: will it show me up? The designer half of the 'accessorize or die duo' read it and rang, berating me for making her mascara run. Is my life that funny? No, it was seeing that I had '1 friends' consisting of some random bloke from the other side of the world that made her cry with laughter.

Despite a number of short telecons with the forensic half of the duo re champagne flutes, schedules and dips from my deli, I haven't 'fessed up yet. Fretting that she'll furrow her brow in her special way and inform me of the dangers I'm letting myself and loved ones in for. That, as they say, is what friends are for.

Ash Wednesday lateron

Gnarls (what kind of name is that?) Barklay’s Crazy proved to be the perfect upbeat tempo for the afternoon march to school. Something was needed to wipe away the non-smoking snarl. That’s the ipod revolution for me. Also made watching tonight’s swimming lessons far more bearable. Had completely forgotten Haircut 100’s Fantastic Day even existed. Twas great for drowning out the swimming instructor’s shouts and the kids squeals, screams and tears (there’s always one). Of all the activities, I hate swimming the most. It’s the smell of chlorine and the squish of wet changing rooms. Hated it since that incident at junior school, but that’s for another blog. I was woman on the edge – of a swimming pool - bopping my head-phoned-head. The little-one managed most of her lesson sans bands – a first. Hurrah. A proud moment. Heart then skipped a beat when she started sinking. She’ll learn. Proudness gave way to joy at the thought that I may not have to still be taking her to lessons in 6 years time. Hurrah for all that.

Gorgeous boy’s music teacher told me how impressed she was with him going for the singing auditions for the Year 4 concert. Another warm glow of pride swells inside me. ‘Til he came out saying his form teacher threatened to cancel playtime if no-one went. Being the stoic sort, he trundled along in the hope it wouldn’t take all playtime.

One for Sorrow. Highlight of the day watching a magpie pull apart the door-mat outside the office. Presume it was for nest building rather than wanton destruction but Magpie’s do get such a bad press. Usually I’m the one outside on the mat. Smoking. Not now. No more. The patches work well. Must be the superglue like substance they use to attach them to your body.

Another constant evening on the go: pick-up, laundry, swimming, cooking, clearing-up, more laundry, and bed-time routines. Tonight’s bed-time delaying tactic from the little one was good: where did the very first baby come from? Briefly ran through beliefs of evolution vrs creationism. She thought God must have had magic beans.

Was worried tonight that in that spare 3 minutes I had to myself after the swimming laundry that I may just be tempted to run out on a quest for real nicotine. So did something I haven’t done in years. Had a bath. The thought of it was quite nice. In the pre-children, pre-shower days I loved soaking and pampering sessions. Memories, however, proved better than reality. I’d been in there a good five minutes before I realised I still had my glasses on and that all my nice grown-up grooming products were in the shower room. Took an age to scrub yesterday’s superglue patch stuff off with green frog spit soap. Must be strong stuff as today’s patch stayed in situ despite a 20 minute soak. Got out feeling slightly sick and light-headed.

Can’t decide if the rash on my tummy was heat, nico-patch or eczema. Once the redness and faintness faded had to moisturise my entire body to stop the itching. If that’s what sitting in hot water does for you, where’s the joy?

A new dilemma: The tweenager is having a sleep-over on Friday at a friend’s. I’ve never met friend nor family, so obviously not inclined to allow it. He-who-must-be-adored bit the bullet and rang the mom. He’s now cool about it. So I have to be as he’s usually the real paranoid one. And we’re out on Friday night – a rare treat – so don’t want to spend the whole evening panicking about her welfare.

It’s my best mate’s 40th. She managed to dump babies, job, husband and chores today and shopped til she dropped with another best mate. Green-eyed monster hit me for a moment but then I can’t actually manage a whole day shopping as a) I don’t ever have a whole day and b) if I did have a whole day to myself I wouldn’t want to waste it shopping.

Report from the front: it may be fashionable but who wants to wear a smock top and look pregnant again? That’s one look we’re all happy to leave in the past.

Ash Wednesday

Inappropriately Ash Wednesday is Day 1 of clean-lung regime. Sick of saying it, but I want to break free from the tyranny of fags.

Failed on Monday by 20. Lasted til 4pm yesterday. With Shrove Tuesday traditionally being a binge day, bought 10 and smoked them all, inbetween collecting kids, cooking tea and doing impressions of a grumpy taxi driver.

As He-who-must-be-adored is working 'lates' this week I should be able to avoid seeing him puffing most evenings which should make it easier. Surely?

Now I just need to learn to relax. In general. And, early enough after the little-one, gorgeous boy and the tweenager are a-bed so I can a-bed myself before midnight. Failed last night as waited up for He to return from saving London at 11.20pm. We talked over the big plan. A month into being 40 felt that's what we needed. Went to bed at 1am, slightly depressed at saying goodbye to my beloved fags, alongwith the realisation that the plan for this year is for us both to work like billio to reduce the debts, accumlated over my 5 year career break. (Break being the totally wrong word obviously.)

Now the little-one is ensconced in that institution called school I can work school hours. Will I ever be able to stop though?

So Ash Wednesday. Started on a the wrong foot with over-sleeping. Awoken by the tweenager shouting that she needed to leave for the bus in 10 minutes! This woke the little-one. Some mornings she wakes with a cheeky grin and a cuddle for me and I thank my lucky stars on having such wonderful off-spring. No such luck today.

The howling started in her bedroom. By the time she arrived beside me it had built to 1000 decibels. Screaming that the tweenager had ruined her really good dream. Oh the life of a 5 year old who can't get to bed early enough because her brother and sister have a life.

He-who-must-be-adored decided what was needed in this fractious moment was a lecture. On routines. On getting enough sleep. On respect for adults and I don't know what else becuase I couldn't hear it above the increasing howling. Its very tricky trying to do the morning personal stuff with a howling child attached to your leg, so no shower, no make-up, just a quick rinse around the gills. The promise of pancakes for breakfast gave me the breather to get dressed. This was deemed a great moment for a lecture on my parenting skills. But he's not the one with a howler attached to his leg.

Cheered the tweenager up with the promise of a lift on my way to work. Really it was just a ruse to escape the howling and lectures. In the midst of all the madness the gorgeous boy rose with a huge smile at the smell of pancakes.

Finally I have peace. In the office. Alone. Everyone out on calls, and with no post for two days I can finally set up a blog. Just been waiting to have one moment to have one un-interupted thought.

The ringing phones don't help, but at least there's no howls or lectures on the other end.Could kill for a fag