Mother of a brown boy

To Chicken Shed Theatre on Friday night to see the immensely powerful Mother of a Brown Boy. Moving. Sad. Bold. Beautiful. Thought provoking and tough. Inspired by the short life of a 19 year old, it chronicles his mother’s story and her grief at his life cut short. More powerful for me as a friend of the mother, and her son. It never was going to be an evening of light entertainment: this is political theatre. More disheartening is the fact this isn’t just one mother’s story: it has a wider relevance for our melting pot society with the-ever widening gap between the haves and have-nots.

The balance of the piece is in the stunning craft and sculpture of music, movement and multi-media. You can catch it in Edinburgh this week, on the Sky arts channel (4.8 at 18.30, 9.8 at 15.30,19.8 at 10.15), and hopefully on tour later in the year

Its oh so quiet here...

It's oh so quiet. Except for the gentle hum of the dishwasher, the whirr of the washing machine and the brain-splitting screech of the tumble dryer. Not forgetting the wails of the Little One now her American ‘cusins’ have departed (albeit temporarily). ‘Who have I got to snuggle up wiv now?’ Err that’ll me then. Guiltily I feel it’s been a relief to have a break from snuggling. And, although I’ve been busy on mass catering duties I have enjoyed the brief respite from not wearing a not-so-small-child about my person. Now every towel, flannel, and tea towel in the land is either being washed, tumbled, or is sitting patiently in a colour-coded pile. Ahh the beauty of a having a gaggle of girls to stay.

Moan as I may (that’s my prerogative), like the dustbin lids, I am a tad sad tonight. At the quietness. And boringness without my American Outlaw, the Loud One, the Evil One, plus The Suffolk Smiler. It’s just the Lids and Me. He-who-must-be-adored is, as per, out saving London. But I was pleased He managed to be home a little more than normal. But not as much as you’d think considering his sister travelled half way round the world to see him. Having the family of He-who-must-be-adored to stay is a rare treat for me. He feels neither need nor desire to do the family thang. Though I’m sure he enjoys seeing them. Much as I love them I find it annoying to have to shout (often) like some kind of swat team: ‘DROP THE DISHCLOTH AND MOVE AWAY FROM THE SINK’.

More worrying is the sneaking feeling that it’s catching …we were no sooner back from dropping them at the dripping train station when the Tween and I, with subconscious communication, had a mass clean attack. The house has now lost that bomb-zone look. Hence the creaking machines. I was sorry for the Out-laws standing at the station. With cases. In flip-flops. In the freezing pissing rain. But then again, I can’t feel too sorry for a family that live where the sun shines all year round, where they have no need for raincoats, jumpers nor closed-in shoes.


So, some respite tonight from mass catering. We had leftovers. Then remembered we’re on rabbit responsibility. Doodles and Leopard, I think, were pleased to see us, especially when we gave them some fresh green stuff. Bit worried about the forecast for the Rabbit-owners. In Scotland. On a campsite. Hmmmm tad damp perhaps?

Hi ho hi ho

Apologies to all my readers (yes you two know who you are) for the delayed updates: have been a tad rushed off my feet. This is holiday time! Luckily today I am up early for work. A bit of peace I hope and some small respite from catering.

Boy does it get hot in the kitchen when you’re mass catering. In-between peacekeeping the dustbin lids! We’re busy having fun with the outlaws who arrived from Hawaii on Saturday. Sunday we had huge numbers of outlaws for lunch plus Supersis’s outlaws as well – you know what she’s like any bandwagon…

I love having a full house. Especially the outlaws - after such a long gap. Am just a tad concerned about my American brother-in-law whose continuing existence I am beginning to doubt. He hasn’t been over since 2001. Am praying he’s not under some Hawaiian patio.

Think gorgeous boy has struggled a bit this week being surrounded by two sisters, three female cousins, four if you include yesterday, mom and a couple of aunts.

Sunday’s giggles came from sink watching: a new social phenomenon. As I’ve previously suggested the family of He-who-must-be-adored have a keener attitude to housework than my side. A social gathering provided a constant and steady procession of He’s family fighting to get to the sink. Dare I suggest they are a tad more comfortable clearing than doing that social interaction thang?

Monday we were London tourists. Being tourists in London, we got very wet, damp and miserable, before getting squished and dried out on the rush hour tube home. Hmmm. The Great British unwashed public. Delicious!

Yesterday we chilled at home and with nowhere to go the weather was obviously fab, with a whole four minutes of sunshine. With nothing better to do the dustbin lids managed to fit in a water fight to cool down from all that sunshine and before the rain came again.

One of my many favourite nieces invited me onto Face book last year and I’ve hardly had time to get back on. So was pleased an invitation winged its way to my inbox this week from a long lost work colleague. It was even better to discover an even older (ha ha) colleague who was last seen about four years ago waddling away with a new baby. I log on and there she is having conceived, carried and delivered another beautiful sprog. Delighted. But am still getting over the confusion of my friend down under who I tired to add as an old neighbour, as these days you can’t just be friends. I now see that we used to work on Neighbours together. Sadly, I’ve never been to Australia but am impressed my talents can spread so far.

As my sister-out-law travelled half way round the world to visit me I left her babysitting whilst I trooped to the minor ops clinic yesterday. To have a mole removed from my neck. Whilst awake. Obviously. The injection was a bit of a pain in the neck. In fact the whole experience was a bit toe curdling. As I lay there curdling my toes and wringing my hands I decided it was best to close my eyes as the red-hot wires came towards my face. Pleased to say it didn’t really hurt. Just a bit warm. However hearing your own flesh being singed wasn’t the best experience of my life. Then the smell made me open my eyes. Weird to see black smoke arising from one’s own body and unfortunate to have the smell of burning flesh, my own burning flesh, entering my nostrils. A small sticky plaster later and I was away. Today my neck feels a little bruised and I have a black scab, which looks exactly like ….the mole that used to be there.

Off to work we go...

School's out for summer

Hoorah. Glad term is over as was starting to lose humour with the junior school. I wrote a note giving permission for Gorgeous Boy to play out with his broken arm. But still they excluded him from having fun: Health and Safety. He’s miserable from spending the last week in other classes whilst his peers traipse off for fun. Do they understand anything of children at all? At least they re-issued his end of term report with an improved grade. So it comes as no real surprise that Ofsted said the school could do better.

So summer hols. And it rains. And it rains. And now the real work begins. Word got out about the pet holiday scheme. Day 1 of the hols and we have agreed to rabbit cover. Hope it’ll take the pressure off getting our own little bunnies for a while. Phew.

Operation clean up this damn house finally got underway. Sadly, not in preparation for a move: just catering for visiting out-laws. My attitude to housework is a tad more relaxed that the family of He-who-must-be-adored. I asked ‘when our offspring look back what will seem more important, that their childhood was happy or the kitchen floor was clean?’ ‘Obviously’ He said ‘the floor’. He jokes. Me hopes.

To give me more cleaning time I e-ordered the shopping from Tesco. The packing was lacking. What was I most in need of? A bottle of wine. What arrived in smithereens? A bottle of red wine. I hadn’t got round to washing the hallway floor so I wasn’t bothered that the dripping box made it look like a bloodbath. The worst thing to have below a smashed bottle of red wine? Breaded products? They were not in a good state. And I sent back the children’s juices with wine engrained round the rim. What I didn’t notice till the driver left was the soggy box of Tampons. Of the super-absorbency kind. They certainly do what it says on the can!

Despite my efforts, the house looked tidier, but wasn’t much cleaner. I knew I was being a nag when the Little One told me ‘I know there are no house-work fairies, as they are all busy collecting teeth.’ I was relieved when He-who-must-be-adored came home and did some of his man magic on the windows. Have decided if we ever get round to moving I’ll look for something really small, with self-clean or wipeable surfaces.

To save even more time Supersis did a mercy dash collecting extra bedding from here there and everywhere. There are now temp beds in every available spare space. I’d like to think it all looks rather cosy and friendly. Shabby is another word.

Yesterday was the last day of freedom ‘til September so thought it’d be good to get a new bikini, unencumbered by the dustbin lids. Should have followed my instincts and gone back to bed with a book. Not only have I left it too bleeding late for any kind of choice, the non-smoking non-stop eating has had a big impact on the size of my chest. It was hard getting a bikini when I was at comic proportions. It’s now gone from epic to freaky. The sales assistant that tried to get me into a gigantic effort was clearly mistaken. A freaky fit it is. The bikini is not 'of the moment'. But it is secure. No fear of falling out of that structure. Just as well seeing as we are holidaying with Mr Smut himself, (who has already called to congratulate me on the porn-star proportions). What I must remember is it doesn't matter how much you spend on bikinis an odd bod is an oddbod.

My Forensic friend is a true friend. She used my depression as an excuse for retail therapy and turned up a while later with a number of new bikinis for me to try. Even with her not insubstantial chest she was shocked at my growth. So now I am the lucky owner of two bikinis. One of which is for sitting very still in. Which is just perfect for my holiday intentions.

The Big Smoke

No am still not smoking – bar that one v. drunken evening but glossing over that…

Something kinda weird’s going on. For over a decade He-who-must-be-adored has begged, cajolled and pleaded with me to give up the ghost of London living and move to pastures greener. Personally have never had any such desire nor need. Why drive long distances when you can live within a stone’s throw of everything. Bar greenery. Greenery? Preenery has always won hands down for me.

And Animals.

Animals? Painimals! What’s the point? More so since having the dustbin lids – who needs extra bods to cater for?

But that was the old me. The Me BEFORE we spent a week looking out on a big fat green fix, caring for animals, collecting fresh eggs and generally being at one with nature. Of course I don’t miss bully boy Grumpy George Goat. Yet my marriage gave me a good grounding on his type so he with the big horns and stampy foot was easy enough to suss out. I paid lip-service to his position and fed him first. That kept him quiet long enough to sort the others out. Though I’d never turn my back on him. Those horns are huge.

Am also sad to see the back of the blonde dog. Even if her thinking herself human was a bit trying. In hindsight (such a wonderful thing) giving her bar-b-q left-overs may have contributed to her rejecting dog food and wanting to sit up at the table with us. But Supersis is home (Hurrah) so too goes the blond dog.

Do I thank or bemoan my country cousin who let me housesit? Ever since we hit London all I can think about it moving to pastures green. Have I had too much fresh air? We were v busy but would that cause my attitude to age three decades in a week? It was just pure bliss to see green from every window. And London is just so….London like.

Returned from work today to find a transit van parked in my drive. Confusion reigned as I racked my brain for some forgotten arrangements of works. After five minutes a chap in an EDF t-shirt came and told me the van was his. Get this: he said ‘the police told me to park here’. My response to his bollocks was not something of which I am proud. But you could safely say I left him with no illusions as to my thoughts on his parking and bare-faced codswallop. He drove off at high speed. Of all the cheeky bloody London chappies I’ve ever met, I think he takes the biscuit.

Talking of which, now I’ve got all that extra time in the mornings, Gorgeous Boy with the broken arm appears to be working me overtime. He can’t do socks. Or shoes. Or chopping of own food. Or even deciding what food he wants. Or generally much in the way of anything helpful. You don’t realise just how independent 9 year olds boys usually are. Not sure if it’s the sympathy vote he was going for last night or if it’s something altogether more grown up… Youth club: often he goes in his uniform, or if I beg, a clean t-shirt. Last night the hair was gelled. The ‘special’ trainers were out. And a smart (of a branded sportswear fashion) clean outfit was chosen. Off he trundled. Grinning. Obviously no information was forthcoming but I’m working on it. Shoe time in the morning might be a good moment for a grilling.

My Tweenager is nearly a Teen. Her first pair of heels have been purchased in anticipation of the major life-time event. Hopefully she’ll have practiced before her birthday to lose the funky chicken walk whilst reducing the danger of breaking a limb. Had a brief chat with her about the vague possibility of a move. She can’t see beyond the local bus map. Her combination of heels and a push-up bra make countryside seclusion seem something of a grand idea to me.

The reality of having to tidy this house in order to sell it probably puts a move into no-brainer territory. Unless I get some superydoopery Mary Poppins energy from somewhere and do that spic spot thang. We can but dream.

To the Manor Born

Much as I love the idea of home farm the reality is somewhat disappointing. Despite extensive planting at home, our crops have so far yielded two pods giving exactly 10 peas. I’d say it’ll be a while before Tesco need worry.

It is also safe to say that much as we love living the country life, animal husbandry doesn’t come entirely naturally to me and He. Three days in and we are improving. Seeing the blond dog roll about in horse poo seemed a low point, but worse was her stench after being locked in for an hour whilst we shopped. This morning we were brave enough to let the chickens out. A regret when it was time to put them back. The attempts of me, He and two offspring were nothing if not pathetic in trying to shoo six of the little cluckers back in.

But the real joy of staying here is the big calm green fix you get from every window. And the peace. Except when the geese are hungry. Watching the horses and sheep in the big field gambolling about. Pure bliss. But only because we are just play-acting, and we don’t have the stress of a mortgage on a place like this.

What's normal anyway?

Normal service lasted a day. Back to Chase Farm Hospital on Tuesday: Gorgeous Boy hurt his arm at School during morning break. They gave the standard response: come back after lunch if it still hurts. Being a good boy he waited ‘til after lunch to tell them that it really hurt. So to casualty I go, stopping briefly to pick up the Little One plus a slight detour to let the blonde dog out.

Only an hour in Triage before heading to x-ray. No stress at all, sitting there hoping we don’t catch a Super-bug, and trying to persuade the Little One not to touch anything. At all. Only another hour to wait before seeing the break went across both bones in his left arm. No stress wondering would I make it to Northaw in time to feed the animals, and remember to collect the Tweenager and blonde dog from N13? Fortunately we got A+ service from the kind doctor who sped us through to get plastered, albeit temporarily. He-who-must-be-adored gave up saving London for some animal rescue – and thank goodness he did as 20 minutes late and the whole of Hertfordshire got to hear the hungry cries of the ducks and geese. We shan’t be late again.

As if the day wasn’t long enough the Little One decided this was the night she would leave her tooth out. But she couldn’t get to sleep for all the excitement. It was like Christmas Eve all over again. Unfortunately, Gorgeous Boy heard me asking He-who-must-be-adored for change for the tooth fairy. That cat is now out of the bag. In some senses a relief as the Boy was convinced tooth fairies stuffed old teeth up the noses of very small babies?

Every cloud…the boy’s broken arm has given us time off from the usual after-school ferrying so we have slightly more time to enjoy our country fix playing at Hudson and Mrs Bridges. This house is much larger than we are used, and even the Tweenager has taken to texting me. The low point so far was getting Georgeous Boy out of bed to show us old fogeys how to switch the new fangled telly on. The high point is the thought of being able to hide away in one of the many rooms and quietly read.

No such luck yet though. Back to N13 yesterday to finish off the Tweenager’s bedroom – the interior design project of the century, and only under slight pressure before overseas visitors arrive next week. In between throwing desk’s up two flights of stairs and humping wardrobes across the room, we head to the Junior School to take Georgeous Boy out for lunch. Having an arm in plaster is making him somewhat less cheery than usual. Pushing him over the edge is the Junior school’s refusal to let him in the playground. Sitting outside the office with an equally plastered Year 3 female is not his idea of fun. Worse, he remembers being plastered in the Infants and being allowed out. I have questioned the school and await a response. Worse, school’s can no longer administer medicine, so I have to turn up at lunchtime anyway to give painkillers. After hearing the Little One cough all night last night we decided to keep them both home today and let them sleep in. The plan was the catch up would put them both in better moods. The best laid plans….

Normal Service has now resumed.

Or as normal as it gets. Had a bit of a hiccup after that treatment. Usually, my ‘psycho-mommy-moments’ are rare. For a short while that became my norm. Moving swiftly on, I note Chase Farm Hospital is on special measures for failing to meet standards on super bugs. Great. That’s where I was treated and where I await a return visit for some other internal interference. I wonder is not breathing whilst in hospital buildings an appropriate course for infection control?

Supersis has abandoned me again for warmer climes. Me thinks she nearly gets the hint to not leave the country without me. The dreaded vomit bug delayed her departure. But only for 24 hours - apparently you can't do bowl-patrol on a plane. Something to do with all that extra security. While she swans about in a sarong I am left holding her hairy beast: the blonde dog, who thinks it beneath her to go in the rain to do her dos.

And, as if the day isn’t long enough, He-who-must-be-adored additionally agrees to a 10 mile round trip to the beginning and end of our day to do a Dr Dolittle: caring for 11 goats, chickens, ducks, geese and rabbits. He-who-must-be-adored forgot he’ll be off saving London, as per … Leaving me, with all my spare capacity to deal with dustbin lids and other animals. I shall, as they say, be watching my back: George the Grumpy Goat is a force to be reckoned with.

I used to have a pathological fear of all things furry. But I got over it when I had the dustbins. Then we started the dog holiday scheme. Two weeks involves just enough poop scooping to get the doggy thang out of their systems. Am hoping the biggest upside to living in a country pile for a week, apart from the fact we'll be living in a country pile, will be getting the ‘let’s move out’ thang from He-who-must-be-adored’s system. Every cloud…

To the Tweenager’s school last week where it seems Me and He-who-must-be-adored could not be seen in close proximity to her. At any time. Except of course for the ride home. T’was as if we had some kind of superbug.

Thankfully, Gorgeous boy grows ever more gorgeous. He made me detour to chase some rainbows the other night. And some fab weird weather stuff we saw too. Pity he’s not so enthusiastic about school. Think it might be too female an environment for his liking: he is already eying up an all-boys senior school. Without wanting to appear like the pushy parent, I was saddened by his report – the teacher assessment gave zero literary progress over last year. The boy maintains he works hard. So to school I go. Again. A call today says there’s been some sort of oversight in updating his grade. In a report bemoaning a 9 year-olds attention to detail? Is this the standard we have come to know and love?

My Little One lost her first tooth. Though not quite lost as she carries it about in a little bag, ready to show it off at a second’s notice. Whether there is interest or not. And, it didn’t so much fall out as was pulled by He-who-must-be-adored. He couldn’t be doing with all that hanging on by a thread business. The innocence of the moment almost vanished when someone said a first tooth is worth twenty quid. That’s serious inflation. If the Little-One ever gets round to giving it up we shall see. Let’s hope the tooth fairy isn’t too busy or worn out to remember to actually swap the damn thing for whatever dosh happens to be about their Elfing person.

That was the week that was

Supersis shouldn’t have left the country. No sooner had she gone than the worst happened. Her father-in-law was admitted to hospital. Then discharged. The same day he was back in. More shockingly, sadly, he didn’t make it through to morning.

He was the closest my kids had to a grandfather and that’s where we are always welcomed at family holiday times. It was a sad sad day. So boy was I glad to see Supersis on Monday, even if it was for some grim tasks. The best you can hope for a funeral is that it all goes smoothly. Thankfully that was achieved on Thursday. I saw many familiar faces, yet they all looked more wrinkly than I remember.

Yet that was not the worst of my week: I complained to the hospital, about my lack of appointment. Monday I got a pre-op appointment. I rang to say I am having a ‘simple procedure’ not an ‘op’, so I have no need for a ‘pre-op’. After no call back I rang again on Wednesday and was told I was booked in for Friday. Had I not telephoned, I’m not certain how I was supposed to know this. I wonder what I am booked in for, but don't want to push my luck with the scary appointments woman. As an afterthought I ask is there anything I should know? ‘Have a hearty breakfast and don’t drive.’

So Friday, I breakfast and bestmumchum drops me off. Unusually I was straight in. But the Consultant asked, why had it taken me 6 weeks to come in for the procedure? He answered his own question by noting my notes had been lost. Oh doesn’t this just fill you with confidence.

This guy works so fast I didn’t have much time to consider the fact that this hospital has the worst super bug death rate in the country. So the next minute I find myself in a chair with no edge, my legs in stirrups and the chair pumped up to almost ceiling height so my most private naked parts are hanging in the air at eye level. And this was just the warm up! Momentarily my indignity was replaced by intrigue as the hysteroscopy showed the inside of my womb via a screen. I prayed it wasn’t being recorded and sent to the Internet.

And then it hit me. Like a wave. Luckily the consultant looked up in time to order oxygen to stop me vomiting and passing out. He said my blood pressure must have dropped because of the injection. I started to come back round again to feel the sawing action, inside. The cramping pain made me block out everything else. I took in lots of oxygen. I hummed. I clenched my fists and toes. I wish I’d opted for the pre-op and the op. This was not my idea of a simple procedure. I wished the nurse would stop banging on about holiday destinations. She was clearly confused and thought she was a hairdresser. Finally he stopped interfering with my innards.

After some weak painkillers and the obligatory NHS cuppa in recovery, Supersis came and took me home to bed. Where I spent most of the weekend. She had my children and sent me the most beautiful bouquet. She is a star.

He-who-must-be-adored was bemused by my upset about him going to work. My joke about him being kinder to a dog was lost. He did finally take Saturday evening off from saving London but was back at work today. I can’t be too hard on him. He’s a man.

Some might say

Some might say I do my green credentials no good: my family of five plus all that rain recently has seen my dependency upon the tumble dryer grow. Due to overuse, said dryer now protests with a head splitting squeak with only the odd respite of a crunching sound. Usually He-who-must-be-adored can fix anything. Despite dragging it out from its hidey-hole in the Nativity Room, tinkering with tools aplenty, hovering its innards and adding a large dose of WD40, the noises continue – somehow louder. Am checking the weather forecast obsessively often as frankly there is a limit to the amount of torture by laundry a woman can take.

To drown it out I plug myself in to Paul McK on the ipod. A first for me – daytime listening. Heard a whole host of utterances that previously passed my snoring brain, but that is usually the only time I have for self-help. Takes multi-tasking to a whole new level: sleeping and brainwashing, almost as good as talking and walking. Am not certain how my battle with the bulge is this week: I may be fatter than I'd rather be, but I feel fabulous.

Still fighting to get fit, the MBTs get the thumbs up. Not because I am the proud owner of a toned sleek body. I am not that deluded. Yet. But they have deleted the lower backache. After only one day of no bouncing I woke with the old backache. I couldn’t wear them yesterday as even I – creature comfort extremist – drew the line at orthopaedic-looking trainers and floral skirt combo. Not until I've tried it out at home a few times first.

To Barnet yesterday: for the Smiler’s son’s first holy communion. Gorgeous he looked too. It was a marvellous gathering of the clans for adults and lids alike. No amount of Mr McK’s brain re-programming could help with a buffet table heaving with sweet creamy delights. The Tweenager proved to be a girl after my own heart: after turning up lip glossed in a little black dress, she bemoaned not bringing her trainers. There the differences ended: her attire didn’t stop her playing footie with the rest of the dustbin lids. I say I have three lids. She says two lids and one young adult.

Family news: Inspector Gadget’s latest obsession is price watching watches. But not just ordinary timepieces, he’s watching watches that give altitude. After a recent walking holiday he’s in gadget heaven with the discovery of a whole new gadget orbit. Although yet to purchase one, he’s eyeing some that also contain a compass. If this hill-walking lark takes off I may suggest he gets a defibrillator thrown in.

Supersis is on the move. For a girlie weekend in warmer climes. Jealous? Moi? Massively so. But it is her birthday I suppose. I just don’t like her leaving the country. In fact I hate it when we’re not in the same county. Then again, I don’t begrudge her the break – just the shopping.

Virgin on the ridiculous I have two emails from Virgin Media in response to my one e-form. I am now the proud owner of two reference numbers and a promise that I’ll be responded to within 48 hours. That was five days ago.

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.