Millennium Housewife

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2012-01-06T13:23:00.003Z

Oh crikey

We do this every time

Every time I give you salmon

It's fish

Fish

You do like fish

As I've said before, you like fish

You like cod

Every time I give you salmon we have this discussion

Then you eat it and like it

It won't be different this time

Because you like salmon

And you like cod

So you like fish

Cod is fish

It's not a pretend fish

It does have scales

And fins

And eyes

It has eyes

They take them out

At the fish processing place

In the bin

Yes it would look weird

Like a bin staring at you

Please don't imitate a fish eye bin

Because it's silly

And Isla's copying you

And Jack

Please all stop being fish eye bins

And eat your salmon

Excellent

Yes salmon is a proper fish

It is processed yes

Well processed from salmon

A kind of meat

It's made from a kind of meat

Steak

Beef steak

Well I think they use the salmon coloured type beef

Special cows

From Jersey

Yes they do produce good milk

And steak

It is a bit streaky

Beef flavour streaks

Well yes

You're really eating beef

Just in an interesting shape and colour

With a different taste

Well I read that they eat seaweed

It is very good for you

Well yes

That must help the beef

And explain the colour

Wonderful

Now eat your salmon

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2011-12-20T10:28:00.005Z

hi darling

ooops

sorry

didn't mean to walk in on you

is that for me?

the present you're wrapping

I saw you

I know you're wrapping presents

I haven't ruined it

I haven't ruined anything

It's just

Well

You gave me a willy warmer last year

I don't really need another

You did

Blue

With a pink willy on it

I gave it to charity

Hidden in a t shirt

The one on Smith street

The hospice one

Right

Yes you were lucky to find it again

It is being frugal, yes

And supportive of charities

And hospices

And children

Yes I am very proud of you

Excellent

It's just

Well

Is that my only present

A willy warmer

Pre owned

By me

Oh good

Ha ha ha

I thought it was the only one

Of course!

Of course I knew you'd got me something else

Jewellery?

Oh wow

That's lovely

Really thoughtful

Yes I have learned my lesson

You're right

I really shouldn't have doubted you

I can't wait to open the box

The box

That contains the jewellery

The jewellery you've bought me for Christmas

Packet?

What kind of jewellery comes in a packet

And is stick on?

Yes I am intruiged

Yes you have completely foxed me

Very very clever

Very

What do you mean for you as well?

For you to enjoy?

Oh right

Yes I'm sure I will be bedazzled

So Long, Farewell, Auf Wiedersehen, Goodbye

2010-11-09T20:50:00.000Z

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a Mother in possession of two children in school must be in want of a life. One that isn't virtual that is.
So dear readers it is with some regret that I close this blog and attempt to find some kind of existence beyond the four walls of my kitchen, one hopefully with more padding than this kitchen chair I've been sitting on for the last three years.
It's been wonderful knowing you all, I've made some great virtual and some non virtual friends, followed your adventures and laughed and cried with a lot of you.
Rest assured I will still be haunting your blogs, I'll just comment anonymously, just to keep you all guessing...
You'll forgive an old gal some indulgence won't you if I repost my four favourite ever posts? Call it nostalgia, call it blatant hooting about the glory years, call it plagiarism from the past. Whatever, just indulge me, there's a love.
So long,
MH xxxxxx

Things I have said To My Parents Today

2010-11-09T20:02:00.005Z

Ooh thankyou
Happy early Christmas to you too
I like the wrapping
Shall I guess?
Ok
Err
Well it doesn't rattle
It's squareish
It's quite light
I'm guessing a book
Shall I open it?
Excellent
I wonder what it is
Yes I was right, a book
Sex As You Age?
Sex As You Age?
What do you mean I'm quite welcome?
It may well have got you through some tough times
But I'm in my thirties
My Thirties
I'm not aging
Or in need of an elderly person's sex manual
Oh crikey
There's notes in the margin
Especially for me?
Was this your book?
Dad please don't say Ours like that
While putting your arm round mum
Because I'm holding your sex manual
And sitting next to you
And trying desperately to think of something pleasant
And Christmassy
And not look at the chapter entitled Arthritis Of The Knee And You
Dad
Stop winking at mum
Put your hands where I can see them
Both of you
I'm taking away the sherry
No you can't have it back at bedtime
Because we're in the room next to you
And I can see you've put your knee bandage on
Yes of course safety comes first
But so does your daughter's mental health
I'm sure you do have a book on that too
But really
No more books OK
Because my nerves can't take it
No thanks
I don't want my other present
Because it looks suspiciosly like a pot of chocolate
And a box of knee bandages

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2010-11-09T19:58:00.003Z

Ooh, yes I'd love a night out tonight
What do you mean just you?
But I do like them
I love Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head
Oh
Right
Of course I want you to have a good night
I know Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head don't have girlfriends
Apart from each other
Nothing, sorry
I didn't say anything I just coughed
Will you be coming home after?
Are you sure you don't want to stay at Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head's
Yes of course I want you to come home
Well you only have to sleep in the spare room if you snore
I know you snore when you're drunk
So you're guaranteeing that you're going to snore?
Well then it'll have to be the spare room
Because I have to get up with the children
What do you mean where will Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head sleep?
Invited them here?
After a night in the pub?
Hmm
Well OK then
Could you just make sure you all throw up in the toilet?
I know there was a queue but the wok's just never been the same
OK I'll put buckets out
Send my love to Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head

Husband Flu

2010-11-09T19:52:00.004Z

This post was going to be entitled 'man flu', not very original I know but could we really get through the Winter without reporting on this annual epidemic of such grave proportions that it results in so many near death encounters? Indeed it would be scandalous to ignore it, heartless even when we consider just how much our men folk have been through.

Luckily none of them, despite predictions, assurances (promises even) and some evidence to the contrary, have passed away. We emerge once again unscathed by such suffering (them), and a little scathed by such ministering (us) and of course the worry.

Husband's flu started about the time he first needed to blow his nose. It was a scary moment obviously, something was wrong with him, he might even feel poorly or, heaven's above need to go to the doctor's. In fact if a visit to The Scary Man was nigh the best thing to do, of course, was to take himself to bed and nurse himself until he was completely better to avoid such an encounter.

The best thing about me, thought Husband, is that I make absolutely no fuss, in fact no one will even know I'm here. Unless I get really ill you understand. Yup, I understood. He sat in bed like a small boy in an Enid Blyton story, special striped pyjamas on (kept from his childhood and saved for the really serious cases), knees drawn up and duvet up to his chin. There was a weak smile as I entered the sick room with a cup of tea which he bravely sipped while quite hot. I had blown on it like he'd asked, but still, it was brave. I placed a box of tissues on the bedside table and a bucket as requested just in case. Then I duly went downstairs for the forgotten items (hot water bottle, Lemsip, cough drops and a newspaper in case his head felt up to reading). Yes, he was a little trouper, no one but me knew he was ill, and he was nursing himself through it in his own way. Of course he was too ill to get up and actually nurse himself, so I had to do it but the thought was there, he whispered weakly.

It was a long afternoon for him, tea made his nose runnier so warm honey was duly administered, the hot water bottle was tricky to keep at just the right temperature despite him checking it on his thermometer, and the TV just wasn't up to scratch. He got through it somehow and struggled to bedtime managing a bowl of soup and chocolate pudding before checking the water bottle temperature and falling asleep next to me, exhausted.

In bed that night he proceeded to groan as loudly as possible and thrash about wildly as he tried to deal with his flu. Every nose blowing event was performed accompanied by an expletive and a comment on how much he wasn't sleeping and how long to go until I had to get up. If I had managed to go to sleep between these events then I was sure to be awoken by loud retching noises away from the bucket as a demonstration of what might possibly happen were he to feel sick and I had missed the warning signs.

By 2am I had had enough, he'd only used up one tissue all day and the 'sweat' patches were really spilled Lemsip. Risking a lifetime of references to my uncaring nature and pub near-death stories that I had no authority to refute so he could embellish at will, I moved to the spare room. I did explain to him why, but all he could reply was that he could see a bright light and should he go towards it?

The dread of a cold bed and having to clean the guest sheets tomorrow were no deterrent to the thought of a decent few hours before getting up with the children. It was bliss, heaven, worth the lifetime's condemnation. For a while. He missed me you see, it may be his last night of sleeping next to me and wouldn't it be lovely to savour the moment? I felt the bed springs sink as he dragged himself into bed beside me. The groanings were louder this time although giving him the warm bit of the bed went some way to soothing them. The retching continued until the bucket was brought from our room and then almost ceased. We watched dawn rise together thankful that he'd survived the night.

I sent him to the doctors the next day, tail between his legs, deaf to his protestations that all he needed was a few more days of TLC. He emerged from the surgery triumphant and euphoric. The doctor had sympathised, hadn't asked him to remove any clothing and best of all given him a prescription for Strepsils.

One Day

2010-11-09T19:48:00.004Z

One day I will have a small car again. One that only fits me and the occasional passenger and is clean, shiny and hand print free at all times.

One day I will go with my husband on a second honeymoon (for two), wake with the sun high in the sky, get ridiculously and dizzyingly drunk at lunch time and go straight to bed until the next morning.

One day my house will stay the way I left it, not mysteriously mess up the minute I turn my back.

One day I will pop out to the shops - and I mean pop - and be finished in five minutes. I may even treat myself to a basket rather than a trolley-for-three and queue up giddily in the baskets only aisle.

One day I will go to all the shops in my village and buy elegant things for dinner, stopping to chat or for a coffee at leisure. I will be able to fit myself (because there is only myself and no pram) into every tiny specialist shop, smug and happy that I'm 'buying locally'.

One day I will have a cup of tea during nap time without the tension that someone may wake at any minute and ruin the moment. In fact I may even have a set cup-of-tea-time that I adhere to religiously just because I can.

One day my children will refer to me as That Mad Old Bat or The Parental Guidance rather than Mummy Can I Have and I will be pleased at my eccentricities and lack of responsibility.

One day I will actually go on a 'date night' (ha ha ha, did anyone really believe they would ever get to do that?) with my husband without the little knot of tension that everything's alright at home.

One day my kitchen will be my own, the high chair, mini chair-and-table set and play mat will be gone and I will dance a waltz with my husband around our own elegant dining table in all the space.

One day my day will end when I want it to, possibly as late as 11pm, rather than at 3pm when I start thinking about school pick up and tea.

One day evenings will be for relaxing, possibly a glass of wine or even the cinema, not getting-ready-for-the-morning, ironing, sandwiches and signing notes.

One day I will sleep all night long without nightmares/coughs/toilets/monsters to wake me.

But

One day the house will be ever so quiet, I will be able to whisper to myself and hear the echo.

One day strangers won't smile at me on the street, pause and say; isn't she/he lovely, envious of my status, my life, my treasures.

One day I won't get up to two smiling faces, ever so pleased that I'm awake and ready to play.

One day the worry will be further away and thus more scary and less controllable.

One day my tea break will be interrupted by the phone ringing, and it will be one of the children and I shall be very very glad.

One day my heart won't burst with pride every morning just for the existence of another human being.

One day the feeling of a tiny hand slipping into mine, skipping and pulling at it while I go, will be a distant, precious memory hard to grasp and pin down.

One day tiny clothes and underwear that are so cute your heart skips will be missing from my washing line, my ironing pile.

One day I will wish for little cold feet and snuffly noses to creep into bed with me. I may even wake in the night thinking they have only to find it was a dream.

One day I won't be a hero, a queen, the focus and meaning in my children's lives. Just an ordinary person living invisibly.

One day life will be for filling, but not necessarily fulfilling, not in the same way anyway.

Until grandchildren.

Position Of The Month

2010-11-05T12:37:00.009Z

These were my resolutions this week: Be Useful, Get A Job, Make A Difference. It's now Friday and I've just finished all the facebooking I needed to do and eaten the Halloween sweets that I hid from the kids so I really ought to get down to some work. Thank God it's the weekend tomorrow, I'm bushed.
Talking of bushed, I did come across something the other day that may solve all three problems in one, fancy that! And with very little effort (my favourite kind of job).
I was flicking through one of my (pre teen) cousin's magazines and there, in full blazing glory was a column entitled 'Position Of The Month.' This is not, dear puritan readers, an illustration of a likely position in order to prevent backache during long exams, or even, oh naive one, of a useful career position, one that includes the word doctor or lawyer. Of no, this was as in sex position, you know, like the one Playboy runs, they must have stolen the idea the swines. Note to Mr Heffner: please sue pre teen magazines before they steal any more of your ideas, (also personal note: please buy longer dressing robe type thing, I can see your willy every time you wear it, many thanks).
Obviously I'm not shocked, of course I wasn't, I'm a woman of the world, a pre teen me read Bunty and Twinkle, well, now they've grown up. I did think though, that therein I may not only find my new career, but also a way to be useful. You see, these pictures were of real life couples in certain ahem, positions. Well, I could do that! Easily. Just watch (or not, there's no test at the end of this).
I could pitch to the magazine a brand new column, one entitled 'Labour Positions Of The Month', this dear readers would not only earn me a bit of money and find a use for my now defunct vagina, but it would also contribute significantly to the lowering of the teenage pregnancy rate. The thought of stuffing a doll up there, even if it was good for the nation, puts me off a little but still, you've got to take the rough with the smooth (as I shall wisely tell the nation's teenage girls).
Think about it - it's genius (and please forget all the other genius things I've proposed on this blog, this is the Real Deal, I'm in the zone!), money and usefulness for me, less babies for the under thirteens! It's brilliant! It's marvellous! It's something I may have to persuade Husband about.
But still, I'm sure he'll come round, especially when I tell him about the awards I've been given, one's for services to humanity and all that. They could even put my labour pictures on milk cartons and things like they do with missing kids in America, that'll put them off their coco pops/copulation/dolls.
It is indeed an idea for Humanity, one that may yet get me the knighthood I feel I so deserve. In fact if any of you feel the need, nay, the urge to nomintae me next time you see the queen please do, be sure to mention the milk carton idea.

Thirty Nine Reasons Not To Get A Cat

2010-10-27T18:06:00.003+01:00

Because you already have a dog
A mental one
With a possible eating disorder
Who still hasn't forgiven you for removing his balls
Or calling him Twizzle
They eat food that smells like a toilet
They have a toilet in your kitchen
Even the dog isn't allowed a toilet in the kitchen
Even Husband isn't allowed a toilet in the kitchen
Despite what he thinks
You are expected to clean up their toilet
Never ever Husband
They sleep on your feet peacefully
Until you are asleep
Then they eat your head
Never ever Husband's head
Who insists you are paranoid
They need their gonads removing
They have spent the night locked in the kitchen with the dog
Who has had his gonads removed
And told them the whole sorry tail
And pointed out that animals are the only males in the household to have their gonads removed
Husband still has to get his done
Despite what he may think
They attempt to mate each other
They are brothers
They attempt to mate the dog
Which is ill advised
Just ask next door's cat
Once his head brace is removed
They never ever come when you call them
They do what suits them
They look at you with contempt
They eat all your food
And never thank you
They resemble the rest of the family
Because you would have liked a parakeet
One that said thankyou
And maybe came with gonads pre removed

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2010-10-08T10:16:00.003+01:00

Uuggghhhhhh
Huh?
Oh
Hi darling
Did you have a good night?
A very good night from the looks of it
Ummmm
Darling
It's 2am
I'm asleep
Night
Errr
Sweetheart
Can you move the kebab off my pillow?
That one
That kebab
The one spilling ketchup everywhere
Oh
Right
That's really kind of you
Thankyou
Yes I love my kebab
It's really kind of you
I do appreciate it
It's just that it's 2am
Can't I eat it in the morning?
I do love you
Yes I really do feel how much you love me
I do want the kebab
I love you and I love the kebab
I do hear how much you love me
Yes I really really love you too
I do mean it
I do appreciate the kebab
Ok just one bite
because I love you
See?
I love you
Because I'm sitting up at 2am eating a cold kebab
Did you have a great night?
How were Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head?
Oh good
Any sign of a girlfriend?
Or a shower?
Oh
Never mind
Did you hear that noise?
That noise
That scraping sound
It's what?
What?
Here?
Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head
Well where have you put them
Outside our door?
On the floor
So they can hear everything

Things I Have Said To Pokey, Stu And Bucket Head Tonight

Errr
Hi Guys
Good night?
Excellent
Excellent
Oh thanks
Yes lovely
I'm really glad you thought to bring me a kebab
Yummy
I am eating it
Yes I love my kebab
And I love you all
Yes I can feel how much you all love me
Yes I love you too
Even you Bucket Head, yes
Um
Well
It's just
Could I ask that you all put some clothes on?
Left them where?
Well yes,
It was very thoughtful
No I wouldn't have liked muddy clothes walking through the house
Leaving them outside was a good idea, yes
It's just
Well
Maybe you could have remembered to take your shoes off too
And left your pants on

Thirty Two Ways To Get Your Boot Camp Instructor To Give You Ten Press Ups

2010-09-21T10:21:00.003+01:00

Pretend not to hear when he yells through his loud speaker
Call a taxi mid session
Offer everyone free Starbucks if they stage a sit in with you
Complain
About Anything
Even lack of refreshments
Especially about lack of refreshments
Refuse to 'wake your butt' by slapping it vigorously and with passion
Enquire about the need for passion when slapping butt
Refuse to slap your butt in front of three teenage boys
Joke about slapping other people's butts
Slapping other people's butts
Making up what you ate last night
Arguing that chocolate is raw and therefore counts
Agreeing to work hard and smirking
Smirking
Laughing when doing the plank
Talking when doing the plank
Telling jokes when doing the plank
Not concentrating when doing the plank
Not taking the plank seriously
Doing the plank badly
Failing in plank performing
Bringing gin to a session
Swapping instructors Evian for gin
Laughing at gin spitting
Producing tonic water
And an ice bucket
Taking a picture of instructor swigging gin
Refusing to hand over your camera
Posting gin swigging on facebook
Writing expose stylee blog posts

Get Over Here So I Can Kick Your Ass Personally

2010-09-14T10:50:00.003+01:00

OK guys, I've signed up for a Bootcamp. At the risk of being accused of attention seeking (moi?) I'm going to give you another chance to read that sentence in lots of little dramatic sentences: I've. Signed. Up. For. Bootcamp. Did you hear me at the back? Audible gasps please and a change of background scenery if you will, to one befitting GI Jane et al, complete with abs you could mistake as breasts. Because that's going to be me! Me! With breast abs and everything. Just imagine, Husband won't know whether to jump me or milk me (a gross too far? Sorry mum).
I still can't quite believe I've done it. I mean, I am far, far away from the ab thing (I won't mention the breast thing again, a case of over milking the cow don't you think?), about several vats of Chardonnay and hours of Oprah reruns away. If I ever do attempt any sort of exercise, and sitting down and standing up count, I only succeed in making everyone else gasp at their own relative super-fitness as I stagger behind sounding like an asthmatic wombat. I did once (once) drag my sorry soggy arse (Americans that's Ass to you, I put it in the title to help, sometimes I'm all heart) on a 5Km race only for it to take so long that the bin men picked me up on their rounds the next morning. By now you're getting the gist: Me+Exercise=Diseased Wombat+Soggy Arse, not an equation I would like to foist on any adolescent maths class.
So I'm quite pleased with myself really, it really shows determination and forward thinking doesn't it? In fact, I'm positively a forward planner, gasp at my organisational skills! Marvel at my strength of character! Envy my multi tasking endeavors! (you have to move arms and legs together you know). In short, this is a fantastic achievement for me.
Obviously I have yet to start the bootcamp, the first session is on Thursday, but still, it says a lot about how far I've come surely?
And I promise I'm going to do it, every week and everything, not least because I've paid £97 for the privilege. Yup, mouths closed please, £97 of my hard earned cash. £97 for someone to kick my ass, and it's not hard to miss; it's been used in emergencies to hold up dams.
I have paid someone to shout at me, make me run around outside, get me muddy, sweaty, laugh at my nail varnish, and generally abuse me in much the manner of a psycho. I have, in short, rented a psycho, one who I plan to meet alone at 8.30am (this just gets better and better doesn't it) in the park. Reading this back I conclude astutely that this may not have been my brightest moment.
Not only all of the above, but psycho shouting person has furnished me with a welcome pack. Do not be fooled dear reader as I was that this welcome pack includes anything so welcoming as a cheery hello or a lighthearted suggestion that I go shopping post haste for some shiny new exercise gear. Crikey they didn't even throw in a free chocolate bar, surely, surely the cornerstone of any great welcome pack?
But oh no, this welcome pack contained a five page diatribe of all things I have to give up: food, chocolate, alcohol, sex, (joke, Husband, joke) during the next four weeks, and all the things I'm expected to do: exercise, not ask questions, run at the double, cry only when instructed and keep an honest food diary.
Which is my sticking point to be honest, I mean how on earth am I expected to keep an honest food diary without lying? I'm working hard on it obviously in case I starve but really, why include the word honest? It's just more abuse as far as I'm concerned, why can't they just say keep a food diary then I can write whatever I like. In fact I'd keep Paula Radcliffe's diary, that'd impress them, think how much praise I'd get for that; they may even furnish me with a medal, Oprah would have me on her sofa, I'd jump up and down on it vigorously shouting "I love it! I LOVE it! Then everyone would know I had a film to promote and go and see it. I'd then have a baby that looked like Katie Holmes and all would be right with the world. See where lying gets you? A Hollywood career and a pretty baby that's where.
Anyway, I've been working through the night and I think I can wing it; I can call chips potato (which is good for you, baked, no butter), ice cream could be frozen fruit dessert (I will put fruit on the chocolate midnight cookie ice cream), dairylea sandwiches could be savory protein spread on wholemeal bread (I will put some wholemeal flour on the white bread), mayonnaise could be egg and olive oil smoothie, wine could be organic grape juice (I will buy organic wine) and pizza could be finest Italian bread with sieved tomatoes and savory protein.
But chocolate? Cake? I'm all out of ideas.
So here's the competition: the best viable alternative names for chocolate and cake wins a picture of me participating at bootcamp*. It'll be worth it I swear**

*may not be picture of author
**not a guarantee

Things I Have Said To My Parents Today

2010-09-05T17:14:00.003+01:00

I came as quickly as I could
Well it sounded pretty urgent
When you phoned
You know
You phoned about twenty minutes ago
Saying get here quickly
Well
I got here quickly
Where's mum?
Out?
Well what's the problem
What chaffing?
Where?
Oh crikey
Just tell me what it's like
Uhuh
Umm
Errr
Well dad it sounds like you have piles
Piles
Haemorrhoid's
Little painful sores
Where do you think?
Around err
Around um
Well where you said it was painful
I'm sure it's nothing to worry about
No thanks
No no, that's fine
I said no
Please Dad
I don't think an inspection is necessary
Oh Lord
Well
Err
Yup,
Definitely piles
Well I can see them
Yes they are impressive
I'll take your word that they're worse than mum's
Oh Hi Mum
Yes it's me
Looking at Dad's piles
What do you mean you've inspected them already?
He said it was an emergency
And that you were out
You were where?
Getting pile ointment?
Well why did he get me to come over?
Oh
To see if they were bigger than mum's
Thanks dad
I'm sure they are
No thanks Mum
I really really don't want to compare
I wouldn't be useful
Or impartial
Well I'd probably go blind
And have to call a therapist
I'm not being dramatic
Or over reacting
Oh OK,
That's a great idea
Yes, you call the neighbour
I'm sure Barry would love to be the independent adjudicator
I'm sure he is very fair at scrabble

Three Rings To Come and Get Us

2010-07-12T17:10:00.003+01:00

The children have gone to stay at my parents. This, for most of you out there would be a cause for grand celebration, glorious freedom, a night out with lashings of wine and a spot of sex without locking the bedroom door, I know! Heady times. But over here in Millennium Housewife Country (population: 4, sane residents: 1) it's a tiny bit tense; the time is spent not in the pursuit of lost, youthful hedonism but instead sitting by the phone waiting for it to ring three times. Because that's the signal you see. In case of emergency Isla will surreptitiously pick up the phone at my parent's house, dial our number, let it ring three times and whoosh, we swoop to rescue.
Obviously this is nothing against My Mother, or dad for that matter, it's just she's not a natural Grandmother. When I took a newborn Isla for her first ever visit to Granny, My Mother made us enter the house via the backdoor "In case the neighbours see and think I'm old enough to be a grandma" She hissed, patting her shampoo and set and adjusting her pearls. We were swept into the house at great speed, I was at least heartened by the fact she didn't insist on covering our heads with a tartan blanket in much the same manner as a murderer. Every cloud.
Once in, My Mother ushered us into The Front Room. The Front Room! That deserves a line all of its own don't you think?

The Front Room

If you knew, if you knew of the sancity of the front room you would have given it its own line too. You may even have stood up to salute and applaud and sing the national anthem lustily and with vigour. You see, I've never been in the front room, we weren't allowed; the front room is for best, for guests, it has sofas with the plastic still covering them, a little slippery perhaps but staying put until the pope visits. It has lush, plush carpet untouched by shoes, a chandalier reminiscent of Marks and Spencer's take on Dynasty. Little occasional tables litter the room, nestling under each other like fake mahogany Russian Dolls, doilies adorn every surface, the ubiquitous Portrait of my parents, naked except for mask and snorkels, framed in the finest gilt and lit overhead by a special portrait illuminating light. It was the holy grail of my childhood, glimpsed only on special occasions between legs of grown up aunties and uncles before being ushered upstairs to play with the other abandoned children. If I'd know all it took to get in there was producing a grandchild I'd have done it years ago, which is probably why they didn't tell me.

So, you can see what an occasion it was, it may have taken me nigh on thirty(ish) years to get in, but Isla had managed it in six weeks, just by existing. Life was looking up.

My Mother opened the door formally and invited us in with a slight bow of her head, and then, well, we stood around really. My Mother stood in the centre looking slightly puzzled, resplendent in her smart suit, freshly laundered hair and much loved prostitute boots that she bought from the local transvestite shop (you can't actually buy a transvestite there, just the clothes). She looked at Isla quizzically and quietly offered her a small dish of peanuts and enquired after her health.

"She can't talk you know mother"

"Oh yes, yes of course" she said in an accusing kind of way, and sat down under the portrait and sighed wistfully, "I'm sure you were doing more at this age" she added and mournfully ate a peanut.

"She's six weeks old" I protested, hugging Isla tightly and refusing a gin and tonic

"Still," She said, "I think we had you walking" and at this she attempted to take Isla and demostrate a walking motion.

So that is why we're spending the next few hours sitting next to the phone. Granted Isla and Jack are now walking and talking tolerably well, but I think it's about this age that my parents think a child should be cleaning the guttering out or at least using a power drill to effect. Isla has a list of things they are not to do. And our phone number tattooed on her arm.

Books I Am Planning To Write

2010-06-21T20:31:00.002+01:00

De Worm Your Family In Seconds
How To Ask Your Friends To De Worm Without Giving Yourself Away
Concealing Worm Medicine In Sandwiches
Sex Education For Six Year Olds - the avoidance approach
Sex Education For Six Year Olds - how to defer to your Husband
Sex Education For Three Year Olds- how to defer to your six year old
Lose Fifteen Pounds Instantly - put your toddler down
Get Your Kids Hooked On Veg! alternative uses for nicotine
Sex! And Other Ways To Jewelery, Attention and Shoes
Talking To Teachers: tuck your shirt in and stand up straight
Child Proof Your House: lock them out
Crikey Your Pecs Look Good! and other ways to get your husband to do absolutely anything*

*not a guarantee

Things I have said To My Parents Today

2010-06-12T11:08:00.003+01:00

Hiya
Hellooooo
Mum?
Dad?
Muuuum
Daaaaad
The doors open
It's only me
Where are you?
Oh Good Lord Jesus Christ
Err
Hi mum
Hi dad
Sorry
Sorry to er
Well disturb you I suppose
I'll just
errr
Look over here
La la la la la
La la la la la
No no
No trouble
I'm not behaving strangely
It's just
Well
It's not what I expected to see
Not in that position anyway
I'm sure it was in a book
No thanks
I really don't want to borrow it
I'm sure it is informative
With clear illustrations
But I don't need the book
I'm not embarrassed
I'm well aware you're not embarrassed
It's just
Well
What will the neighbours think?
Well do you have to do it in the garden?
Well you should have stayed in the potting shed
I don't care if it was uncomfy
Dad's trowel?
Stuck where?
Oh Good Lord Jesus Christ
Sorry
Sorry for taking the Lord's name in vain
Twice
But the Lord would take his own name in vain if he knew about the trowel
I don't care what Oprah says
Why do you have to listen to Oprah?
I'm sure she does give great advice
About wallpaper
What did she suggest?
Spicing things up?
Couldn't you just have added curry powder or something?
Rather than doing it in the garden
In that position
Oh
OK
I'm going to write to Oprah

Things I Have Written To Oprah Today

Dear Ms Winfrey

Please could you do more programmes on things like home makeovers and being nice to other people, you're very good at them. My Mother watches you every day and they're her particular favourite.

Please could you stop doing programmes on sex for older people, specifically ones where you suggest new places for them to do it. The place they used to do it was just fine: in bed with the lights out on a Sunday. That way we all know where we are.

Many Thanks, and keep up the good work,

Millennium Housewife

PS, if you don't stop the sex stuff I'll tell you the trowel story.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2010-05-29T18:26:00.002+01:00

What are you doing?
Right now
What were you doing just then?
I know you're putting your pants on
But they're inside out
Oh you know already
Right
Well
Err
Why?
Why are you putting your pants on inside out?
What do you mean you've worn the other side?
What other side?
The inside bit?
You mean you've worn those already?
Three days?
And now you're turning them inside out
To wear the clean side
I am not grateful
No I should not be
I really don't need you to save me washing
Because I'd rather you wore clean pants every day
It's not bad for your health
I don't care what Pokey, Stu or Bucket Head say
I'm really not interested
What competition?
With Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head?
A pant competition?
Well just tell them you lost
Because you have a wife
Who has a nose
Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head only have each other
Well I don't feel sorry for them
No they can't come tonight
I'm very sorry if they're starved of female company
There's probably a good reason for that
I'm sure they do say a lot of nice things about me
And praise my lasagne
But that's because it's the only non takeaway meal they've ever eaten
Well you'll just have to un invite them
What important job?
Me?
No
I won't do it
I'm not judging the pant competition
Or washing the winner's pants
Well you shouldn't have told them I would
I know I'm the only woman in their lives
Perhaps if they changed their pants more often they'd find someone
What do you mean they tried that?
One week?
Well of course it didn't work
I think it'll take a bit longer than a week
And perhaps a toothbrush

Hips, Dips And Trips Down The Aisle

2010-05-18T17:04:00.003+01:00

Last weekend grandma got engaged. This is not My Mother you understand, the kid's grandma, but my grandma, you know, the 95 year year old who lives in a nursing home. Obviously if it had been My Mother this post would not have opened in such a calm, measured, mature way without a hint of hysteria about it. Oh no, if I were talking about My Mother you would have been treated, nay gifted with a multi paragraphed diatribe on the evils of the older generation; their lack of staying power and commitment; how they expect everything on a plate nowadays without striving; and most importantly how you should never ever remarry once your children know about sex, because that's about all they'll think about once you announce you're about to remarry. And thinking about your parents and the merest hint that they may possibly have a sex life is To Be Avoided At All Costs, because you'll go blind. Or something. It'll be their fault anyway whatever the outcome.
So it's My Mother that gets to do the diatribe thing and obsess over not obsessing about the possibility her 95 year old mother-in-a-home (Delia does a recipe) is planning to tie the knot (to the bedpost - ha ha! Joke mum, joke) and possibly embark on a new spring in her step chapter of her life.
It has, to be honest been a bit of a shock, not helped by the fact that grandma is a bit mental. She regularly attempts to buy plane tickets to Belgium at the nursing home desk, thinks that all biscuits talk but only in Spanish and has an unholy interest in s-e-x (as she calls it before describing select portions of it in interesting detail).
Anyway, it's fallen to me to deal with the whole getting married thing and all it encompasses. There are only so many things I can expect My Mother to do and dealing with her own mother's impending (mental) nuptials and subsequent buying of negligees for the Wedding Night is not one of them.
Firstly I had to visit grandma and her betrothed Vincent on Monday to have The Talk. I approached this as a useful practise session for when I have to have The Talk with Isla and Jack. Husband is not doing this, whatever he says; Jack would simply be furnished with a few choice chat up lines and a bumper pack of condoms, and Isla would be encouraged to marry God.
The Talk was no nonsense and to the point (see how mature I'm getting?) and (obviously) loud, neither of them hearing at a level which would be preferred when discussing intimacies. I encouraged them both to wait until they were married (again! so mature!), not least because if the physical effort finished one of them off all my efforts for the wedding day would be wasted and, more to the point, unappreciated.
I was spared the whole gauntlet of contraception for obvious reasons (and if the reasons aren't obvious you sure did miss biology on the wrong day). But I did ask them to pay particular attention to the fact they've both had hip replacements and to be extra careful when thrusting, and perhaps remove their magnetic arthritis bracelets if attempting anything sub naval. I'm thinking of purchasing them a large road sign to place above their marriage bed saying Mind The Hip. Should do the trick.
I've also begun to plan the wedding; I've found a lovely venue with no steps or loose carpet, they've promised to provide a loud hailer for the speeches and a stand in for the best man should his bunions play up and best of all a couple of commodes dressed as thrones. Very Victoria Beckham. I'll keep you posted.

Model Behavior

2010-05-11T12:55:00.003+01:00

I have been terribly remiss about updating this blog, I do apologise and I know you will all be breathing a sigh of relief that the absence isn't because of My Mother's bunions again. Thanks to dad's ministering of God-knows-what they're healing nicely (cue global out breath and subsequent raising of CO2 levels, sorry Mr Gore, forget industry, three inch stilettos are where the problem's at).
It's just that I've been lazy, lazy and a little tired. I do love my family, despite what you all may think, and I do love being a stay at home mum, sometimes. But it's been a long time, over six years of being home alone with a baby/toddler/preschooler and I could do with a break. One which doesn't involve finding something new to do with Jack during the day.
Mother and toddler groups just don't cut it anymore. There's only so many times I can stand in a circle, gripping a child's hand to make him/her stay beside me while waving enthusiastically at the teacher during Hello Hello It's Nice To See You; and I'm not sure how long I can stand to look surprised to find my knees again, or how long Jack can put up with me whispering fiercely at him to make him stay during ring a ring o' roses so I don't have to hold another mummy's hand. The biscuits at the end of the session are a small consolation I suppose, but they do insist on giving the children all the good ones and us mummies the ones that look suspiciously wholemeal. I'd do a lot for a custard cream.
Anyway, during one such session last week (where I rebelled a little and neglected to find my knees), I came up with a great idea to make mummy and toddler sessions (there are no daddies in ours) a lot more fun: Male Model Teachers.
Think about it, it's perfect. As Carlsberg would say, this, Ladies and Gentlemen is probably the best playgroup in the world. The Male Model Teachers (TM) could have a uniform of simple, ripped jeans while their torsos could be all oiled and ripped too.
It would mean that the Hello Hello It's Nice To See You song could have a lot more meaning and feel to it, you know? It really would be nice to see them; crikey you'd even arrive early to see whether they actually change into their uniforms at the village hall as the rumours suggest.
Jack and Jill going up the hill would be a chance to snigger quietly as you winked at each other through the version that has them coming (snigger) down with a daughter. And the Goodbye Goodbye song could provide its own opportunity for pathos and real regret as those glistening pecs were put away for another week.
Biscuit time would be changed forever, especially as the wine suggestion was taken up (and paid for generously) by the committee. Conversation would flow as we all waved away the wholemeal biscuits, and failed to look longingly at the custard creams. Who needs custard creams when you're watching your oh-so-slim figure? (this is a fantasy playgroup remember).
I do hate to gloat, but this really is a simple and quite honestly genius way to transform the lives of any stay at home parent. Groups with dads in them could include female models, or any peccadillo really as long as you clear it with the committee. Let me know what you think, and any models out there looking for a change of career, do get in touch, I'm setting up an agency.

Judgement Day

2010-04-06T15:04:00.002+01:00

I really do miss judging other people's children, little ones I mean. Having two young ones myself, obviously I have to be kind and understanding and nod ruefully at the lamentations of various parents about their child's behaviour. There's absolutely no place for judging, no way. Not even when they're shouting in the supermarket (Because Of Additives), or being bribed in the trolley (Filling Them With Additives), or moaning incessantly about wanting something in a shop (Because They're Spoiled) or throwing one helluva tantrum about going to school (Lack Of Discipline In The Home). You see?I have all these brilliant judgements and no one to pour them on. This is because, as you may well have guessed due to the lack of Parenting Pride themed posts on this blog, it's normally my kids doing all of the above, I am not even able to delete any as appropriate.
But because my kids refuse resolutely to grow up faster than the average child (despite what it said on the tin), I'm stuck with two young ones, and therefore doomed to be Understanding about everyone elses. Especially ones showing behaviour learnt from my two.
Before children I used to have a good old judge of other people's children (and by default their parenting skills) at least once a day. Ahhh, it was a beautiful time of ego boosting as I watched behaviour that my future offspring would never be allowed to get away with. Oh yes, you see I knew all about bringing up children, why, I read the Guardian family section every week, I knew all about the pitfalls of parenting, from psychological damage to paying out too much pocket money. Oh yes, I had it all planned out, including the type of labour they would be expected to do to earn the perfect amount of pocket money for their age.
The only light relief I get nowadays is watching the faces of first-time-pregnant mums when we're out and about. Ok, they're still in a place where they may be able to convince themselves that their child experience will be different (because it just will, ok?); they may even be a little smug, still a little judgemental, but in a slightly wary and rabbit caught in headlights way. Oh yes. Because you see they have yet to have their child, their child that may possibly behave in the manner that my child is demonstrating so exquisitely right this minute. They are well aware that Life May Be About To Change. Thus they are extra careful with their accusing glances and even attempt a child-bonding proffering of sweets or hair ruffle in an attempt to say 'ah, it'll be my turn soon ha ha ha ha.'
Of course they don't believe this, in their (hormone flooded) heads, their children will be awash with rice cakes and good feeling. They will bring colouring books and sparkly stickers to the supermarket with which to entertain their children in a healthy and absorbing manner. They will even, when pushed, agree to an Organix Everything Free biscuit, but only in emergencies.
It is opposite these new-pregnant-mummies that I display my children to the fullest. A peacock if you will, to the pea hen's lair. They daren't complain, they're too busy watching me smirk at their bump and daring them to criticise. I even pull my best parenting stunts in front of them, just to give them some tools for later when their little treasures are burying Bob The Builder in the freezer section. I am adept, you see, at the yanking-one-arm-harsh-whisper-in-the-ear-and chocolate-shoved-in-mouth manoeuvre; regard with Wonder and Approval my removal-of-child's-shoes-to-prevent-running-away display (I made that one up myself); gasp at my mastery of the double-child-hair-pull-with-a-back-twist, I even land with both feet together and a flourish of the arms, sometimes to applause - I know, I'd be wishing I was me too.
Obviously, I can give my judgemental streak a good old scratch now and then at teenagers, but it's just not the same is it? Once you've given birth and screamed for the epidural you swore you'd never want, and failed resolutely to Ohmn the baby out in a restful lotus position, you realise with a vomit laden thud that you're doomed to Be Like Every Other Parent. You are not the special, Guardian Family Section educated, Zen like mother you always thought you'd be. And ergo you may not judge.
Bit of a shock that was.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2010-03-19T12:55:00.002Z

No
No thanks
I said no
I don't want to pull your finger
Because I know what will happen
I do know
Because I've been married to you for years
It will not be different this time
It won't
Because I've been married to you for years
And every time you pass wind
Pass wind
It's the polite way to say it
I'm not doing it
I don't think I'll be pleasantly surprised this time
I'm not doing it
I'm sorry if you're getting desperate
Stop hopping around
I know it's trying to come out
Well just go to work
And do it in the car
Sorry if that's no fun
And your boss doesn't like it
Your finger does not need to be pulled
It's not a biological necessity
Or a unique quirk of your physique
Please don't try to dance your pecs when you say that
I'm sure it does impress your boos
And the lady at the checkout
Because I've been married to you for years
Just get ready for work
And put your finger away
You will not burst
I assure you
Stop hopping
Oh, ok
I said ok
I will make it a good one
Let's just get it done shall we?
Give me your finger
There
All better?
What?
What was I supposed to be pleasantly surprised about?
Oh
Well
Yes
I suppose it is your best yet
Yes aged oak with citrus undertones is what I was going for

Things I Have Said To My Mother Today

2010-03-06T13:54:00.002Z

Oh hello
I didn't realise you were coming over
No you didn't
You didn't warn me
Well I'd have remembered
And been out
Yes I suppose you are here now
A cup of tea?
Oh OK
Yes the milk's fresh
What's that?
Your own mug?
I do wash up properly
And use good tea bags
You really didn't need to bring your own
Why don't you just sit down
And stop dusting the door
Over there
On the chair
You don't need to do that
Put a napkin on the chair
Before you sit on it
Because it's clean
OK, but just sit down
Lovely
Errr
Mother?
Those are interesting boots
Hmm
Very red
And shiny
And knee high
Yes you were lucky to get them in your size
I do like them
It's just that
Well
They're a bit
Um
Prostitutey
It's not a rude word
What woman in what shop?
Which shop did you go to
In town?
At the bottom of Mill Street?
Err
Was this shop woman rather large?
And tall for a woman?
Any sign of an adam's apple?
No, no
It's just that it's a transvestite shop
Transvestite
You know, women's clothes in men's sizes
Well some men like to
That's how you managed to get large boots
Lot's of men do
Sorry?
I thought you said like dad
You did
Ah
Err
I'll just pretend I didn't hear it
I'm not being prudish
I'd just rather not know
Yes I suppose I do know now
What girl's day out?
You and dad?
No thanks
I said no
I really don't want to join you on your next one
Because dad in a dress is not my dream excursion
I'm sure he does look very becoming
But I'd rather see him in his gardening trousers
Like I'm used to
I'm very sorry that he finds the look restricting
And rather drab
But it's just for a while
Until I leave the country

How Did That Happen?

2010-02-22T12:26:00.004Z

It appears I may have started to get old, not old as in stooped and hunched and best friends with the commode but the growing up kind of old. First my best friend's little sister went and rather selfishly turned thirty, reminding me that I must be way over that, and now she's gone and gotten engaged. Engaged! To a real person and everything. She's even having a hen night, one to which I've been invited. I was quite chuffed actually, who wouldn't be? Until she let it be known that they thought a few oldies would help keep everyone in line during the drinking games. Drinking games? Surely she's too young?
Last time I saw her she was even discussing kids, much to my horror, I reminded her that she was expected to keep chaste until her wedding night, just as I and Husband had done. The fact that Isla was born three months after our wedding was a small aberration, Isla was one of those quick growing babies, My Mother was dead impressed, she even called the local paper.
Anyway, secondly, I went to my younger brother's leaving do on Saturday night, he's moving to LA with absolutely no thought as to where I'm going to find a replacement Younger Brother (the position is up for grabs if any of you want to apply, must babysit/wash regularly/be more inhibited when discussing his admittedly impressive love life, if I'm going to hire a new one we might as well go for some improvements).
This party was one of those all dayer things: lunch followed by drinking through until closing then attempting to bribe the barman on bended knees for a lock in (if any police officers are reading this, he said no). Obviously because I am now a Grown Up I couldn't go until the evening due to having Responsibilities. I'd missed lunch but sensibly ate a large carbohydrate dinner just before leaving, we wouldn't like to be drunk in front of the babysitter would we? I then proceeded to drink my body weight in wine (some things qualify as Grown Up even if it doesn't sound too mature) and chatter and laugh in a seemly and discreet manner.
It was about this time that I had my big growing up realisation. You see, I went to the toilet and there was no toilet paper. The old, immature, more drunken me would have yelled into the next cubicle to see if the other toilet user had any, the kindly user would then pass some under the door and we'd have a little drunken bonding session about tissue and pubs (you read that right) and all manner of interesting things. We'd then both exit our toilets and smile in an embarrassed manner because we knew we'd heard the other one wee and now we didn't know what to say to each other. But it would have been fun, and an interesting diversion.
But I was denied all this because I had a little packet of tissues in my handbag, you know, just in case. And that's when it hit me, I'm a grown up, a sensible, tissue carrying, proper contraception using, wine sipping, non shot gulping, going to a best friend's little sister's hen night as an oldie, grown up. Dammit. There's only one more place for me to go before the grave now, I get to turn into My Mother.

Goldilocks and the Three Bears. Retold.

2010-02-11T11:49:00.004Z

Once upon a time in a land far away there lived a family of bears, Daddy Bear, Mummy Bear and Baby Bear. They were a little unusual for a bear family however in that they eschewed the traditional bear family set up and attempted to fit in with the local population by donning clothes and living in a house in the woods. They had been vegetarian for some time and Mummy Bear usually dished up bowls of porridge at each meal. She was not known for her vegetable based repertoire and missed the days when a nice fresh salmon would suffice.
One morning Mummy Bear woke late and rushed the usual porridge order serving it up without a thought as to its consistency or temperature. Baby Bear’s porridge, luckily, was just right, but hers was too cool and Daddy Bear’s far too hot, much to his disgust. They decided, as any family would, to go on a nice walk while Daddy Bear’s porridge cools down, by which point Baby Bear’s porridge will be cold and Mummy Bear’s congealed, but hey ho, that’s what you get for appointing Daddy Bear the head of the family.
While away on their walk, from the other side of the forest came Goldilocks. A deceptively sweet looking girl and as yet unfettered by an ASBO, she was allowed to wander freely about the forest. She decided to do a quick break and enter into the Bears’ cottage just to see if they lived on that foreign muck that her mother claimed they did. Goldilocks wasn't sure what foreign muck was, or why it made her Mother sniff so loudly when she mentioned it, but she was going to find out. All rather exciting actually.
On entering Goldilocks spied the uneaten porridge and having only had Coco Pops herself for breakfast, she decided to give it a try. Finding Daddy Bear’s porridge too hot and Mummy Bear’s too cold, she settled on Baby Bear’s and giving no thought to hygiene finished it all up.
Golilocks’ body reacted to the strange, sugar free breakfast and began to shut down, so she decided to go upstairs and have a little rest. On finding the three single beds that the Bear family occupy rather chastely during the night she tries each one out in turn. Daddy Bears is too hard, mainly due to the plank of wood Mummy Bear inserted under the mattress to help his sciatica. Mummy Bears is too soft, she should never have removed the base and given it to Daddy Bear, sciatica or not. Baby Bears turned out to be just right and Goldilocks fell into an oat induced slumber.
On returning from their walk, the Bear family found Baby Bear’s empty porridge bowl. Baby Bear was secretly pleased and crossed his fingers that Mummy Bear had some Crunchy Nut Cornflakes hidden somewhere. In a fit of temper at having their home invaded the Bear family marched upstairs to search for the miscreant. The Bears found Goldilocks asleep on Baby Bear’s bed and roared in an unfriendly and uninviting manner. Goldilocks woke startled, and fearing for her life ran from the house. Mummy Bear managed to snatch at her ankle, but the electronic tag was all she could grab hold of and it came away with ease. Goldilocks disappeared into the forest towards an uncertain future and untimely motherhood. The Bears retired to discuss What The World Is Coming To over a bowl of porridge.

Make Love Not War

2010-01-25T20:34:00.004Z

My two year old has decided to potty train himself. Yup, I know what you're all thinking: stupid, weak Mummy strap a nappy on with sellotape and bribe with chocolate. I've tried! I've tried! But he figured out that vaseline de sticks sellotape on the first go, and I already bribe with so much chocolate that I suspected myself of attempting the hostile takeover of Cadbury's.
So he remains nappyless, with not a clue what to do without one. All he knows is that Buzz Lightyear (second hand) pants are far preferable to Barbie nappies (I had a lot left over from Isla, everybody swore blind that boys don't notice what they wear. This is no ordinary boy).
I didn't want him to do it, I wanted to wait until he was three, no strike that, I didn't want to do it at all. I've already done one and the dog, and the latter ensured any excreta training of any sort lost it's appeal. In fact, if I had my way, I would have happily (I think) stayed pregnant for a few more years while my unborn weaned and toilet trained himself in utero. In fact, if he'd done a few exercises and generally put a bit of work in, he could have walked out one day all finished, nodding at me with a sullen wave and a mutter of you're so embarrassing and it's not fair and behold I have a teenager all prepared and ready to fly the nest. If I'm honest, giving birth to a teenager seems an attractive option right now, a little more painful perhaps but to have bypassed the potty training bit? You've got yourself a deal.
Why didn't I think of this years ago?If I'd just had a little strength of character and concentrated on panting instead of pushing, I could have been the first woman alive to produce a ready done adult(ish).
Plus, I could have made a mint out of it. Think of all the book deals, titles like Don't push, sit on it and be patient you idiot. All your problems are about to be solved, come abounding to mind. I'm sure there's something snappier out there but be fair, I've only just thought of all this. And surely I could have sold the story to the tabloids? Think of the field day, the boosted sales as all women want to get in on the act. The Sun could even run a competition asking its readers to guess the amount of dilation needed for a teenager. The prize could be dinner with me. Fancy that, being a prize in a paper.
Obviously my newborn teenager will be incredibly embarrassed at all this attention, but hang that, I was pregnant for fourteen years, yes! try coming back from that one boyo. I will have had ample time to prepare for his most hormonal years and will even tolerate his 'Make Love Not War' T-shirt with a wry smile. I know it's not original, you know it's not original, but hey the lad hasn't been around long. When I discovered the Make Love etc slogan I wore it with pride and no bra. Now there's a statement. I thought I was The Girl, The Pacifist, original and braless until My Mother pointed out that it was her generation that came up with the slogan and the idea of going braless.
"And we did dear"
"Did what?"
"Make love not war, it didn't stop the war but it was a lot of fun. That is of course until your father knocked me up and my dad hit him on the head with a nut cracker until he agreed to marry me. He's still got the bump."
Quite.
Anyway, my Granny informed me that it was her generation that came up with the making love not war thingy, and that they could never afford bras anyway. Granny without a bra, now there's a slogan.

The Ten Commandments

2010-01-11T13:58:00.003Z

It will come as no surprise to any of you that I routinely spend January making and breaking my New Year's Resolutions. So on Husband's suggestion, I'm going to give myself rules. Rules, apparently, cannot be broken. But we'll see.

Thou shalt not lie with thine son, no matter how much he screams and cries. You will only wake up squashed against the wall with Buzz Lightyear grinning manically at you and a smell of nappy wafting gently through the air. You will get no thanks for this, only more whining and smug satisfaction from Husband that he got the run of the bed.
Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wine. They probably didn't pickle themselves in December, and are probably on the same bottle they started last week. You, on the other hand can barely remember Christmas and had to tip the bin men to take the extra recycling box away.
Thou shalt visit thy Granny every week. Despite the fact that she spends the whole time pointing out that the woman in the next bed looks like the transsexual actress from Coronation Street. You will even nod politely as Granny invites the entire ward to meet the actress and wonders loudly about the bits that were removed, even though the lady in the next bed is not hard of hearing.
Thou shalt show an interest in your dad's potting shed. And ignore, to the best of your ability, the porn hidden under the seed trays.
Thou shalt help your Mother clean your house. This will be a bonding time for both of you. You will, under no circumstances, flinch if she mentions: Dog hair, the whereabouts of the box of sex toys she gave you for your birthday, cobwebs, Husband's prolific use of toilet paper, the smell in the bedroom, Dad's virility, lack of suitable cloths, using effective contraception until you find a decent man, how it was when she was a girl.
Thou shalt be on time to pick up Isla from school three times in five, and show the teacher that you're not 'slightly unhinged with OCD tendencies'.
Thou shalt be more understanding and giving when Husband nudges you in the back. Even at 6am.
Thou shalt invite Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head for dinner, and not: Cancel at the last minute, disinfect the house prior to and after arrival, make jokes using words longer than two syllables, request ID, laugh at Husband laughing at them, serve dinner in a bucket, complain about the vomit.
Thou shalt not lie to: the doctor, dentist, giving up smoking nurse, police about the scrape on their car, your Mother about her chances in the lightest sponge competition, Dad about noticing the porn under the seed trays, Dad about porn in his dashboard, Dad in general about porn, Husband about his bald spot or any matter to do with sizing of anything at all. This is a minefield.
Thou shalt not blame hormones for any or all of the following: Lack of libido, cobwebs, takeaway for the fourth night in a row, crying at Notting Hill, crying at Star Wars, crying at any baby passed in the supermarket, chooching babies and making a choochy noise while in the supermarket, elbowing Mothers out of the way to chooch their baby, being irritable when Husband steals your chips, forgetting that you drank the last bottle of chardonnay, being cross for cross's sake, bad driving, mounting the curb while driving, forgetting to indicate while driving, putting lipstick on while driving, gaining ten pounds, spending the mortgage on a dress, writing sarcastic things on your blog.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2010-01-07T17:49:00.003Z

Ooh thankyou
I do love Christmas
Especially the present getting bit
Ooh this one's nice and squishy
Is it from you?
Lovely
Ummm
It's very large
Err
Um
Is it a rug?
A throw?
A what?
Slanket?
What's a slanket?
I'm well aware that I'm holding one
But how would one use it exactly?
For wearing?
It looks like a two large dog rugs sewn together
One that the dog would refuse to sit on
I wear it?
How?
Over my head
Oh I see
Why?
Well I'm sure it will be comfortable
Yes, yes it's lovely
But really
Well,
It would be just as easy to sew two dog rugs together
And put that over my head
Yes it would look rubbish
Exactly
Well I'll give it a go
What do you mean there's more?
More presents?
No
Well what then?
It's big enough for two
Do you mean the two of us?
Well I thought maybe you meant you and the dog
Well why would we sit in a dog rug together?
It's a naked thing?
It does not
It does not say that on the label
Yes I can read
Yes it says for naked use only
But the handwriting gives it away
As does the small pornographic drawing
No it doesn't get me in the mood
At all
I said At All
Yes I suppose we could give it a try tonight
You've rented a DVD?
To watch?
Fantastic
Well yes I suppose we could watch it naked in the slanket
What's the movie?
Die Hard
I think I'll have an early night
Yes you can borrow the slanket

Things I have said To My Parents Today

2009-12-17T10:39:00.004Z

Ooh thankyou
Happy early Christmas to you too
I like the wrapping
Shall I guess?
Ok
Err
Well it doesn't rattle
It's squareish
It's quite light
I'm guessing a book
Shall I open it?
Excellent
I wonder what it is
Yes I was right, a book
Sex As You Age?
Sex As You Age?
What do you mean I'm quite welcome?
It may well have got you through some tough times
But I'm in my thirties
My Thirties
I'm not aging
Or in need of an elderly person's sex manual
Oh crikey
There's notes in the margin
Especially for me?
Was this your book?
Dad please don't say Ours like that
While putting your arm round mum
Because I'm holding your sex manual
And sitting next to you
And trying desperately to think of something pleasant
And Christmassy
And not look at the chapter entitled Arthritis Of The Knee And You
Dad
Stop winking at mum
Put your hands where I can see them
Both of you
I'm taking away the sherry
No you can't have it back at bedtime
Because we're in the room next to you
And I can see you've put your knee bandage on
Yes of course safety comes first
But so does your daughter's mental health
I'm sure you do have a book on that too
But really
No more books OK
Because my nerves can't take it
No thanks
I don't want my other present
Because it looks suspiciosly like a pot of chocolate
And a box of knee bandages

Hot and Mothered

2009-12-01T12:12:00.004Z

My dad has gone away.
This is a rare occurrence, he's as attached to his tweed arm chair and over head projector slides as Husband is to his balls (due to be removed soon har har). He's gone to a potato convention. That's right, a potato convention. He found the advert in the back of a seed catalogue and hasn't been so excited about anything since Barry from next door entered a dodgy cauliflower in the Best Cauliflower competition:
He hasn't got a chance the silly bugger, he strained to me from the corner of his mouth, breathing heavily in an attempt to supress his excitement,
the fool's deluded, I mean, look at it, it's almost as bad as his tomatoes. The silly buggery fool. You get the gist.
Anyway, Dad being away means Trouble (you note the capital T), because My Mother loses all focus, actually she loses every bit of focus she has: My Dad. No focus means a whirling dervish with nothing to whirl around. Who if not my dad will listen to the tirades about Shirley-The-Competition and her latest attempts to out wit My Mother in the Church league? Who tastes the sauces and exclaims with practised ease delicious dear, I don't know how you do it. Who acknowledges the hourly missives regarding paired socks (pin each pair together before washing to prevent loss), eating over cooked cheese (worse than death apparently, I have a feeling she's got a shock coming one of these days), saving empty butter wrap in the fridge for no apparent reason at all, hand washing clothes and then putting them in the washing machine (it's not thorough enough) and wiping the dog's bottom because he's practically human? My dad, that's who, I have a lot to thank him for.
But not this week because he's gone to this bloody potato convention. He set off with several examples of the potatoes he grows wrapped in bubble wrap and placed delicately in a briefcase. He looked like MI5 were developing a top secret potato based listening device and he had been bestowed the honour of providing Just The Right Potato. He even took his own spade because you can't buy them like this nowadays, i.e. with a long handle and a square spade on the end.
Anyway, where was I? Aha, yes, My Mother, I remember now because she's standing behind me, fiddling for her glasses and squinting at the screen. I haven't seen her, but I can feel the criticism cloud building as I type. Best type fast then.
As you have probably guessed, the whirling dervish has landed squarely on my doorstep. Approximately 32 minutes after my dad left for the station, My Mother let herself in to my house with a key that I have never given her (How? How? How did she do it?).
Hello Darling she trilled excitedly as she surveyed all the criticism potential hovering in the hallway, it looks like I've come just in time, pass me a duster would you and we're definitely going to need some bleach for the light shades.
She's here. To stay. And won't go away until my dad comes home which is in forty eight hours (2880 minutes/172800 seconds). She's washed all the curtains (full of bacteria), swept the ceilings (a hive of bacteria), bathed the dog (a bacteria factory), scrubbed the bath down (full of dog bacteria) and cleaned out the cheese tray (cheese is mouldy and therefore bacteria filled).
Last night I woke up to find her cleaning out under my eyelids with a toothpick before giving Husband a quick go down with the disinfectant.
Ok, so I can cope with a clean house, and I am nicely pleased with my clean Husband, but she has got to go. I'm going to get the Potato Convention to page my dad and say I've spotted blight. On his potatoes. Give me two minutes.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2009-11-25T10:06:00.002Z

Hmmm
What is it?
Well let me have a look then
Hold still
Don't complain all day and not let me look
Pull them down a bit more
Ok
Hmmmm
Er
Well it looks like a rash
Has it been chaffing?
Well it looks like it has
I'm well aware that it's itchy
Nobody could have escaped the fact that it's itching
Please don't scratch while I'm down here
It's been a week now I think
Judging from when the itching started
Why don't you put some cream on?
We have
In the cabinet
If it works for nappy rash it'll work for this
It's not bum cream it's for rashes
No I don't think you need something extra strength from the doctor
Because it's just a rash
Well I think it's just from sweat
No, I don't think you're ill
Or that it's life threatening
Have you ever heard of death by rash?
What do you mean Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head say it could happen?
You let them look at your bum rash?
Why?
Why would they have any insight?
Are they medically trained?
Specialists in rashes?
Have any knowledge at all of rash related deaths?
Pokey had one?
One like this?
Oh
Well what did the doctor say?
His pants?
Well how often did he change them?
Do you only change your pants once a week?
Oh good
But every few days isn't good enough
Every day
Yes, every day
Most people do
It's not obsessive
Or girly
Most normal people change everyday
Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head are not normal
Because they're forty four and live together
And only eat bacon
And still have a wok in their garden
That Bucket Head used as a toilet
That's not normal.

Oh Glory Be

2009-11-16T13:32:00.003Z

Ok, so I covered myself in glory on Saturday night. Glory I tell you. Award winning glory, glory worthy of Husband tutting and shaking his head. When Husband tuts and shakes his head at your inebriated state you know you're in trouble, and any sensible person would hot foot it to the taxi rank, pour themselves into a cab and attempt to get themselves home.

But no. I'm not sure why or how, but for some reason after a small barrel of wine my brain doesn't begin to shut down and home in on water and ways to get home to bed sharpish, oh no, my brain takes on a whole new personality and begins to think it's Madonna. Forget my two left feet, forget the three inch heels, forget the poise, the elegance, the stomach-in-shoulders-back stance I have been studiously practising all evening, I am Madonna. Forget also the good impressions I had been cultivating, the attempt at witty repartee, intelligent head nods and discreet laughter, fielding tricky questions with a light hand and clever twist. I am Madonna. I can dance (in three inch stilettos), I can sing, I am sexy and above all everybody (everybody.) wants to see me perform.

This is the point where I become Material Girl and move seamlessly from try-hard dinner companion to all singing all dancing queen of the evening, and there is absolutely nothing anybody can do about it. Not only that, but Material Girl is not shy, not a wallflower bone in her body and Material Girl absolutely and utterly has to have a stage. Any stage will do, but even better if it's up with the band, because Material Girl deserves a stage, needs a stage and knows that her performance will be the highlight of the evening.

Material Girl also thinks she is sexy, very sexy indeed, and that every dance move she makes with her forgotten two left feet is sexy too. And she thinks that mouthing all the words to the songs impresses everybody, and that suddenly three inch stilettos are easy peasy to dance in and refuses to remove them because it's not professional. She also thinks that every other person on the dance floor is watching her in impressed awe wishing beyond words that they could perform with such effortless sexiness while simultaneously holding a bottle of wine aloft and mouthing all the words to Hi Ho Silver Lining. I mean, how does she do it? they're all thinking, brains, long lyric remembering skills and sexy, we might as well give up and just watch her. Material Girl knows this and dances even more sexily and requests encores of the songs she knows best. Material Girl fights hard not to be dragged off the stage by Husband and instead shows him exactly why he was so lucky to marry her in the first place.

Except last Saturday night.

You see there was a wire, one teeny little wire attached to the guitar stolen from the lead guitarist that Material Girl was playing with incredible skill and dexterity, as well as managing to sing the entire bridge of Show Me The Way To Amarillo (such talent). But as I said, there was a wire, a wire that wrapped her feet and snaked slowly to her ankles before tightening suddenly and upending Material Girl, gashing her shin with the sharp sticky out bits.

Alas, Material Girl was no more, she was taken sheepishly and gingerly to casualty and sat as the doctors sniggered as Husband explained in what can only be described as intense detail exactly how the injury had been sustained.

Poor Material Girl I hear you all thinking, and you'd be right. Thankyou for your compassion as I sit here tapping away, leg swathed in bandage, brain ticking away trying to think of an entirely un-alcohol related reason for the injury to recount to my parents. Thankyou for what I know will be only kind and understanding comments in the comments section as my unshaveable leg grows hairier than next door's dog. And thankyou also for paying tribute to the last ever performance of Material Girl.

I hope you're proud of me.

Facelift

2009-11-10T08:59:00.005Z

So, the more observant among you will notice that this blog has had a facelift, those who didn't pick up on the subtle changes IF YOU CAN'T READ THIS GET SOMEONE TO READ IT TO YOU AND THEN BOOK AN APPOINTMENT AT THE OPTICIANS. I say this because there is nothing subtle about the changes. No siree.
It is, in a nutshell a complete and utter face lift. Not for me the discreet trip to Switzerland to visit family for a month to return visibly refreshed in an indescribable way, scars hidden behind the comments section and under the blog archive, a little nip of the font, a tuck of the colour scheme. I didn't even bother to pretend to be away anywhere. In true blogger dedication I continued to post while the changes were underway. That's how dedicated I am to you all. The phone company should take note and perhaps book me for a seminar. I'm reassuringly expensive.
And I did think that it was about time I had a photo of myself up there, and this is exactly how I look, every day. I always think it important to wear pearls and an alice band whatever the weather, and this photo proves me right. There I was minding my own business the other day, taking a perfectly baked cherry pie out of the oven, when a photographer came to the door complete with a blue background and snapped me unawares. I mean, how often does that happen? Rarely, I tell you, which is why it's important to accessorise even when alone in the house baking.
Can you imagine what would have happened if I hadn't had such exacting standards? It just doesn't bear thinking about. Imagine a morning of screaming children, slippers, poached egg covered dressing gown, last night's eyeliner, bed hair, bored dog humping your leg and a photographer at the door with a blue background. Then what would I have done about a blog photo, probably picked wildly and ended up with some stupid laughing horse, or something.
Anyway, I'm glad you get to see me as I really am, and let this be a sage lesson to you. You never know when a photographer is going to come to your door, best have the good china out just in case. You have been warned.

ps I don't usually do tags, mainly because I am incapable but Husband has promised to help. The design was done by Jennisa, who was just fab and deserves a (working) tag here.

pps If it doesn't work, Husband did it.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2009-11-02T16:20:00.002Z

It's salmon
Salmon
Fish
You do like fish
You do
Well you like it from the fish and chip shop
That is fish
Cod is fish
Well why do they call it a fish and chip shop?
It's not just an old fashioned name
It's called fish and chips because that's what they serve
So you believe me?
That cod is a fish?
So you like fish
Well then you like salmon
What's wrong with pink fish?
It's not a bit girly
Pretend it's cod dyed pink
Thankyou, now eat it up
If you play with it it'll get cold
And I can see you hiding it under the cabbage
And behind the broccoli
I'm not stupid
Or blind
Look just try one mouthful and if you don't like it leave it
Great
Pretending to gag is so mature
Please stop gagging
And holding your throat
And gesturing to the toilet
And attempting to dial 999

Things I Have Said To The 999 Operator Today

Oh hello
I'm so so sorry
It was a mistake
No not the children
Or the dog
Well, my Husband
He doesn't like his fish
Salmon
I'm glad you sympathise
Oh, with him, I see
No he's not ill
Err
Well I suppose he is gagging
But he's pretending
Yes I'm sure
Because he does this every time I give him peas
And porridge
And sometimes if my Mother comes over
Yes he is quite dramatic
Yes I suppose he could go on the stage
Oh sorry
Is that better?
I just had to leave the room
All the gagging was stopping me hearing you
No he's in the toilet
Gagging and pretending to throw up
Yes he will stop in a bit
When I give him some ice cream
I'd better get it hadn't I
Sorry again for wasting your time
Yes, I agree no more salmon

Rub A Dub Dub

2009-10-12T14:42:00.002+01:00

Can someone please explain to me the rules regarding using a communal jacuzzi? I don't mean one of those hot tubs that people place thoughtlessly in the supposedly hidden area of their gardens. The ones which once night has fallen envelopes the users with such a misguided degree of privacy that they run from the house, giggling, dressed only in a towel to wallow the night away in champagne. The ones where the champagne takes over and amorous pursuits become, well amorous, and they forget momentarily that since the hot tub was installed the neighbour has invested in a night vision telescope. If only they would google their address they would find a virtual diary of their fondling on Youtube. Sorry if that scares you hot tub owners, but still, you pays your money you takes your clothes off.
No, I mean the ones at spas and gyms, the ones large enough to house thirty wallowers dressed in nothing but glorified underwear, thirty wallowers all pretending to be the Only Wallower and studiously ignoring the other twenty nine. Thirty wallowers pretending to have absolutely no idea that another twenty nine semi naked people are sharing their bath.
I mean, it doesn't make sense does it? If a big fat hairy man walked into your bathroom and sat down in a bubble bath with you wearing nothing but his underpants you'd at least say hello wouldn't you? Or ask him if he'd like a little more warm water? Anything to be polite really and show him you're au fait with sharing a bath with him, despite thinking you may have seen him on crimewatch but you can't be sure when he's wearing just his pants.
You may even attempt a polite conversation about his underpants or efficient chest hair removal creams (come on, it's all he's giving you). I mean, he's in your bath, he must be comfortable with himself, or perhaps you're a bit of a people pleaser and find yourself offering the non tap end and a bit of a go with the loofa. Either way you'd have a stab at something wouldn't you.
But no, not in a communal jacuzzi. You just sit there like a large potato enjoying the pleasant bubble sensation maybe, but otherwise staring at the ceiling, looking anywhere (anywhere!) other than at the other bathers. Nobody speaks and nobody (shudder) touches. Why bother? Why not just go home and take a bath with your electric whisk? Same pleasant bubbly thing, lots more places to look at than the ceiling. Everybody wins (although explaining the electric whisk thing to Husband could be tricky, especially if he thinks it's a Large Hint and next time you're in bed produces a spatula and a chef's hat with a large flourish. This never happened)
It's not only that you have to convince yourself and the others that they don't exist, but (and here comes the difficult bit) you then have to extricate yourself from your bath without arrousing the suspicions of the Other Wallowers that you have indeed been taking a bath with them. You've been lying back thinking that you look like you're contemplating dreamily the finer points of Brecht's non illusory theatre, but really you're plotting how to remove yourself with decorum, which is tricky. I mean, there's the whole gauntlet to be run without touching anyone at all in any way, there's the lifting yourself out, complete with nonchalant air about being seen in all your cellulite glory, the studied walk to your towel as you will yourself to un wobble and flex any muscle that may be in a position to, well flex. Oh the shame that the only firm one is attached to your wine drinking arm, everything else screams sofa, Sunday night drama, chinese takeaway, pizza, sex in one position and fungal toe.
Is there some sadistic genetic thing that regular jacuzzi users have that I've been born without? I really don't know, but I'm going to find out. I'm going to the gym spa every day this week, I'm going to ask every user if they have a sadisitc tendency, I'm sure they won't mind, they like bathing together after all. Wish me luck.

Cricket: A Lesson In Being British*

2009-10-08T21:11:00.003+01:00

For the last seven years I have been a cricket widow. Read it and weep ladies and gentlemen, seven years, that's longer than I've been married, but about as long as I've been with Husband, you do the math Sherlock (he was a mathematician wasn't he?). I should be to all intents and purposes an expert, well versed in the art of the game, attune to the subtle sound of leather on willow (a weeping one in my case) able to discern with a sweeping glance the chances of one team over another, to discuss at length the relative merits of one player over another over polite drinks. I should, but I can't. Because the entire game is one long tea party, and a true lesson in being British.
So, for the benefits of my non-British readers I shall attempt to explain this tally-ho game, and for my British readers, listen carefully, it's you I'm talking about.
Firstly it is played in an enormous field, a massive one, bigger than most football fields (although probably not Manchester United's, they need a lot of Porche parking space). This field is well kept, watered even during a hosepipe ban, aerated by hand by a little old man retained through retirement simply to perform this job, and it is green. Greener than England's pleasant land, greener than Husband's face when he gets my credit card bill. Except of course for the little bit in the middle where they actually play this game called cricket. This bit is brown, dead, left under a specially made triangular thing to make sure it is dead enough, if in doubt they beat it with a large club before each game just to make sure. I think it's the little old man who keeps this bit dead, mainly to show off how beautifully green he keeps the rest of it.
The game is played by eleven men per team, they all wear white, absolutely nothing to discern which team is which, because that would be unsporting. They toss a coin before each match to decide which team fields and which team bats first. If it is a hot day, the coin tossing winning team tends to pick to bat first. This is because only two of them actually go out to play, the rest stay in the pavilion drinking tea and reading papers, pausing only to cheer politely any activity at all on the pitch. Which in infrequent. Not much happens in cricket. Someone bowls a red ball, someone else tries to hit it and if they do they run between two posts to try and get as many runs as possible. The second guy playing for the batting team also runs, in case the batter gets tired and wants an extra run. Obviously, if the batter hits the ball quite far then he doesn't need to run, he just gets given six runs automatically. It doesn't matter that he might be able to run more than six times between the post, the main thing is that he doesn't get tired.
This activity goes on for a while, for as long as the batter can run a couple of times between two posts or until someone catches the ball or hits three sticks with the ball. Catching the ball or hitting three little sticks that aren't glued together is a bad thing in cricket. It means the batter and his wing man have to go and get a cup of tea and their breath back while someone else has a go. You'd think, wouldn't you that the conclusion to this game would come either from death-by-boredom of anyone within a mile radius or by catching the whole team out one by one (this includes surprising them by hitting out at three innocent sticks).
But no. And here comes the oh so British thing about cricket. If the first team is doing surprisingly well, if perchance the batter hasn't been out until 4am drinking Red Bull or a few people come to bat and total up a rather decent score, then they have a little chat. The upshot of this being that they've done well enough old boy and time to let the other team have a go. Did you hear me at the back? They're doing really well, so they decide that rather than be rude and do too well they let the other team have a try until they catch up or overtake. I mean, it would be just terrible to win in one fair swoop wouldn't it? Forget going for gold and striving against all odds, let's have a cup of tea in the pavilion and see if the other team can catch us up. Which they usually do because they stopped to let them have a go.
I'm sure by now you'd like me to stop. Stop! Stop! You're saying, let us be free of this drivel, let us watch football where it's over in ninety minutes and someone actually wins. Let's watch Rugby that's over in eighty minutes and somebody actually wins.
Sorry, but I'm trying to give you a taste of my life. You see this game is not only inactive, but it stops for bad light. That's dusk to you and me, forget flood lights or some little invention called electricity, if one team fancies an early night in with the wife (they may all share one I'm not sure), everyone agrees to end for the day and go home. Regardless of the score. There's always tomorrow. And tomorrow. And tomorrow. No one ever points out that if they just got on with the game and stopped letting each other have a go to catch up it may be over in a day with a discernible winner.
But, ladies and gentlemen, this game goes on for a week (except for 20-20 cricket which is a modern interpretation that they play in two hours. It was easy to create, they just removed the biscuits from the pavilion). It goes on for so long, and so little happens that the radio commentators are not known for their snappy up to the second delivery, their skill at preempting the next move, oh no, the highest paid commentators are those known for filling the gaps in an entertaining manner. Husband's favourite Henry Blowfeld regularly talks about the pigeons on the pitch and their amusing head nodding. I once accidentally tuned in during a long car drive and dear old Henry was commenting on the number ten bus that had just driven past the grounds for the eleventh time. Husband guffawed at the image, inactivity does that to you.
Not only does this game go on for a week, but it can still end up in a draw. Days and days of resting, tea drinking, laughing at a pigeon until it's rejected for playing for laughs, occasional catching and batting only to end up shaking hands and nodding pleasantly at each other at such a sporting game, and what a shame no one got the cup again this year.
Sometimes, just to keep it interesting you understand, there's not even a cup to be won. Take The Ashes for example. A hotly contested annual game between England and Australia. One (possibly drunken) night, a long time ago, an Englishman set fire to a cricket bat and was so remorseful the morning after that he scraped up the ashes and put them in a little wooden box. He then held it up to the Australians and asked if they wanted it. They did, and decided to play cricket for it. Cue millennia of squabbling over The Ashes, although if the Australians ever do win they're not allowed to take them home. They have to have a replica. A testimony to the cack handed nature of Australian cricket players or the propensity of the English to hold onto anything of historical value, no matter who it really belongs to? You decide.
And that's it. That's cricket. Never ending, tournaments all year, endless commentary on every radio station known to man, and a wife. A wife sitting at home, growing cobwebs and wondering whether Husband will make the number ten bus home.

*Husband would like me to point out here that I know nothing at all about cricket. I don't. But surely that makes me the more dinner party worthy of the two of us. Enough said.

The Real Story Behind Those Film Titles

2009-09-28T13:09:00.003+01:00

1. The Constant Gardener This film is about my dad. It involves a shed, a lot of pottering, possibly some tweed trousers and a fool proof plan for watering the lawn during a hosepipe ban. The Action centres around dummy runs of the Hosepipe Ban Plan where you cling to the edge of your seat as he attempts to outwit the hosepipe police (whom you never see, but the local news always assures you are there). There’s a hilariously tragic scene where the cat gets red paint in his ear fooling everyone into thinking he has a brain tumour that has burst. I kid you not.

2. Twenty Eight Days Later My Mother stars here as Neurotic Woman #1, it is set in the eighties with appropriate costumes, although My Mother still wears blue eye shadow and flares and uses words like groovy, it was the only time she was hip and she’s staying there. I am in my teens and the title of the film refers to the calendar she kept on the fridge door to remind her when to start worrying about a late period. Mine not hers.

3. Pride and Prejudice My sister returns to Africa to fight for lion’s rights.

4. Dumbo I marry my Husband, let my dad give me away unsupervised and without a map, ask my sisters to be bridesmaids and allow them to choose their own dresses; one is full length Barbie style pink designed to show cleavage and snag the Best Man, the other Hollywood red carpet in preparation for the real thing. My Mother is allowed to attend ungagged.

5. Forrest Gump A camping trip goes horribly wrong, two year old is being potty trained and sleeps with us in the tent. We rename the film Forrest Dump.

6. Rambo Husband’s chance to shine. Shot entirely in front of the bathroom mirror when he thinks nobody is looking. Straddles the comedy/horror genres.

7. Herbie Goes Bananas My brother takes to the weed, My Mother finds one of his Special Cookies and eats it. The police attend. The cleaner attends. There is an interesting scene with a broom handle and a jay cloth. No one ever mentions it again. Ever.

8. Jaws: My sister gets braces. My brother invests in industrial magnets. She spends a week stuck to the boot of his car. He cleaned her for free.

9. Dirty Dancing: Centres around the end of any wedding attended by my parents. A little too much sherry is imbibed, inhibitions are shed, as are clothes and they raunch around the dance floor convinced they are Patrick Swayze and Jennifer Grey. The image haunts you for months and causes intermittent blindness.

10. It’s A Wonderful Life It is, really, and I wouldn’t have them any other way

Things I Have Said To My Mother Today

2009-09-14T12:30:00.002+01:00

Hello?
Hi mum
Mum?
Is everything OK?
Calm down
Calm down and take a deep breath
in, out, in, out
That's it
Tell me what it is
Dad?
What about Dad?
Is he OK?
He's lost what?
His paint stirring stick
Is that it?
Well yes of course it's serious
No, really
I thought something had happened to him
But this is much more disastrous of course
I am taking it seriously
I am
Well has he looked where he keeps it?
On the shelf in the shed
Next to the seed planting stick
Could he not just use the seed planting stick?
Oh yes sorry how silly of me
Completely different kind of stick
Have you searched the shed?
Yes of course you have
No, I'm sure Barry hasn't taken it
Why would the neighbour take dad's stick
I don't think he's always been jealous of it
Because it's a stick
Sorry, sorry, it's not just any stick
I really don't think Barry's jealous of Dad
Yes I suppose Dad winning Best Tomato was a dark day for him
Not the same since, yes
Yes stick stealing would seem to be the act of a desperate man
Well stress does change people
But I think that refers to serious life stress
Not Best Tomato Winning stress
Why don't you ask Barry if he's seen it?
Not talking?
Why?
The leek episode?
Are you sure he stole them?
Yes I'm sure it's Barry who needs the psychiatric help
I'm thinking of booking in myself
Sorry, just a joke
Why doesn't Dad suggest getting psychiatric help to Barry?
Might get them talking again.

Things I Have Said To My Two Year Old Today

2009-09-09T09:37:00.002+01:00

Ooh lovely sweetheart
Yes very nice
Yes but we're choosing a card for Daddy
Because it's his birthday
Here what about this one?
No not that one
No
Put it back please
No, put it back
I don't think Daddy wants a Spiderman card
No darling he doesn't
Because it's got Spiderman on it
And it says to a wonderful grandson

Come back here please
I said come here
How many times have I told you not to chase the postman?
Because he doesn't like it
No he's not Daddy
Please stop calling the postman Daddy

Things I have said to the Postman today

Ha ha ha ha ha
Oh how funny
Yes it's a great joke Jack chasing you
And calling you Daddy, yes
ha ha ha ha
Well he thinks you're his daddy
No, no, no he does know his daddy
Ha, yes I suppose he does make it sound like a guess
Ha ha ha
I agree
Yes I'll try to stop him chasing you
And shouting kissy kissy kissy
I'm sorry the neighbours look at you strangely
No I don't think we need to get him checked out
It's just a phase
Well, a chasing and kissing one
That he'll grow out of
He's already starting to progress
He's started chasing the neighbour
Well I call it progress

Brit Out Of Water

2009-09-02T18:53:00.006+01:00

OK, so I'm in LA, LA baby! I'm just going to write that again so you all heard me correctly - LA Baby! Fabulous! Honestly it's dead different over here, for a start American people all speak American all the time! Yes! Even the kids. It's not something they put on for the TV or anything, oh no, they actually speak it to each other. It's brilliant.
I've tried to copy it a bit, just so I don't stand out as a tourist or anything but rather woundingly I tend to be met with blank stares. I've bought some kind of translation book thing but I'm non the wiser about how to blend in (any help here from my American readers greatly appreciated, you sound so English when you write in the comments box).
And you know how everybody says you can't get a carb in LA? Not true!You can get loads, more carbs than you can shake a french fry at (that chips to us Brits, I must have assimilated more than I realised). You can get any kind of food delivered any time of day. And whatever you want too, penne pasta with newts eye sauce hold the avocado? Done. You want extra cheese with that? Err, yes why not? (except if you're over here don't say the why not? bit or they give you a lecture about cholesterol and fat and look meaningfully at your thighs, only my right one though, my left is surprisingly slender).
The other thing over here is that there is somebody to do absolutely anything for you. Don't fancy washing up? Well, there are numerous options available to you, ma'am. This company right here will come and do them for you (dial 0800 brokenweddingchina), this other company to your left will collect your plates, refurnish you with new ones and return the old ones clean (dial 0800 wedontstealhonestguv), and this one right here ma'am will simply bring you new ones every time and burn the old ones (0800 carbonneutral).
Really?
Yes ma'am, the only thing we ask is that you don't dial 911 again, (that's 999 to Brits, see, everything's different!)
I'm thinking of setting up a similar company in the UK, just to perform jobs you don't want to do. It's called We'll Do It All For You And There's No Minimum Wage. Excellent.
The best thing about being a Brit in LA? You can be absolutely, utterly uncool about anything and they just think you're charming. I mean, I am cool, really. In our little village in Warwickshire I was the first to get skinny jeans, they started arriving at the village store about a month ago, and I camped outside just to be sure to get the first pair. And compared to Husband I am definitely super hip, I am the ....... (insert cool person's name here, one escapes me) of Warwickshire.
But over here I am not. I can gush and exclaim and generally declare well we're definitely not in Kansas anymore to my heart's content. I mean, I know you're meant to be all aloof and don't careish about the whole movie thing but I just can't.
I've had a walk on part at Warner Studios in The Mentalist, which is possibly my Most Exciting Thing Yet. Although if you ever do it, I suggest not taking your own clapper board and shouting 'action' just to see what happens. It's not pretty and they get quite cross. It was a day of awesomeness ( just a little cool word I've picked up, but it's been ruined by Husband using it over the phone about his new slippers). And I just couldn't hold back, the gushing and general level of being grateful reached gargantuan proportions. I gushed for Britain, and proved to all my Country Bumpkin status (although I was wearing skinny jeans so that should have offset most of it).
I was, in a nutshell, an uncool, gushy Brit, and it was fantastic. A kinder more generous people I have yet to meet (apart from you, mum, sorry). And I want to come back soon. Which I will do obviously, I was assured by the crew of The Mentalist that I would most definitely receive an Emmy Nomination for Walking, Shuffling Papers and Subtlety In Background Acting. So I'll be back in the Spring. To pick up my award.

Flying Without Wings

2009-08-23T19:25:00.003+01:00

Why me? Why always me? I have one big phobia in life, one, flying, and the fear is real, palpable and manifests in increasing bouts of panic accompanied by moments of insanity. I once, midway across the Atlantic shouted (loudly) does anybody else smell smoke. That's how scared I am of flying, it induces madness.
The fear however is inversely proportional to the size of the plane, the bigger it is the better I feel. I'm not sure why I think it's something to do with suspension of reality. In a really really big plane I can sit in the middle, far from the windows and pretend none of this is happening. They also have sections so you can only see a select few people, which looks much more reassuring than a whole plane full of expectant holiday makers preparing to meet their doom.
So it was looking dodgy before I even boarded flight 1844 to Majorca. For a start it was a prop plane. A prop plane! I swear they follow me around the country, in fact there may just be one, old prop plane in service that the powers above pull out just for me whenever I book a holiday. Prop planes shudder and shake and (most frighteningly) display far too much of their inner workings than I care to see. One is never completely reassured when the brightest minds in aeronautical engineering decide that two ceiling fans are just what's needed to keep this plane on the correct trajectory.
At least when the fans are hidden you can kid yourself that chains and cogs and other man made stuff are not responsible for keeping the plane up. Instead a host of fairies and heavenly bodies are beating their wings furiously (but most importantly magically), and holding the vehicle aloft in flight. No relying on Barry The Engineer coming to work with a hangover and servicing my plane with half an eye on a chip buttie, oh no, angels and fairies are responsible for my flight, and they don't make mistakes (or drink).
So I got on the plane with a huge sense of foreboding, sat down and clutched the arm rests looking all around me like some scary eyed lemming. The captain came over the tannoy welcoming us to flight 1844 and wishing us well, which was good, he sounded optimistic and soothed my nerves a little. I mean if the captain thinks we've got a chance of making it then we may well do, excellent.
But then he made his fatal error, one that removed any thought that he may be able to make an accurate prediction as to our survival chances. He made a joke.
Noooooooooooo. Husband shifted uncomfortably in his seat, he knew, he knew. I did not, under any circumstances want a Captain who would rather be a comedian. Forget aspirations of fame and fortune and trying out your material on your passengers. I mean focus on the job man. The important one of steering the plane to Spain. I mean, we wouldn't even be a good measure of the joke's success anyway would we? We were bound to laugh, he was the only one who knew how to fly the plane.
I didn't want some jolly sounding captain who delivered the weather report in a jocular fashion. I wanted a serious captain, one who delivered the weather report with a deep voice, slightly strained from the years at Cambridge studying the finer points of plane flying. One who had emerged after ten years graft, blinking in the sun clutching a first class honours in Averting Disaster, and a special interest thesis in Keeping The Little Seatbelt Light On To Stop Passengers Getting Up And Possibly Rocking The Plane. But no, instead we got Ko Ko the Kaptin, who probably steers the plane with his knees while working on material for his next gig. Whoop di do.
So it was up to me, I had to be the eyes and ears of the plane. The pilot wasn't up to it obviously, he was jocular with unfulfilled dreams. It was me or my maker, and I wasn't ready for that yet. I dutifully reported every rattle, every air pocket and every hum to the air stewards, I checked the wings every two minutes for signs of leakage, fire or falling offness and reported back solemnly. I was a help I tell you, a help, take that Ko Ko, ha!
I'm not sure about what happened next it all went a bit hazy, because this was the point at which the free wine started arriving, as much as I liked smiled the air steward, did he know how much that would be? Apparently they'd never done this before, but they were making a special allowance just for little old me. Probably as a thankyou for all my hard work or something.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2009-08-04T14:54:00.005+01:00

No you can't go out tomorrow night

Because we're having a dinner party

Oh good I'm glad you remembered

I'm so looking forward to a nice civilised dinner party

I've worked really hard at the food

Nice food

Nice as in I followed a recipe and I'm going to present it nicely

Lamb

No not spaghetti bolognese

I know it's your favourite

But it's not really a dinner party dish

Well just for once you can try something new

I'm not doing spaghetti bolognese

No you can't have something separate

Spaghetti bolognese is not a good side dish with lamb

And please don't go off and eat in front of the TV this time

Because it's rude

And people want to talk to you

No you will not make yourself as boring as possible

Because our friends are coming and you like them

Three other couples

That makes eight of us

No not eleven,

Three couples plus us is eight

Where did you get eleven

You invited Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head?

Why?

We don't always invite them

Maybe to a barbecue but not to a civilised dinner party

Because they're the least civilised people I know

Well you shouldn't have invited them

They're not coming

There's no room and I've bought the lamb

No they can't just eat in front of the TV

Well you shouldn't have promised them I'd do spaghetti bolognese

So in a nutshell you invited Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head to watch the game tomorrow night while I cooked and served Spaghetti Bolognese?

In case you found the dinner party boring

Well you'll just have to phone them and cancel

They have their own flat to watch TV in

Why haven't they got any electricity?

Well if they'd paid their bill they would have

So basically they're coming to eat our food and enjoy free electricity?

Excellent

Well I suppose they can

But we'll have to shut the door so we can't hear the TV in the kitchen

And you're sitting at the table

There's no we'll see

No matter how boring you make yourself

Yes even if you pretend to fall asleep

Good that's settled

Lamb for eight and spaghetti bolognese for three

No not four

I'm glad you agree

Say Cheese! (part two)

2009-08-02T10:18:00.003+01:00

Ok, so the whole Sage Cheese Alternative Meal (SCAM) thingy really got everybody riled up - if only I'd known sooner I'd just have blogged about cheese every week, forget Husbands and dogs, cheese seems to be where it's at. So I thought I'd give you a quick update.
Despite never ever starting a diet (except for doing the food shopping bit) I decided to at least attempt this one, purely out of a sense of devotion to you all you understand, that's how much I love you (sorry for the mushiness I'm high on sage). It was, as I said, a simple mixing of ingredients, quick and easy. Even my diet buddy Taff (he supplies the cream puffs) thought he could manage it which is saying something. Taff once looked for instructions on a cabbage, on finding none he proceeded to boil the entire thing, whole, in one pan. He then attempted to mash a large, over boiled cabbage for no apparent reason except he thought cabbage should be mashed ( I SWEAR this happened). He's a great diet buddy, everything he produces is inedible. I once went on holiday with him and lost ten pounds, despite drinking my body weight in Chardonnay.
Anyway, you all saw it coming, the sage cheese was nothing of the sort. It tasted of olive water, sage and garlic, but not at all of cheese. This was cheese at its worst, non cheese if you like. Crikey even the Americans wouldn't eat this one (sorry dear beloved American Readers*, I do love you all but cheese is your thing isn't it? You do all sorts of weird and wonderful things just to get more cheese in your diet. Cheese-in-a-can anyone? I didn't know whether to squirt it on my toast or decorate the Christmas tree with it).
So I have abandoned the vegan all raw food thing in favour of the aisle six diet. It is far preferable and there's no false advertising, all I have to do for this one is consume food solely from aisle six of the supermarket. I devised the diet myself and picked the number at random. Pleasingly aisle six is the biscuit aisle and the manager has promised to try to place some wine and chocolate there too, I think she's expecting a bumper month. And she'd be right. I'm really going to stick at this one, wish me luck.

*You can sue me by clicking here

Say Cheese!

2009-07-27T18:57:00.004+01:00

Another day another fad diet. I know, I know, the clue is in the title: these things are fads, they're not meant to work long term and exist only to fuel the market that is the desire to take up less space in the World. La, la, la, I do get it you know. Except, except, I have found one that doesn't look to be a fad, it looks healthy, well balanced and above all promises big results in a matter of days. All I have to do is send £15 to the website, tap in my details so they can help me keep track of my progress, give up dairy, wheat, meat, caffeine and sugar, follow their simple and nutritious recipes and watch as the fat melts away (this seems to be the best thing about this diet, the fat melts, brilliant!).
So you can see why I'm going to follow it, there are none of the usual meal replacement thingys or chocolate snacks (although I wouldn't say no) that hail the beginning of a new fad. Oh no, this one's full of vegetables, and fruit, and water, and come to think of it not much else. Still, I can eat as much as I like three times a day, the website promised and even put it in italics just to reassure me. As much as I like! Do they know how much that is? A lot I assure you, and I can eat it all, finally a diet I can work with.
So, today was the first day, the new beginning if you like. I got to do the best bit about any new diet: go shopping for all the lovely nutritious food I was going to live on for the next month. It felt good, I tell you. Look at all this glorious, gorgeous, nutritious food. I'll be a goddess by next week at this rate, I even splashed out on a six pack of Evian, I'll be saving so much money on wine I can afford a two litre a day habit now. Wow, diets benefit every area of your life, I am reborn.
I am however going to start it tomorrow, it was everso tiring doing the shopping and putting it all away that I had to have a bit of toast and honey to bolster me up a bit. That coupled with the cream puff I had for breakfast, didn't hail the best diet day. Still never mind, I've got it all to look forward to. I've just been scanning the menu for tomorrow and lunch is a power salad with sage cheese.
Hang on I hear you all ask, index finger pointing upwards in an expression of intrigue mixed with disbelief. I thought you had to give up dairy? Ha! Oh dear readers, but I do, no cheese of any sort. But (and it's a big butt), herein lies the true value in paying my £15: Apparently you can make cheese from vegetables, Yes! I had to read it twice too. All I have to do is mix two garlic cloves, a handful of sage a dash of olive oil and three tablespoons of olive water and voila sage cheese. Isn't that fantastic? How on Earth did the nutritionists come up with this one. Not only do I get to eat a raw leek and chicory power salad, but I get to sweeten the deal with cheese. Perfect, I'm going to stick to this one, I can just feel it.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2009-07-20T12:40:00.002+01:00

No thanks
No really it's ok
I'm sure you have played a blinder this time
I just don't want to smell it
Honestly I believe you
I don't need to come into the bathrooom to smell it
Well it's making it's way over here
Yes, well done
It is the worst so far
You must be very proud
Yes of course I'm proud too
It's quite an acheivement considering you set the bar quite high
I'm not being sarcastic
I know it's a man thing but I do get it
No please don't phone your brother
I asked you not to phone him
What do you mean he doesn't believe you
Well he'll have to take your word for it
No
No don't put me on to him
I'm not speaking

Things I Have Said To Husband's Brother Today

Hi
Yes it was bad
Worst one yet
I really don't want to discuss it
No I didn't actually go into the bathroom to smell it
It does count, I could smell it from the bedroom
I'm telling you it was bad
I don't think you could beat it
I am not having this conversation
The one where I'm discussing my Husband's wind with his brother
It is not the best conversation we've ever had
Well thankyou for the compliment but I'll go now

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

You're right he didn't believe you
Never mind
I'm sure you can do it again
A what?
Invent a what?
A fartometer?
What's one of those?
Well I suppose it would be useful to have an exact measurment
Yes then I suppose he'd have to believe you
Yes you'd better get to it right away
Yes it is your best idea to date
Well done

Man Oh Man

2009-07-13T18:22:00.001+01:00

So, sorry if I sound a little muffled, I'm hiding under the duvet, way under the duvet, with absolutely no plans to come out until Jack turns three, which is in about a year so perhaps you should get used to this being my voice from now on, Husband always said I could do with a muffler.
Pre duvet-hiding I went to Sainsbury's to pick up the weekly shop and cry a little in the chocolate aisle, and a lot in the cake aisle, I then stopped crying in the Chardonnay aisle and bought myself a bottle, with a straw. Why oh why don't they sell wine in those handy cardboard cartons with an attached straw and convenient silver bit that hides a hole? If they can do it for juice surely they can do it with wine, it's not just kids that need pacifying during the weekly shop you know. I'm nothing if not resilient though, not to mention innovative, so until someone comes up with wine-to-go I make do with a bottle and a straw. The management don't seem to mind, by the time I get to the till I'm a sucker for an impulse buy so they make more money I suppose.
Anyway, it was a normal day, Jack was sitting prettily in the trolley stuffing biscuits down his face and generally signalling to everybody that I had no control over my child so I had to feed him rubbish to get a chance round the shops. Then again, the wine bottle and straw number may, just may, have detracted from this glaring bout of bad parenting. Who cares about a biscuit stuffing toddler when mummy+straw+bottle= glaringly obvious gap in the market for mini wine cartons, get to it someone, please.
Where was I? (you see, this is where a bottle of wine ruins things, imagine how much more succinct and focused I'd be if I'd only had a carton). Ok, Jack in the trolley, yes, and at this point I should remind you that he's now two and talking well. I don't mention him often, mainly because between Husband and Twizzle I have enough material for an entire psychiatric conference, let alone a weekly blog post, so he tends to fall by the wayside.
Jack, in a nutshell, loves men. He wants to do men's work, dig, lift, carry, scratch, drip on the loo seat, you name it if Jack sees a man doing it, he wants to copy. Not only does he want to copy but he has also decided that Every Man In The Known Universe must be pointed out and confirmed in his gender with a loud shout of Man! which is fun as you can imagine. He approaches every new situation with assumed bionic eyes and assures each male present that he has been seen and noted, I am looked at suspiciously as the mother of this gender reassuring service provider, as if I am using him as some kind of cheap but effective dating service (which I'm not, but if I was I'd take him somewhere far more expensive than Sainsburys).
The only problem with this little hobby, and it was a problem that was about to rear its short back and sides head, is that Jack isn't too hot at discerning a man from a woman with short hair. Imagine then the scene, Jack replete with biscuits, Mummy humming gently sipping her bottle of wine, slight tear stains from the inner fight in the cake and chocolate aisles, and a woman with short hair examining cornflakes in the cereal aisle. Round the corner we come, Jack on red alert for any man type activity taking place, only to spy one, one with cornflakes in his hand, one that's wearing a skirt. Lord above, she was trying her best, she may have had rather short and manly hair (and features if I'm honest), but she was giving it her all by signalling her femininity using that bastion of womanhood, the skirt.
Oh please Jack, I thought, please notice the skirt, please just this once. But no, Man! he yells, pointing sturdily at the woman, Man mummy Man! Mummy at this point ducks her head in shame over the Chardonnay and mutters something about having seen a man in the previous aisle and would she like a sip of wine? No? A makeover perhaps? (come on I was half a bottle down).
Oh the shame, the pain on her face, imagine standing in the supermarket, innocently examining a cornflake packet, only to have your gender woefully misinterpreted and loudly proclaimed by a toddler with a pointy arm. Oh dear.
But then, Jack did a strange thing, something he had never done before and which forever more I'd wish that he'd done just ten seconds previously instead of now. He noticed the skirt. I noticed, he pointed, I gripped the trolley and ran round into the ice cream aisle, just as the loud refrain of why man wear a skirt Mummy? drifted thickly over the cereal. I peered round at the devastation that we had left behind, and quietly rolled a bottle of Chardonnay towards her trolley. With a straw.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2009-07-04T10:29:00.004+01:00

Darling?
Sweetheart?
Husband
No, no nothing's wrong
It's just you're all over my side of the bed
You are
Wake up and have a look
Yes you may be predominantly in the middle
But your feet are over mine
And your head's on my pillow
It is my pillow
Well if you move over you'll see yours over your side of the bed
Go on
Just roll over that's all it'll take
Roll
Not that far
Yes I know you're clinging on with one arse cheek
That doesn't mean you weren't over on my side
You just rolled too far
What do you mean it must be nice over the big side of the bed?
Just leave it it's 4am
Night
Darling?
It's 4am
Well stop it
I'm well aware we're awake being one of the awake ones
Go to sleep
I'm sorry you can't sleep now
No there's no quickie on offer
I said no quickies
Or slow ones
It's two hours until the alarm goes off
I don't care that it'll only take two minutes
I didn't wake you for sex you were just on my side of the bed
Yes I suppose I have learned my lesson
Yes I won't disturb you in future
Night
Darling?
Get that thing out of my back
Or I'll tell your Mother
Thanks
Night

Well Done Google

2009-06-24T21:26:00.001+01:00

Now I know I've written about it before, so it will come as no surprise to any of you that I have a stat counter on this blog. Before you all gasp in middle class horror and nod knowingly to each other that you always knew that I was the type, I know a lot of you have them too. You do, there are ways you see of telling, not least because most of us can't resist putting the live feed box onto our blogs. Ha! Got you, so no more smirking at the back please and you can remove yourself from Judgement Corner before I do it myself with force and a threat of no pudding after tea (dessert after dinner to my American readers, I'm harsh but fair).
Anyway, as most of you know, this little stat counter can tell you all sorts of things, the most intriguing, and downright entertaining being the google search words that people put into the search engine and thereby find your blog. As I recounted in A Rose By Any Other Name many of these are downright inappropriate and excitingly pornographic, and again I can only extend my heart felt apologies to anyone coming to this blog (sorry) via such searches as housewife tied to stool with dog or housewife beating milkman with bamboo for the banality you are faced with (you are facing the computer aren't you? There's no panting sound track with this blog, yet another disappointment, I suppose I could record the dog after a run if this would help?).
The thing is, after a while you get a bit immune to these searches, even a little bored. There's only so many times you can snigger at sex-with-a-housewife requests before you begin to tune out and hum a little tune at the ordinariness of it all. Surely, surely someone can come up with something better? Something to brighten my day a little? Something a little more imaginative than plain old sex?
Well, they did. Today, just now in fact. And for reasons that will become clear, I am a little concerned. Scanning down the Google searches in a quiet moment at my laptop, looking for the pathways of readers (only out of interest you understand, although Nunhead Mum of One I notice you've been absent for a while, twenty lines please: I must read Millennium Housewife every week, everyone else, take note), there it stood, in italics:

I Shot Myself.

I shot myself? Who? What? The cliches are running out of my mouth before I can stop them (although this image may please some of the porn searchers out there). Who on earth thinks: oops I just shot myself, I'll just boot up the computer and check the symptoms on Google before calling an ambulance? It's obvious isn't it? I'm not mad am I? It is you not me isn't it? You don't need to google the symptoms, the diagnosis is right there in front of you. You shot yourself. Therefore you have a giant piece of pointy metal somewhere in your body. The clue as to where could be the great gaping hole spurting blood, the one that looks a little worse for wear. In fact if you're feeling a little dizzy, this may be another clue and I'd dial the hospital quite quickly.
What did they expect? Did google answer with a concise and neat link to selfdiagnosis.com? Or perhaps bring up a lesson in self bandaging and bullet removal? No. Of course it didn't, because Google would then be sued for allowing someone stupid enough to shoot themselves to find a website that stupidly advises on self-removal of a bullet in a stupid manner. And Google isn't stupid.
Instead, of course it sent them to me. So, err, sorry about that person-who-shot-themselves. Sorry if you've just read all the way down to this bit while bleeding, possibly to death, only to find I'm not going to advise you on bullet removal. I'm also sorry about the calling you stupid bit, especially if this is the last thing you ever read. I feel a bit bad about that. Still, if you survive, you could always sue Google for not providing you with the life saving website you were looking for, that might be fun. If you're still able to read at the moment try calling 999 if you live in the UK, or 911 in America, I'm afraid I don't know any other emergency numbers for other countries, even though I live in Europe. But that's a debate for another day.
So, as you can see, this is why I'm concerned, what happened to the person who shot themselves, no one that stupid could possibly survive could they? (again sorry if it's you and you're still reading, I'm presuming you're on the floor right now). And what about me? Was that the highlight of my google searches? Am I doomed forever more to dog and housewife couplings, never again to be enthralled, delighted and disturbed in equal measure at the horror of the story unfolding on my stat counter. I hope not. Poor me (and poor you if you're the shot-one, and well done for bothering to read the post, there's lots more if you care to scroll down).

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2009-06-23T13:13:00.002+01:00

Hi darling, how was your day?

Oh good

What's that?

That box you're carrying

Ooh goody I love surprises

All for me? wow

I wonder what's inside

Ooh what is it?

It looks like socks

Yup, definitely socks

White socks at that

Should I stop now or will further delving simply reveal more white socks?

Oh I see, more white socks

100?

Ooh you really pushed the boat out this time

I'm not being sarcastic, it's just that it's a hundred white socks

Well what does one say about one hundred white socks?

Right

Well

Errr, thankyou

Where did you get them from?

If a guy at work is closing down it usually means his products aren't selling

Well, I'm saying that if no one in the world wanted to buy his socks, why on earth did you buy them?

They were free?

So my present is a hundred pairs of white socks that you got for free from a guy closing down a warehouse

What do you mean they're a size nine?

I'm a six

Well you know my bra size

Yes I'm sure it's much more fun shopping for bras

What do you mean you have your hands to help you remember the size?

Please don't tell me that's how you shop for bras

The assistant will understand the size, you don't have to cup your hands

Well how would you like it if that's how I shopped for your underpants?

No I don't think the assistant would fall down in an impressed faint

Or ask if you're likely to be single soon

Although you may be now I know how you shop for bras

Ten Steps To Becoming A Better Parent

2009-06-19T11:30:00.003+01:00

Keeping Mum: If you're worried your two year old is going to grass up your latest gaffe to your Husband and reveal that you let him (two year old not Husband) wee freely on the bedroom carpet, let him chew chewing gum all day. Sticks their mouth together beautifully.
Bribe #1: Use anything you can, sweets/magazines/DVDs/whiskey to evoke good behaviour from your offspring at all times. Whiskey is cheaper.
Bribe #2: A good cake or, in extreme cases Money, can be used to bribe a teacher. 'A' grades are a lot easier to come by than you think.
Santa or equivalent: Use him! You only have a few years with your first and even less with subsequent children due to the snitching impulse. According to you, Santa is available day and night via Skype to report on a child's behaviour. He adjusts his lists accordingly on an hourly basis. He also reserves the right to allow certain behaviours sometimes and ban it completely another. He's a fickle fellow.
The Tooth Fairy: A year round equivalent to Santa. It doesn't even have to be that expensive, tell your child that a 1p piece is a pound coin, cheap for you while sounding reassuringly expensive to friends. Total cost: about 20p
Clothing: Dress your daughter like a Bratz doll until she's ten, she'll love you. And bought love is the best. Don't forget to add the eyeliner, it really stands out in the playground.
Information: Answer your child's every question in great detail. Use power point and a pointy stick if you can. Include as many long and complicated words and expressions as you can. Pause frequently for effect. Take all day if you like, it'll soon put a stop to those pesky questions. That'll show them.
Sleep: Allow your child to sleep anywhere they choose as long as they stay in their room. A laundry basket in the corner makes an exciting alternative bed, this way they stay there. Good for you, exciting for them. Everybody wins.
Budget: Encourage low cost/one ball games. Discourage expensive hobbies. Tell them ponies bite/tennis players go blind/golf is a high death rate sport.
Care: Husband/uncle/grandparent/random stranger can all be roped in to help care for your offspring and give you a break. If fact anyone over sixteen is fair game. Just make sure they understand the above rules and have at least one finger or toe that they can dial 999 with. Under no circumstances give them your own phone number, they will only call it. The police come faster anyway.

Tripping The Light Fantastic

2009-06-09T21:11:00.002+01:00

We went to a thirtieth birthday party on Saturday night, the thirtieth birthday party of my best friend's little sister. There is nothing, nothing more ageing or depressing than for people who you only ever saw as much younger than you hitting milestones that you're still in denial about. We were excited to be asked, of course. For a start it meant that we were still young enough to paaarrrtttaayy!-they do say that nowadays don't they? If not I fear I may have made a small gaffe jumping onto a table and yelling it through a bread stick in an attempt to get this paaarrttaayy started. But I was being young, hip, crikey we had an overnight babysitter and could deny all childcare responsibilities for at least fourteen hours. We could join the group of carefree kids tripping the light fantastic who could still claim to have some sort of a grip on the word twenty.
Deciding to deny any relationship with the big three-oh I attempted such cliches as ooh, you can't be thirty, I still think of you as eleven and I still feel sixteen ha ha ha ha ha, although I stopped short of I used to change your nappies before I shot myself (or the birthday girl shot herself at the horror). I could be twenty, or there abouts, just watch me jiiiive.
There was a difference though, it was much more civilised than I remember things. Husband and I left our social life behind at the grand old age of twenty seven, right at the height of every one's partying. Finally every one's salaries were looking up, as was their holiday allowance and consequently pulling potential. And what did we do? Have a baby. Well done. Everybody else flitted to Morocco and hugged orangutans in a forest somewhere (apparently Borneo but I saw the slide shows and it looked suspiciously like Whipsnade Zoo). We swapped Going Out clothes for jeans, trainers and Teflon coated tops, everyone else swapped Work Clothes for flip flops and a backpack. We have, in a nutshell, been absent from any kind of swinging (in the music sense, not in the car keys in the middle of the room sense) social life while we changed nappies, burped babies and negotiated school runs.
But, now we were back! The children finally old enough for an over night babysitter that hadn't had to be bribed with a holiday package and bonuses, here we were, ready to don our dancing shoes and, to be honest, get sloshed again. Whoo hooo!
Though we had you see, failed to get one teeny tiny point: while we were absent everyone else had grown up too. Rather than be greeted by shots of flaming zambucaas and vodka girls sticking alcohol down you mouth and a nipple in your ear, we all had a quiet drink and chats in a bar. We then went to a very civilised Indian Restaurant (rather than a curry house, the only one open at three am, the reason being that only incredibly drunk people would eat the food and not complain to Health and Safety the next morning). It was delightful, we felt neither old nor young, no pretending to be in our twenties and surreptitious glances saw the same creep of age on everyone as on us. Husband even spent a happy half hour chatting to every man there while chancing a quick photo on his phone of the back of their heads. He's had them printed out today and now we have a gallery of every bald spot in the place. Husband compares tolerably well and is strutting about the house like a twenty nine year old. A twenty nine year old that wears pyjamas and slippers. But twenty nine nonetheless.

Ask Millennium Housewife!

2009-05-26T11:32:00.003+01:00

Crikey a month goes by quickly. It's that time again folks, dilemmas answered, life sorted, torments thwarted la la la, you get the gist. Here we go:

Maternal Tales asks:
Dear Millennium Housewife, I've just realised this morning that my child has nits, but I sent her to school anyway. Does this make me a bad mother?

Millennium Housewife writes:

Dear MT, It would be far too easy to say, in a nutshell, yes, this makes you a Bad Mother. Who in their right mind would send their little darling to school covered in lice if there wasn't an end of year prize in it for them? Obviously if there is a prospect of a prize then this action makes you a positively stupendous mother; willing to risk your child's ostracisation and subsequent mental health in order to get that trophy up on the specially made trophy shelf (which heretofore has held only the pasta shell trophy you made yourself just to have something to put there/show off to your friends), so well done you.
But let's look at this more closely. What, really, constitutes a Bad Mother? At what point do we slide from slightly slummy, to downright dirty? I mean, to start with you noticed your child had nits, that's brilliant! Close Observation skills are coming along nicely, as is the Identification, but not the Elimination, side of your parenting lessons. Another well done is due here I think, and feel free to make another pasta shell trophy, it will really mean something this time.
However, just before you go rummaging in the dry goods cupboard (you do have one of those don't you, it's not just all stuffed under the sink?), you need to consider the circumstances of the aforementioned Close Observation skills. There may be a point in considering when exactly your child contracted nits, and how long therefore it took you to notice them. Of course, if the nits had reached such gargantuan proportions that you first noticed them as they leaped tall buildings in a giant leap, or that their weight was causing your child neck problems that no neck brace seemed to fix, or indeed that they had been there so long that they had developed their own society complete with currency and language, then I suggest you put down that fussilli and consider your shortcomings.
Or, if you would like a more user friendly, and downright easier suggestion, I always find a great deal of comfort in denial, and removing my contact lenses for five days out of seven. Do that and you can place your child's nit ridden head to your guilt free bosom and claim Good Motherhood.
I know which I'd do.

Mud In The City asks:

Dear Millennium Housewife, my new washing machine is being held hostage by the delivery man. I am very close to running out of clean pants. Please help.

Millennium Housewife says:

Dear Mud, firstly I read your blog, and I know that you're a girl (or else a man with serious gender issues, issues too huge to be dealt with in this blog, so sorry if that's where you wanted me to go with this), and girls wear knickers, not pants. Boys wear pants, they're stretchy and large, often with a Y front and usually sport a little wet spot at the front. They also wear boxer shorts, like loose pants, normally slightly larger but still have that little wet spot. In extreme cases boys also wear comedy boxer shorts, that's right, boxer shorts with funny things on them. To make you laugh (hence the comedy title). I'm not sure of the usefulness of these, they seem to serve little or no purpose except to the wearer, who unless he wears a brand new pair every day, with a brand new joke on them, surely tires of the same old gag morning after morning. So the only reason I can see is to entertain anyone daring to enter the boxer short zone, and, surely, that's not the kind of entertainment he was hoping to provide. He's taken time, chatting, wooing, working all his tricks to get her into bed, probably spent a fair amount of his mortgage and made up the equivalent amount about his life to find himself in the desired position of being allowed to take each other's clothes off. Imagine then his consternation when the object of his desires finally (finally!) gets to the boxer short taking off bit, only to laugh uproariously and loudly when looking down there. Is that going to do anything for a chap's self esteem? In a word, no, unless he is using them as a decoy so that when presented with what's under the boxer shorts she is too laughed out to repeat the gesture. In which case they're a brilliant idea.
Anyway, unless the delivery men are threatening to cut off your washing machine's ear or some such grisly thing, I suggest you let them hang onto it and get yourself to Marks and Spencer for some knickers. They look so much better with bras.

Working Mum On The Verge (I think she means on the verge of a crises, I don't think she's parked permanently on a verge) asks:

Dear Millennium Housewife, How can I eat my five-year-old's Easter eggs without her realising? How come she has some left? And how come she knows exactly what she has left?

Millennium Housewife writes:

Dear Working Mum (and greetings to your verge, if indeed that is where you are sitting). Firstly you've asked three questions, a little greedy quite frankly, but then that is what we are talking about isn't it? Greed. You have already eaten your own Easter eggs, and now your prudent and restrained child is going to have to pay the price by donating hers. I know how you feel, and here's how to do it:

Send five year old to granny's/school/friends/her room for the day
Take all left over eggs out of packaging
Make a mould of all pieces of chocolate by pressing it in playdoh
Remove chocolate from mould so you are left with an impression on the chocolate
Create a paste from flour and water adding enough gravy browning so that the colour resembles chocolate
Place paste into the playdoh moulds and put in airing cupboard for two hours
Once two hours are up, carefully remove playdoh from the chocolate paste
You are left with an identical set of chocolate pieces as the original chocolate
Place fake set back in original wrappers
Eat child's chocolate
Let child eat fake chocolate
Consider it a lesson in healthy eating/being too slow at eating Easter eggs

Enjoy.

Send your dilemmas to the comments box or email me at millenniumhousewife@yahoo.co.uk

New Balls Please

2009-05-19T14:39:00.000+01:00

I would just love to keep you all guessing about who it is exactly that needs the new balls: The Dog or The Husband? You decide (if you want to imagine the last bit in a Big Brother stylee voice you may do, it adds to the ambiance). But I think to leave you all without an answer would be cruel. More cruel than lopping off a man/dog's balls? It depends on where you're standing, and I'm standing next to the surgeon, on her toes, making sure she does it right. And thoroughly. With an extra scrape just to make sure she got all of it. Ha! take that super sperm, and that! I could be the champion of Sperm Space Invaders zapping all I see with the surgeon's scalpel, ferreting out any malingerers with my supersonic eyesight and lightening reflexes. Ah the joy.
Anyway, just before any of you start cheering and whooping me on, adding up the scores as we contemplate the childbirth v vasectomy debate and thinking that Husband finally succumbed to going Where No Man Should Ever Go (TM) I'm afraid it was the dog who went first. Just so he can try it out and let me know what it's like reasoned Husband. It was a hefty argument, especially when garnished with the fear of never being able to go commando again in case the seams rub the scar. Quite. The thought of never again discovering that Husband had gone commando on a romantic night out/black tie dinner/friend's intimate soiree/business lunch/work day would be enough for me to book the vasectomy, children or no children. But he was adamant: not yet, maybe later, I'm going to use the same phrase as my own contribution to our contraception. I do feel for him though, really I do, enough to book myself a spa weekend and shopping trip to Monaco.
So it was poor old Twizzle's turn, yet again the family experiment (ooh I think a dog would be lovely, lets get one and see), I took him in the car after a last breakfast of his favourite sausages (Husband says getting the dog to eat sausages was cruel and metaphorical but I swear Twizzle didn't decipher any hidden meaning in what was, I swear, his favourite food). Husband refused to come lest I'd organised a sting operation where the minute he entered the vet's a Big Burly Man would wrest him to the ground and clamp a large white chloroformed hankie to his face. Surgeon and nurse Stat! he'd yell as Husband struggled, watery eyed, eventually succumbing to going under but not before attempting to cross his legs in one last, futile attempt at defiance. The final indignity being the nurses carrying him into the surgery, legs akimbo, giggling as they compared him to the Rottweiler/Persian cat they did this morning.
Husband waved us off at the door instead with a white hankie, yelling at Twizzle to send him a postcard and reminding me to remind the surgeon not to spare the knife. It'll soon be over he yelled cheerfully, glass of Champagne swilling over the drive, I can't wait to hear all about it. Twizzle meanwhile was oblivious to it all, big spaniel tail wagging furiously at the adventure he was going on, mild curiosity as to why the children had been left at My Mother's, but hey ho, it must mean he's really important and special which of course he is. Even more so with out his balls.
So Twizzle as we know him is no more, a couple of pounds lighter and a little more worldly wise than at the beginning of that fateful car journey. He's doing well though and has assured Husband that he's got absolutely nothing to worry about. Not only did it not hurt but Husband won't have to wear the stupid cone he's got round his neck. He thinks it's ruining his chances with the ladies.

Things I have said To My Parents Today

2009-05-10T21:55:00.000+01:00

I'm fine
No I'm just eating a sandwich so I sound a little muffled
No really I'm fine
I know I shouldn't eat on the phone
No don't call me back I'll put the sandwich down
Peanut butter
I don't have a nut allergy
Why would I need an adrenaline pen if I don't have an allergy?
But I don't need one
Shirley's daughter has one because she's allergic to nuts
I'm not allergic to nuts
There's no could be about it, I'm not allergic
OK I'll go to the doctors tomorrow and ask her for an allergy pen
She'll laugh at me you know
I know she wouldn't be laughing if I went in dying of a nut allergy
No thanks you don't need to come with me
Yes everything else is fine
How many times do I what?
Sorry, I thought you asked how often I was mating
You did
What kind of question is that?
I don't care if Oprah said it was a good indication of the state of a marriage
It's just not something you ask
I'm not telling you
This conversation is not happening
la la la la la la la
About three times a week
Well I'm glad Oprah thinks that's healthy
I'm really not interested in how often you and dad mate
I said I wasn't interested
Please stop discussing dad's mating habits
In the shed?
I really wish you hadn't told me that
No don't put him on I really don't want to know
Hi dad
I really don't want to know
I don't care whether you were alone or not
Well Mother gets these weird ideas
Just stop her watching Oprah that should do it
Yes I'm sure you are missing a good night's sleep
It's just a phase it'll be something else next
Yes hopefully something to do with growing tomatoes

Ask Millennium Housewife!

2009-04-28T14:05:00.002+01:00

It has come to my attention that a lot of you need help. A lot of you need a lot of help. Due to the credit crunch and the lack therefore of ready cash I am offering a brand new service on this blog called Ask Millennium Housewife! A cheap alternative to the therapy you all so obviously need every month right here.
Now, I don't claim to be qualified in any way, or indeed be more able than you are to solve your problems but having spent years solving my own problems I thought I'd give yours a shot. So how about it? Free advice from someone of thirty odd years of experience? Not to be sniffed at I tell you.
Anyway, in true Blue Peter style a few Facebook friends have been asking advice for a while so I'll start with them. I don't know that they meant their problems to be solved quite so publicly so I'll use initials, you know who you are.

K. from Newcastle writes:
Dear Millennium Housewife, my two year old daughter appears to be more popular than me and it's worrying. Help!

Millennium Housewife writes:
Dear K, you are right to be worried, no one likes being upstaged by a two year old, there's plenty of time for that when she turns eighteen and you realise she's the one everybody is wolf whistling at and you're the haggard old woman reflected in the shop window. However, all toddlers are popular, so I doubt that the problem lies with your daughter being more popular than average. Oh, no, I think the problem may lie with you being less popular than average. It may be time to have a long hard think about things. For instance, when looking in the mirror are you simply relieved to see at least one friend? Do you fore go deodorant? Toothpaste? A daily shower? Do your eyebrows knit in one long loo brush like shape? Do you, perchance, have a penchant for growling while walking, swinging one arm madly while hunching over a pine cone? Think about it, a 'yes' to any of the above may be the answer to your problem.
If you have an 'other half' (a real flesh and blood one, not the one you talk to loudly between growls in the park) you could ask him/her to watch out for any of the signs I've mentioned and try to correct them
When you've established the cause of your unpopularity and taken steps to remedy it, take your toddler to the park and attempt to make friends by smiling and nodding to people. Don't forget to put down your pine cone and tie your arm to your side, you'll look a lot more approachable this way.
When people smile back at you, attempt a light conversation along the lines of the weather or what day it is (make sure you know what day it is or this bit may fail). Smile and nod a lot, but you're going for friendly and approachable remember, not friendless and worried you might be unhinged, even though that appears to be true.
Hope this helps. MH

J from Solihull writes:
Dear Millennium Housewife, I have a friend who runs too fast, what can I do?

Millennium Housewife writes:

Dear J, I know you, and I know the friend you are talking about. You may find that this friend's Husband is dangling a large bottle of Chardonnay in front of her to help her run fast, the old donkey and carrot trick rarely fails. Simply remove the wine from in front of your friend and all should be well. Better still dangle the wine behind her and watch her reverse. Hours of fun. MH

B from Warwick writes:
Dear Millennium Housewife, I am finding myself less and less inclined to go to the gym, but when I don't I end up putting on a lot of weight. Do you have an answer for me?

Millennium Housewife writes:
B, I think you just need to see this in a whole new light. Surely there is a way to eat a lot, not put on weight and not go to the gym? There is, and I'm going to share it with you.
Let us first look at the whale, a large creature admittedly, but perfect in proportion to what a whale should look like. But do you ever see a whale at the gym? Do whales ever congregate in the park for a spot of exercise? Do whales write to Millennium Housewife worrying about such things? In a word no. And why? Because they eat krill. That's right, they eat tiny tiny things all the time and never get fat.
So that's what you've got to do. Eat single celled organisms only and maintain that waist line forever. I suggest you start with amoeba and move on to other organisms as and when you feel your digestion can take it. Start in your neighbour's pond if you haven't got one yourself and swim slowly and gently around with your mouth wide open at all times collecting as much amoeba as you can. Repeat this everyday to prevent hunger pangs and try to keep it up in your sleep too. If whales can do it, you can. Good Luck MH

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2009-04-22T20:28:00.003+01:00

Yes I know you try, I just thought we could make it a rule
You're very good at putting your suit ready for the dry cleaners
And checking the pockets, yes
It's just that today at the dry cleaners your underpants flew out of your trousers and hit the dry cleaning lady in the face
Followed by your socks
It was not her lucky day it was really embarrassing
Well could you check your clothes for underwear before putting them in the dry cleaning bag?
And while we're at it could you put your underwear in the dirty washing basket
It's in the laundry
Next to the kitchen
In the kitchen there's a door, behind it is the laundry
I'll show you
No I won't take your underwear while I'm at it
What do you mean Camilla wouldn't make you pick up your underwear?
Camilla's your secretary
I know she thinks you're great but that doesn't prove the underwear thing
No we're not calling her to ask
Put the phone down
I said put the phone down

Things I Have said To Camilla Today

Hi Camilla
Yes I know
Sorry he called
It wasn't a row I just wanted him to pick his underwear up
You would make him if you lived with him I swear

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

That was really embarrassing
No not as embarrassing as the pants hitting the dry cleaning lady in the face
Yes nearly as embarrassing as you mentioning vibrators in front of My Mother
She still asks about that you know
About what it is
And how one might use one
And where one might buy one from
And whether my Dad might like one for Christmas
I know you said they were fun
Well she thinks it's some kind of hand warmer
And that maybe Dad could use one at the football in the winter
Well yes it does get quite chilly
You're missing the point
You've opened a whole Pandora's box
One where My Mother uses the word vibrator liberally and without restraint
Not just at Church
At the supermarket in front of the cream cakes
Well it put me off cream cakes for a start
Maybe you're right
OK, get her one for Christmas and let her solve it for herself
Just don't let Dad take it to the football

Things I Have Learned When Running Your First Ever 10km Race

2009-04-06T13:39:00.004+01:00

You are there to do your best, not win, so run as slowly as you can, in fact walk if you feel like it.
If older/fatter/greyer people finish before you it's because of the drugs.
You can alleviate some of the boredom of long distance running by mentally calculating how many calories you will have burned once you reach the finish line. Don't forget to add an extra 200 onto the tally for luck.
Other people's bottoms wobble, don't laugh and point.
Never, ever announce you're going to do a Paula Radcliffe and pretend to drop your drawers by the side of the road, your running buddies won't find it funny and may run off leaving you behind with half your bottom hanging out and a salvation army man approaching with a Stern Look.
When running past official race photographers remember to watch where you are going rather than trying to angle them your best side, they also don't take kindly to requests for another shot in case you angled that one badly.
The refreshment stand does not serve ice cream.
Race marshalls who shout enthusiastically that you can do it should not be punched in the mouth.
Any questions regarding an alleged punching of a race marshall in the mouth can wait until the end of the race, whatever the policeman says.
If your friend finishes 10 minutes ahead of you ignore her for one week. It's her own fault for doing more training.
At some point if you really feel you're ready to quit, imagine the pain and humiliation of handing Husband the £10 he bet you.
Short cuts will not be tolerated. Nor will attempts to bribe the race marshal.
Organisers will not stop the clock for you if you decide to have a bit of a sit down. Even if you cry.
Do not say beep beep in a condescending way to someone you are overtaking, they will overtake you later and laugh.
Do not be discouraged when being overtaken by a large, vertical armadillo.
On the final 100m it is futile to try to claw back 10 minutes by running really fast.
Never, I repeat, never question the accuracy of the Official Clock, they can take your medal away.
There isn't any chocolate in the goody bag.
A muesli bar does not make up for lack of chocolate.
The medal isn't made of gold. And isn't worth it.
The fish and chips, plus donut, on the way home really, really is.

Things I Have said To my Sat Nav Today

2009-03-30T14:06:00.002+01:00

Ah, let's see
Errr is this the right button?
OK I think that's it
Take me home you honey
I would have gone left there but hey ho
Are you sure?
Right?
I think it's left
Right I'm going left
Yes yes yes you recalculate away my dear
Still recalculating? Ah well
Please don't use that tone with me
I'm telling you it isn't straight on here
I don't care what you say it isn't straight on
I saw that look
I'm going right
You can recalculate as much as you like, it'll pass the time while I'm getting us home
Ssh please I'm trying to think
That's it I'm turning you off
Ahh much better
Err, hello again could you have a look at your map and see where we are?
Which way now?
Well you're the one with the map, you figure it out
If you'd just concentrate on where we're going rather than constantly pointing out where I'm going wrong you might get better results
You'll be starting on my driving next
Don't give me the silent treatment you know it drives me mad
Right, you sulk away while I try and get us out of here
Which way?
Stop sulking
Do you want to drive?
I said Do. You. Want. To. Drive?
Right that's it, you're driving
Hurry up I'm not standing here in the cold forever
Oh I see, too chicken
Perhaps I could have a bit of respect for the rest of the journey
Now which way?
Right you say? OK, but you'd better be right
Ah yes I see where we are now
Yes yes well done
But you are quite annoying
Well done for getting us home
Please stop talking now we're here
Yes I know we've reached our destination, I'm pretty good at recognising my own home
Now you're just rubbing it in

Boxing Clever

2009-03-24T20:27:00.001Z

OK, so in order to tell you all about this I'm going to have to mention Unmentionables, those things that perhaps one might perchance enjoy as a way of keeping a relationship alive (a married respectable one you understand). Things that, once children come along are removed hastily from convenient bedside drawer to The Box At The Back Of The Cupboard and dusted off on anniversaries and Christmas, ok then, just anniversaries, sorry anniversary. So if you're easily offended move your eyes downward to the *.
So my friend, we'll call her Claire, and her Husband has such a box of Unmentionables, and it was an anniversary recently to boot, so you could imagine the scene here to be set the morning after the night before. As indeed it was. Sunday morning, bleary eyed, Husband and Claire woke from a slightly drunken sleep grunting and aiming kicks at each other to see who would cave first and go and get the children. Rubbing his shin and mentioning something about her going down to get the tea he lolloped off in her dressing gown to allow the children to get out of bed. And here is where the fatal error was made. He brought the children into the bedroom, failed to reawaken her to demand tea and set off downstairs himself to make it. I mean how selfish? How long would it have taken him to scan the bedroom floor for a hint of Unmentionable action left out from last night before heading down to make her tea? As Her Mother says, staff these days aren't what they used to be.
Anyway, cut to ten minutes later and the family are sitting in bed enjoying Sunday morning, tea in bed, a bit of play before getting up and starting the day. A scene you could have taken from the Waltons had they shown everyone saying good morning to each other rather than goodnight. Except of course I doubt within that scene, Ma and Pa had a live box of Unmentionables on the bedroom floor (now Grandpa on the other hand...). Just as they're finishing the last gulp of tea Five year old daughter decides that Now is a good time to get up and leaps off the bed straight into the path of The Box. Oooh she said, who got this down (Husband, she swears) it's the box from the back of your cupboard isn't it mummy? She paused and stretched her little hand out to open the lid of the box.
Husband and Claire turned almost imperceptibly towards each other, the world stopped for a brief, agonising second, birds muffled silence in the trees, a startled dear lifted her head, curious. The air stayed solid around the scene, no movement allowed in or out as they waited, waited for the Earth to intake a breath, and as she did ravens cawed around the roof, ominous in their calling. It was Parent verses Child: Parent's ability to think quickly and concisely verses a five year old's dexterity fuelled by curiosity. They had milliseconds to act, to formulate a thought, form it into a sentence, wait for it to travel across time and space, enter the ear of a five year old and (here comes the tricky bit) register strongly enough to stop said five year old opening the box and beginning what they could only imagine would be their toughest question and answer session to date. This, unfortunately would probably climax (sorry) at five year old choosing a choice item from the box behind their backs and taking it to school for show and tell.
Claire was just about to yell No! in an authoritative I'm The Mummy And You Do As I Say kind of voice which rarely ceases to fail, when in one second of pure unadulterated panic Husband yelled out No! don't open it, it's got your birthday presents in!
Five year old's hand quivered, then stopped, she turned to them, eyes shining, mouth grinning: really? she squealed, is this where Santa keeps my Christmas presents too? Husband turned to look at Claire, the realisation dawning (slowly) upon him as to what he'd done. The sense of pride and acheivement he had been wearing for the briefest of seconds sloughing off his face like a hot wax mask, only to show the horror and confusion underneath. Claire sat there, unswallowed mouthful of tea sitting on her tongue and began a slow hand clap at the effort. Five year old's eyes were positively dancing with delight as she considered what she thought she had unearthed. Not only was this the Mysterious Box At The Back Of The Cupboard, the one where even on a chair and on tiptoe she could only tickle with her fingers, but this was also a Magical Box, a Mysterious Box, the box which held her presents, the box that Santa Himself used to store her Christmas presents.
They could see her thoughts sparking out of her head, cue circus music: de de de de di di di as laughing, dancing clowns came out juggling Barbies, elephants wearing frilly skirts snorted sweets all around, dancing bears and trapeze artistes whirled about the room, the marvellous, the magical, the invincible Box bore witness to all fantasies a five year old treasures. A Box of Delights.
Claire told me this story behind her hand (knowing full well that I was taking mental notes for this blog). So, dutifully I have blogged it, I hope her Husband recognises himself. Well done Husband, you have just managed the unmanageable; made an innocuous and pretty much invisible cardboard box into The Most Exciting Box In The World. Hurrah. To be fair though, he's right whatever he shouted, it did do the job. Though there'll be a fair fewer of those on offer around there for a while.

*you can start reading from here

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2009-03-10T13:19:00.002Z

Here's your honey and lemon
Of course I blew on it
You think I'd say I blew on it when I didn't?
Look, here, blow blow.
There, it's cool now
I know you're ill
And I am being sympathetic
Yes you're right, I would have made a rubbish nurse
Because I just don't care enough
Of course I care about you, just not your cold
Yes, I'm well aware you might die without proper care
Well I'm willing to take the chance
Of course I'd regret not taking better care of you, it's just that no one to my knowledge has ever died of a runny nose
What's that you're writing?
We've already made a joint will
What do you mean you're leaving it all to the dog
You mean if I was nicer I'd get everything?
Well I bought you a book up
It's the sequel to Mister Bump
I know how much you enjoyed it so I bought you Mister Tickle
It's really good, he's got long arms
See I do care
Will you leave me the house?
No, you can give the dog to my Mother

Where There's a Will There's a Way

2009-02-18T17:05:00.004Z

So have any of you been thinking that I've been a little silent of late? Just a little? Go on, you can admit it, you've missed my comments, my neediness to be read, my general presence in the blogospehere. Or at least I hope you have. I have, for me at least been a little silent of late, not that I haven't been reading you all you understand, just not commenting. It's my own fault, ten days ago I spilt Olive Oil on my laptop, all over the letters hjlkuionmbgt, which as you can imagine are pretty integral to composing a post. I managed to fob you all off a little by reposting a hitherto unread post, but in reality I was stuck. I managed a few messages, hammered out with much frustration, before giving in (I've never been much of a grafter) and allowing you all to do the work and allowing me to sit back and just enjoy. It was quite pleasant really.

Anyway, it's felt like an age, and life is moving on. So what's been happening? Firstly I have a shiny, pink, new laptop, complete with ability to type hjlkuionmbgt which is pleasing. Secondly, I believe Husband and I have finally, painfully, slowly, reached what could possibly pass for adulthood. Forget buying a house, forget having children, forget even consolidating your debt for the first time, we have the ultimate test of adulthood: a will. And we made it ourselves, from a do-it-yourself will pack from WHSmith, in the kitchen. But no empty yogurt pots or double sided sticky tape were used so it looks pretty authentic.

It was quite good fun to start with, we opened a bottle of wine and sat thoughtfully, seriously, thinking about the Big Grown Up step we were about to take, of lives that would be touched, at the thought that our untimely demise would warrant such planning, such preparation, due of course to the importance we play in everyone's lives. It was a sober(ish) moment; one of contemplation and reverence.

Until of course we realised we could write anything we liked. Anything at all! After all weren't we grown ups? Sensible and mature enough to make our own decisions? Yes of course we were, we had all the other grown up things: kids, house, car, nintendo wii fit (unused), so what should we write? We contemplated a couple of scenarios; firstly simply putting All to Edna! and signing it. What fun to watch from the other side as everybody tried to figure out for the life of them (rather than the life of us) who on earth Edna was, and why was she getting our millions, (sorry, thousands, ok then hundreds)? Regard with mirth the Hunt For Edna, the scouring of the birth/marriage/death records for a likely match, the heated, enraged conversations at the dinner table about Edna's whereabouts and likelihood of her handing over the goods to the rightful next of kin. Ah, what a legacy to leave our beloveds; a never ending treasure hunt.

We also contemplated confessing that the jewel heist was hidden at Husband's best friend Matt's house so that we could watch the police prepare their raid, barge the door at dawn and rush in yelling, police! stand back! The icing on the cake of course (although we couldn't state this in the will, it would give the game away) would be Matt caught, boxers down, mid coitus, shaking violently and whimpering innocent, innocent as a stunning woman whom he'd been courting for years looked up, removed herself from the clinch and silently dressed, never to be seen again. Years of courting down the drain. Excellent.

Obviously, we didn't put any of this, why bother when we're not sure at all that we''d get to watch it all? We did though have to make all the surreal decisions about what happened to whom in the event of us passing. It was a pickle I can tell you, the opportunities to offend were everywhere. Every corner we turned presented us with another what if? case scenario where someone we loved/tolerated would be incredibly offended at our decisions. Until that is (cue second wide eyed revelation of the day) we realised that it didn't matter; we wouldn't be there to offend anybody. Ha! What a way to cause trouble with our relatives and get away totally scott free! The opportunities were endless. Pick a relative, any relative and say whatever you like, they can't ever ever answer back! Now that's what I call entertainment value.

In fact, thinking about it, I could have more fun than I ever imagined. I could admit to anything, (anything!) and get away with it. What was My Mother going to do about it? Ground me? No! Ha! No more grounding ever! For me or Husband. At last! A way to rid myself of my sins, cast out the fire of wrong doing and start again, clean and renewed. I would tell her about the time Shirley the-Competition criticised her flapjacks at the Church fete because she'd found a plaster in the middle of one. My plaster. Put in deliberately. Or I'd tell her how I'd always secretly agreed with dad about the kitchen wallpaper - it did remind me of slime, or about the time she found an image of our dog Barry in one of her chrysanthemums and sent me to the post office to send it to the readers section of the Daily Mail. I never sent it. I was too embarrassed to write chrysanthemum with image of our dog Barry on the contents section of the parcel label. My Mother stopped taking the Daily Mail after that. Every cloud.

I could even, even, (huge gulp at the posiibilities of life after death) haunt her, appear in her dreams as a phantom voice, wake her in the middle of the night as a ghostly apparition floating ghoulishly at the end of the bed. Crikey I could even swamp her in ectoplasm a la Ghostbusters and watch as she lamented ever discussing my first period with Dan Hutchin Crush Of All The First Years.The possibilities stretched out like a long, glitter filled road, of redemption, revenge, and best of all no consequences. Life, it seemed was finally worth living. What a bargain; life lessons, revenge, redemption and a new appreciation for the Joy of Living. All for £2.94 from WHSmith.

Losing It*

2009-02-12T20:49:00.005Z

My friend from school came up to me this morning, and before you laugh, yes, I have a friend, we've bonded over finding the whole talking outside the school thing quite challenging. So in true friendship fashion we sit each morning in our respective (warm) cars and ignore each other and everyone else until we absolutely have to get out. Only then do we chance a quick smile and chat as we usher in our children.
Anyway, she looked worried. Just this morning, she confided through the corner of her mouth, she'd lost it with her boys. Shouted. Screamed. And get this she whispered, thrown all their toys out of the window. The fear was palpable, the light sweat on her forehead belying the cool exterior of the mummy-out-and-about.Fair enough this was good going for before 9am, but really, toys out the window? That's nothing! I've torn heads off Barbies, thrown perfectly good princess tippy toe shoes in the bin, thrown toys out of the car window (there's a lot of throwing it feels really good), made an Easter egg sandwich and thrown (yes) it onto the table shouting 'there's you bloody dinner, happy now?' And before you phone social services, I don't know any mother that hasn't done similar things.It's just what happens, it doesn't do the children any harm (well none that they can't see a therapist about later on), in fact, we tell ourselves, it's good for them to see that mummy has a line (a good line in throwing especially).
I was listening to an awful, pompous man on the radio the other day and he was chatting to a woman who was worried about losing it with her sons, apparently she shouts at them. Shouts. Okaaay, I was waiting for the next bit but there wasn't one. Shouts? That's nothing! I've.. (see earlier list). Anyway the point of this bit is that the pompous I've-never-stayed-at-home-on-my-own-with-the-children-day-after-day-while-other-people-get-to-be-citizens-of-the-world man asked her is if she would ever lose it public, say in Boots? No, she replied, well then he said, you can control it. Sorry? The taste of chalk and cheese stuck painfully in my throat. Boots? But there are so many more options available in Boots. Shelves and shelves of things to accidentally sweep to the floor (I've managed a whole aisle), shopkeepers to smile at as you drag your child away from the teletubby bubble bath into the corner for a good shouting at. In fact you can feel like a good mummy in Boots (and it doesn't have to be Boots either, I've done it lots of times in Thorntons). Look, you are saying as you raise you voice without embarrassment, I'm a zero tolerance mummy, I stand up to my children and Lay Down The Law. Hoorah for me, you won't be seeing me on Super Nanny, (though you're hoping that they didn't see last Summer's episode that you starred in, and have obviously failed at miserably hence the Boots/Thorntons tantrum).
You see, when you're out in public it's not other people that stop you losing it and carrying out bizarre and, let's face it, pretty stupid punishments (it took me ages to glue Barbie's head back on, and Easter egg sandwiches have had to become part of the weekly menu), it's that other people mean company, freedom, space. A good disciplining can be admired, taken note of, I'll try that shouting-in-the-corner-thing myself you can hear people thinking, I'd look really good doing that. At home there is nobody around to admire your handiwork, and nowhere else to go but bizarre. Four walls leave you with no option , when you've tried everything else, sometimes you have to lose it, let it go, take it out on Barbie (you never liked her anyway), do whatever it takes to lose control without actually losing control. It's the only way. And if you don't agree then you don't have children.
My brother in law, Alec, has been staying with us for the last few days and I haven't lost it once. Not because I'm being polite, we know each other far too well, but because I've had some company. I don't mean to insult Isla and Jack here, they're lovely company, but it's been nice to have some that I didn't also have to feed/wipe/bath/nappy (although it's been close, he's not that domesticated). He's been someone to chat to (at), he's played with the children while I 'got on with things' (oh how blissful to actually get on with it all), he's played with Jack to stop him crying instead of me holding him in one arm, pushing the dummy in with the other and stirring the sauce with my toes. He's even read stories, made mud pies, tickled, played 'you can't catch me' for two hours and generally entertained in the manner of Koko the Klown all day. It's been great, everyone should have a visitor that isn't child-jaded (it took him going to South Korea for a year but still). It has, in a nutshell, been blissful. And it's going to carry on for sometime, I've hidden his passport.

*Reposted for Fiona, with love

Cutting The Ties That Bind

2009-02-01T20:43:00.000Z

So it's new year, new start, new decisions. And we're still at that old chestnut of a dilemma about Husband's forthcoming vasectomy. It's not a dilemma for me obviously, it's the natural, easy decision to ensure our child rearing is restricted to the two we chose, but it seems that Husband is still undecided. Actually undecided doesn't really do the situation justice, denial is probably the best way of representing Husband's state of mind; denial and procrastination. Excellent.

The thing is, it's almost impossible to discuss it with him, bring the subject up (in all senses of the word) and he cowers in the corner, whimpering like a damp dog confronted with the hair dryer. He then recounts excuse after excuse as to why he should be left intact and as nature intended him (I always point out that he's ginger and nature probably didn't intend for him to reproduce at all, so he's damn lucky he got me and my willingness - within reason - to mate with him). The worst is that his boss had it done last year and has spent the last twelve months regaling Husband with tales of cow-pat-like scrotums and John Wayne walks to the off licence for a ball numbing beer. Husband's fear stems from hearing about the injections where nobody should ever be allowed to inject. I point out that he's very keen for the dog to have it done, and even teases him about how he should make the most of being virile before the vet loads his syringe. But Husband says that dogs were born to have it done, it's responsible, whereas removing his own virility may affect the future population's ability to include ginger in their gene pool. I'm considering conducting a survey to establish whether this is a primary concern for the local community. I'm guessing it's probably pretty low on the agenda, at least behind the spaceship landing area someone has proposed for the local park.

Anyway, Husband has been trying to find alternative ways to ensure us a two child only future but short of tying a knot in it and abstaining completely (I've offered to take a lover should he choose to do this, sometimes I'm all heart) there really isn't anything he can do that isn't ultimately up to me. He came home on Friday in a state of high excitement however. Helpful Boss had told him about the male pill and suggested this as an alternative to the looming purple melon scrotum he was about to have inflicted. Damn. The male pill is something I've been keeping under wraps as much as possible. The male pill involves a certain amount of personal responsibility from its imbiber, at the very least a memory capable of, you guessed it, remembering to take it daily at the same time of day. That's three things to remember: Take it daily, take it at the same time each day, and remember that you actually have to take it. No chance. This is a man ladies and gentlemen who was told by the dental hygienist that he has an infected gum and needs to do a salt rinse every night. He was told this three months ago. He's remembered his salt wash, ooh about zero times, even with a bloody, swollen gum to remind him. How on earth is he going to remember the Pill except perhaps at a time of heightened ardour (when I promise you I at least will remember it, and also remember the fifty two pills he's forgotten in a row). This is a man who routinely leaves one or both of his children strapped in the car on arriving home. Only discovering their absence after he has entered the house, made himself a cup of tea and realised there's nothing on TV. So would I trust our family planning to this Man. In a word, no.

So we have to discuss it sometime, but he won't even let me use the word Vasectomy in his presence. It's been hard going trying to think up an alternative name that is acceptable: your little procedure results in squeals of denial about there being nothing little or procedure like about the Major Testicular Surgery I am trying to get him to have. Lopping your balls off lasted for about five seconds (I thought it was good: precise and to the point and most importantly hilarious. To me.). I can't use snip because it's what Isla likes to do with scissors and evokes visions of child-surgeons and blunt nursery scissors. So I've plumped for when you go for your third child prevention surgery which has been reasonably successful. I think because it reminds him of the logic behind the little procedure (it's my blog I'll call it what I like, and besides compared to childbirth it is a little procedure, crikey the needle's tiny!). It really is the only assured way to a safe, easy, small car owning, two child future. Put it like that and it makes sense, it's the sensible, the sane, the downright responsible choice for sensible, sane, downright responsible families. Wonderful, decision made. Oooh I can't wait to lop his balls off.

High Resolution

2009-01-19T14:24:00.000Z

So, I suppose you're all wondering how I'm doing with my new year's resolutions, and if you weren't that's probably because I forgot to tell you I had made some. Oh yes, Millennium Housewife (and family by default) is excellent at making new year's resolutions, excellent I tell you. On the 30th December, every year without fail, I hop skip and jump to the kitchen table to make a long, substantial and to be fair incredibly ambitious list of new year's resolutions. Then, with true diligence and determination I eradicate them one by one using the following criteria:
1)Remove all resolutions that prevent consumption of stress relievers (wine/chocolate/Solpadeine)
2)Remove any that will result in time away from family and friends (gym/volunteer work/weight watchers)
3)Remove the one about making friends at the gym
4)Remove the one about the gym family membership
5)Remove any weight orientated resolution to prevent sense of failure next December 30th
6)Remove any resolution that requires Husband to keep a resolution too. The likelihood of failure is directly proportionate to the number of spouses involved in said resolution.

So, that leaves me with: Join or create a new religion, which I am going to give a really good go this year. Last year's attempt was lame to say the least, I only attracted eight followers, mainly from the local Slimming World and a couple I found outside Weatherspoon's. It had it's successes too though, the Thou Shalt Not Walk a Mouse on Thursdays decree was followed, ahem, religiously, as was the Turn Up When You Feel Like It approach to worship. It was a good religion I felt, just a bit lacking in a worshipable deity, I think that's where I went wrong. So the next few weeks are going to be dedicated to finding a good deity and a place to put it. Ha! Resolution almost complete - dedication and planning always win the day. Anyway, while having a heart to heart with Husband last month, we both agreed that we really should try and keep up our fitness levels (unfortunate turn of phrase from him, my fitness level is easily maintained by sitting watching Murder She Wrote and drinking Horlicks), but he's right (sigh), fitness is important and crossing out fitness related resolutions is becoming less and less satisfying every year.

So it was back to the gym (by back to, I mean creeping in, back to the wall, hoping nobody can see me, not as in returning to the gym), the treadmill, the (kid's) weights, the aerobics classes, the step classes (although if you can't actually manage the step can it feasibly be called a step class?), the coffee shop, the melting cookies. I calculate that 2.3 cookies=1 step class, and they said maths was my weak point, Ha! Take that old maths teacher, 1 weak subject+1 weakness for soft cookies = substantially improved ability at weak subject, I may try to sell that concept to the Education Minister and win a Nobel prize for singlehandedly improving School Performance. Watch this space.

Anyway, I have been really good at the gym, and improvements are being seen. I have this huge mental image of where I want to be in a few years time: Thin (obviously), even thinner, with new teeth, boobs, hair, nails, oh go on then while we're at it, new brain. Then of course everything will be different, people will notice, cue Tyra Banks, doe eyed and full bosomed, fairy godmother heart worn ostentatiously on her sleeve lest you forget who this show's really about, holding aloft my best studio shot breathy voice whispering: Congratulations Millennium Housewife, you're 197,000 steps away to becoming America's Next Top Model. Yup, that's what I'm aiming for, I'm nothing if not ambitious. In a few years I'll be stretched to six foot (I'm not sure how but I'm sure stretching technology will have moved on by then), buffed and betoothed to perfection, you won't recognise me. Watch out Kate Moss, The Middle Aged Modelling Agency only has a few places you know.

Hitting The Pelvic Floor

2009-01-18T10:03:00.000Z

This gorgeous award was given to me by the fabulous Morethanjustamother, a relatively new blogger who can write beautifully and has managed to make me laugh and cry already. Thankyou.

Just to explain, the Pelvic Floor Award is not, as you may have imagined, an award for the strongest (or weakest for that matter) pelvic floor, oh no. But for a funny blog that makes you wet yourself. Quite. Hmmm, reading that back I'm not so sure now, firstly how could any of you have thought it would be for the ability of your pelvic floor to contract sufficiently to retain all liquids (or release all liquids)? Ewww, shame on you! How do you think Morethanjustamother would have tested for this award? Is there some cyberspace equivalent to one of those 'exercisers' advertised in the back of Mother and Baby? (come on ladies it's a vibrator that was so badly designed that it doesn't vibrate. I know it, you know it, lets just all go to Ann Summers and be done with it). Did she pass the 'exerciser' out among the Mummy bloggers, let them take the test (it involves cold water, hot water and lots of squeezing. Apparently), then score them out of ten for Pelvic Floor Performance? And then (and only then) can you be awarded the Pelvic Floor Award. No. So it's not that sort of award.

But.

It is an award for blogs that make you wet yourself. Cheers. Visit Millennium Housewife and leak like an anywayup cup standing the right way up, i.e. copiously (you did get the irony there didn't you?). In fact, best remove underwear and sit on a plastic sheet before logging on, and you can forget it if you really do have a weak pelvic floor. Carnage is all I can predict (and absolutely no hope of a real Pelvic Floor Award, but you could peruse page 125 of Mother and Baby if you felt the urge).

Soooo, if you've braved it this far then I thank you all, those who have had to run off for a quick change I thank you too, mainly for coming back to read the rest. I hope the plastic sheet isn't sticking to your legs.

I'd like to pass it on to A Confused Take That Fan, I'm not sure about the state of her pelvic floor, but I know I worry for mine when reading her blog, she's hilarious.

A Tale of Two Fishes

2009-01-06T20:48:00.000Z

Happy New Year to everybody out there, I hope 2009 brings you more money than we're promised, less doom and gloom than we're promised and a fairly sturdy umbrella if it all happens to come true. The Millennium Housewife family had rather a chilled new year actually, for once less than a vat of wine was consumed, although this was mainly due to Husband being at death's door (read: in bed with a cold demanding lemsips and attention). The only glum moment was the goldfish dying. Yup, sorry to say but old Sally has carped it (pun utterly intended, should you have doubted it for a second), in fact less of the old actually, she's only about six months but then every goldfish month is the equivalent to twenty human years according to the man who sold it to me (door to door, he also sold lucky heather which I bought and tied to the goldfish bowl). So really Sally was about eighty and had had a good innings and was due to visit that old fish pie in the sky.

Sorry if all this has come as a shock, I know how much she meant to you all and how you enjoyed hearing about her adventures in the bowl water continuum having had ooh precisely zero posts dedicated to her. But a death in the family is a death in the family and worth noting.

It happened New Year's Day, I'd staggered down bleary eyed, with Isla already waxing lyrical about the adventures Barbie and Sally were going to embark on today (it involved Barbie's new bikini which I have to say is far too old for her, and possibly pornographic). Isla's lilting crescendo of waffle died low (but not as low as Sally's obviously) as she spied the upside down, floating, mouth-stilled Sally (you've all seen it before). Look at that mummy she yelled in her prettiest voice, Sally's sunbathing like Barbie. Grasping the oft withheld opportunity to not explain Life And It's Miseries to my child I hummed agreement and carried on a one sided conversation about how Sally might like a bikini to match Barbie's while simultaneously fetching the sieve (bless that multi tasking gene). It was at the point where Isla was musing as to whether Sally would like a two piece pink sparkly bikini or a purple all in one that she saw the sieve. What have you got mummy? Ah. Errr, I stalled, shirking yet another opportunity to enlighten my child (come on, I was in the zone), I was going to sift some flour.

Really? boomed Isla, are we going to make shortbread?

Um, OK, why not?

So the morning was spent making shortbread while Sally sunbathed it away making absolutely no effort to help. That is until Husband lumbered down and enquired loudly as to why the fish was dead. Dead? Isla squeaked (at last! a way to get her to lower the decibels), we thought she was sunbathing didn't we mummy? Husband shot me a reproachful look and knelt down as if to begin a heart to heart with his eldest child about life, love and the Universe. She probably is sunbathing yes darling, he said (coward!), I'll have a look.

As we bent, ear to ear over the goldfish bowl we whispered urgently about how to save the situation. In a moment of inspiration I ran to the cupboard and grabbed a straw. Lifting Sally I attempted the kiss of life by breathing down the straw. Husband looked at me as if I had just offered to clean the skirting boards. But I knew, I'd seen My Mother do this to a catfish we'd inadvertently caught while fishing in Florida (apparently my dad hadn't thought we'd catch anything so it wouldn't do any harm. It did do rather a lot of harm though to the catfish). Husband whispered something along the lines of My Mother's face looming over any corpse would be enough to scare it back to life, but soon got into the drama by coaching, one two three, clear! yelling in time with every breath. He even cut a sliver of carrot and waggled it above Sally, she might think it's a man goldfish and give her something to live for he explained helpfully. But to no avail, Sally's little fishy soul had well and truly left the building, no autographs please. We lifted her towards Isla, look towards the light! bellowed Husband in a moment supposedly Spiritual but I suspect lifted straight from Hollywood. We knelt down, attempting to stroke Sally kindly and without any sign of fish phobia, and explained as gently as we could about dying and how a fish's last wish was always to be flushed down the toilet. Isla took it well and even said a few farewell words above the toilet bowl before waving as we flushed. She turned to us, sadness etched on her face, are you OK darling we asked kindly, yes she said, it's just..it's just.. who's going to swim with Barbie now? Quite.

So now we have another fish, a more resilient one we imagine given the race to get her back in the bowl after Isla attempted to get her into her bikini. One that hopefully will live to at least a hundred and give Isla many months of pleasure. We've pulled out all the stops and placed another piece of lucky heather on the bowl.

Seven?

2008-12-15T14:03:00.001Z

I have been terribly remiss about passing on awards and joining in with the tag list, it's my shy and retiring nature you see, it just won't let me show off. But I'm going to have a good go and try to think of seven 'interesting' things about Millennium Housewife....And to pass on a few awards.

So, I was lucky enough to be tagged by the lovely Confused Take That Fan and Boy From Oz as well as the hilarious Potty Mummy , 21st Century Mummy and Nunhead Mum of One, all of them blogs I love to read so it doubled the pleasure. As mentioned above I have to write seven things about myself and tag others in return...

So, seven things eh? Sounds familiar, let's have a go....

1. Lust: I was born a mermaid, it was quite a shock both for My Mother and the midwife, they haven't had a live Human to Mermaid birth for 49 years round here. They had to put me in water straight away, luckily one of the nurses found a big potty which sufficed until they could get me to the sea. About eight years ago I was swimming in my lovely glistening bit of water when I spied Husband walking along the shore, I had to have him. Had to. So writhing in lustful thoughts I bought a spell to change my tail into legs. The rest as they say is history. And let that be a lesson to you about where lust gets you. Married to a ginger surveyor, that's where.

Pride: I am most proud of my chocolate collection. I have been adding to it for years and am most diligent in keeping it updated with the latest lines. I keep it on a shelf in my stomach.

Envy: I do envy my sister, she lives in Los Angeles with an extremely large pond between her and My Mother.

Wrath: Buses make me wrathful, I don't know whether it's just the way their headlights are positioned but they always seem to me to look like they think they are much much better than you.

Greed: Husband would say I'm greedy when I won't share my bottle of wine with him. To me it's an invesment in the future, the more pickled I am the less I'll age.

Gluttony: is something I will fight all my life, and it often feels like I have one hand tied behind my back (and the other hand has a large piece of chocolate cake in it).

Sloth: This sin was invented just for me. I LOVE sloth, call yourself slothful with pride and it gets you out of all sorts of things. "why haven't you cleaned the house for a month?" "Oh that's just me being slothful" "Why do we need a cleaner when you don't work" "Sorry, that's just little old slothful me again, got to go I'm off to put my feet up and read a magazine, byee," You get the jist.

So now to awards, I was incredibly lucky to get this from Devoted and would like to pass it on to Rosiero who writes an amazing blog about life with a alcoholic, she is never self pitying, always entertaining and an all round good blogger friend.

I received this one from the wonderful Mud in the City and would like to pass it on to the hilarious Confused Take That Fan, she makes me laugh (loudly), she makes Husband laugh (loudly), tells it like it is and makes me think, phew!

Fabulous Cheshire Wife and Rosiero gave me this one and I'd like to pass it onto Mud in the City, I just love living vicariously through her romantic adventures....

Books I Am Planning To Write

2008-12-08T19:39:00.003Z

The School Run. Why it should be called The School Creep, The School Struggle to Find A Parking Space, The School Wrestle With Coats and Hats, The School Remove Clingy Child From Thigh. Then you can run.
DIY for Husbands. Volume one: Bandaging
Getting Enough? Sex or sleep, you decide.
Baking with toddlers and other ways to ruin your house
Why? The Definitive Answer (RRP £1.2 bn)
The Joy of Sex and Other Great Jokes Men Have Played On Women
The Place Where Curvy Women Are Worshipped (includes free map)
Crisps: fat free if you wash them
The Only Diet You'll Ever Need: The Seafood Diet. Crisps, chocolate, croissants, chardonnay, cookies, cake, cream, chips, cheese

Eye Eye Cap'n

2008-12-01T21:00:00.000Z

I knew trouble was brewing the moment I laid eyes on My Mother's friend/critic/enemy Shirley-the-competition. She had new glasses. Not just any glasses, oh no, little gold, shiny, half moon ones, the kind your headmistress wore hanging on a bead necklace that you always imagined she tied her husband up with in bed. Thinking about it now though she probably doesn't anymore, not with the arrival of Ann Summers, and besides she must be about a hundred by now and operating bondage gear with arthriticky hands would probably put them off most nights. Maybe just special occasions and birthdays:
Do you fancy one tonight Bert? (or some other old person sounding name, you're welcome to use your imagination),
Why, what's the occasion Doris? (again, imagination-using invitation proffered),
Another one of those blasted telegrams from the Queen
Oh heck, best get your necklace out then
Shall I do your bunions first to stop them chaffing?
I'll get the sandpaper
Anyway, Shirley-the-competition stood there, half moon glasses perched Dame Edna-like upon her rather pointy and long nose (for sticking into things according to My Mother), staring at My Mother's carrot cake. And this is when it happened, Shirley -the-competition lifted her chin a little into the air (not too much you understand, just enough to let you know she'd practised this in the mirror at home) and peered down over her glasses at the cake.
Hmmm, she said, in her best Church Flower Arranger voice I think you may need to add a little more baking soda next time, it's a little flat this side.
My Mother glared upwards, no doubt spotting herself reflected in the new glasses and not liking what she saw (who does? it's like discovering you are really an upside down spoon shaped potato head), and observed Shirley-the-competition peering down at her. It was as good as saying excuse me little worm and flat carrot cake maker, I am older, wiser and significantly more important that you. In fact, forget my advice about the carrot cake, you're not worthy of it.
My Mother sniffed and moved away from the glare of the glasses and busied herself with a pot plant. I knew then, with a certainty as strong as my liking for chocolate, that trouble was a-brewing, and I scarpered.
The next day My Mother came calling, running the usual finger along the mantelpiece checking for dust, sniffing loudly at the milk before she used it and laying the clean tea towel she'd bought with her onto the chair before sitting down. She cut straight to the point: I've been noticing recently Darling that I'm not quite as observant as I once was, have you noticed anything? Because if you have you would tell me wouldn't you? I mean one isn't quite as young as one once was, and one does know that one's faculties may be fading just a tad (My Mother talks like she thinks the Queen would, personally I think the Queen would have a fit at the interpretation, or at least require a stiff whiskey and an early night with Prince Philip and the necklace). If she had paused for breath at all, just once, I would have taken the opportunity to break in and save her the trouble of the pretense. She wants some glasses. Half moon, shiny, gold ones (although heaven forbid I hope she doesn't want the necklace) just like Shirley-the-competition. How on earth can she be expected to keep Shirley in her rightful place (i.e. lower than her and last on the Church roster) if Shirley uses such a downright unfair prop? Once she had turned so blue that she was forced to pause and inhale, I suggested this to My Mother who looked at me as if I'd just stripped in front of the WI (she hasn't seen the calendar so doesn't realise it's de riguer now). What Shirley has she sniffed, means absolutely nothing to me, I'm simply concerned for my eyesight and was wondering if I may need some glasses. This from a woman who, when we were growing up, could spot a misdemeanor at one hundred paces, it was like being raised by an owl.
There was no point arguing, once My Mother wants something, she invariably gets it, so I've booked her into the optician tomorrow. Now I just have to work out how to slip a pair of half moon, gold, shiny spectacles into the optician's hands without My Mother's owl eyes alighting on them like some unfortunate rodent and guessing that the question of her getting some glasses (albeit ones with plain glass in them) is a foregone conclusion. That and how to explain that under no circumstances is she allowed to keep them on a beaded necklace.

Mummy's Little Helpers

2008-11-17T14:54:00.001Z

Isla has been invited to an allotment party. Shall I say that again in italics? Isla has been invited to an allotment party. If I mention the words allotment and party a lot here, it is meant to convey confusion, confundity, general mirth, an image of shrugged shoulders and a twirling of the index finger about the ear, and general all round befuddlement. An allotment party (sorry, I really can't help it). Worse still, it's from the daughter of Right-On Mum, the Mummy everybody hides behind their cars to avoid as she struggles into show and tell with a scale model of Daughter's bedroom complete with working light and bookcase filled with the Complete Works of Shakespeare (unabridged edition). Right-On Mum wears a lots of beige because organic clothes just can't be bleached, and Rah Rahs around at coffee mornings force feeding everybody with her hemp and sofa stuffing muffins (homemade. Rah). She's even converted her hybrid car to work off cooking oil and can regularly be seen in the school kitchens syphoning off the chip fat, all the while Rah-ing about saturated fat and salad bars. We're great friends as you can imagine. The best.

Anyway, at first I thought Isla had got it wrong, four-year-olds and correct, detailed information do not make easy bedfellows, but no, she produced the invite from her satchel with a told you so flourish and unfolded the paper. It was bedecked with images of spades and wellies which I thought were simply decoration and a chance for Right-On Mum to show off her computer skills (which incidently runs off a dynamo that she works with her foot while on the computer. She has a really big left thigh). But no, the pictures were actually a visual list of items needed to enjoy the aforementioned allotment party (I did mention it didn't I?). It turns out that an allotment party involves turning out your four year old in wax jacket and flat cap (well that's what the picture suggested), dropping them off at Right-On Mum's allotment (of course we can stay and help if we like rah rah) where they will dig and plant and water, eat a picnic picked from the allotment and then go home. That's right, come and celebrate the birth of our child with slave labour. We're a bit behind on the weeding you see, but to make it fair you can harvest as many tomatoes as you like for your lunch.

And why not? Set the children to work, they've been sponging off the state for far too long now. Free education, free healthcare, isn't it time they gave something back to people and a society that has been too soft on them? They get Two Whole Days off a week, that's 104 days a year of lost productivity. What have we been doing allowing them to sit back learning ballet/karate/TV watching when they could be making themselves useful?

This is a fantastic turn of events. Why didn't I think of this first? Not an allotment party obviously, Husband says we can't get an allotment until I manage to keep one supermarket-bought basil plant alive for at least a week. But there's loads of things that would make a great party, a greeaat party. I could turn my entire house into a play zone, send out invites and watch them flock. Fabulous.

Now let me see, what kind of parties do I need to have to get all my jobs done? We could start off with a Light Dusting and Sweeping Party, followed by a Window Cleaning and Vacuuming Play Session. We could break for a Make, Serve and Clean Up Your Own Lunch Party before moving into the Ironing Zone (possibly followed by DIY First Aid for Burns Tutorial, but it depends how the Ironing Session goes down). To finish we could play hunt the dog turds in the garden and enjoy a brisk race to be the first to put them in the poo pot (oh yes).

This is wonderful! Brilliant! Dare I even say inspired? My very own Eureka moment has finally occurred (but not in the bath I'm afraid, the laptop tends to short). All I need to do is have ten more children, make sure that they are each born in a different month, then I can throw a Cleaning Party for each one. That's it, a totally clean, ironing free, dog mess free house and garden every month. It's time to sack the cleaner.

You See That Lady In The Corner?

2008-11-07T15:03:00.001Z

It's been eighteen months since Jack was born and the final hor-moan wave has started to dissipate. You'd think wouldn't you, that this would mean a bit of space, a bit of time, crikey I'd even go for a bit of sex, that wasn't encumbered by babies/milk/crying or anything else your Husband does in the night. But no. The minute I begin to feel myself again (although it's been so long now I'm not sure whether that is exactly who I'm feeling) then that old chestnut procreation rears its head (and I don't mean literally). It's to do with the propagation of the species or so I'm told: wean one offspring and raise it to walking standard and then please have another one immediately so that we can carry on the Human Race. I will say this only once: we have plenty of Humans, I can see three as I write, we do not need anymore now please, hormones, leave me alone.

But do they listen? No. They just secrete away their day, creating negative feedback as they go (did you know one of the only times positive feedback occurs is during labour? Ha! There's nature's irony for you), getting in the way of my mood swings and general misbehaviours, causing havoc just by existing. Mine have been busy, ooh, for about the last five years now, and suddenly they have nothing to do. They're bored, sitting in my Pituitary scuffing their trainers against the wall, moaning that there's nothing on TV and why can't they have a Nintendo DS because Thyroid next door bought one for her child Thyroxine. They've been led to expect, you see, a high level of employment and now there's nothing to do so mischief must be made.

So I blame my hormones for becoming the predatory woman in the gym changing room, the one in the corner that just can't leave babies alone. She stands there casting desperate cow eyes at any woman with a baby (even the scary one with the mono brow), trying to gurgle and coo, thinking just how gorgeous every single baby she sees is. But this is the trick that hormones play on you. Yes, they are cute. Cute, and loud, and sicky, and incontinent, and incapable on every level. Who on Earth would like someone like that to come into your life when you've already got two? Hormones, that's who. When you no longer have a baby, you hormones helpfully point out Every Other Baby In The World, saying: wouldn't you like one like that, look how clean and good and sweet he looks. He's not crying is he? That's because only your first two babies cried, your third won't (cue ghost like, mind altering voice) Yyyoouuur thiiird woooonnn'tttt. Don't you want to pick him up, just a cuddle? Go on, ask his mum, she won't mind, she'd love you to pay attention to her baby. Ahhhh, isn't that nice, ignore his mum you're doing a great job. A Great Job I tell you. Wouldn't you like one just like this, all warm and cuddly and clean. See what a natural you are? All the other mums in this changing room are looking at you as if you're a pro. You ARE a pro, look at you. Don't you want another? Just one tiny, little, won't know he's there bundle? Talk to Husband tonight. You know he loves the spare room, it's become his really and he just loved having the last baby. Remember his tears at the birth? You could both have that again you know, you'd both bond again over this tiny sweet thing. Go on, you know you want to.

At this point you notice the baby's mother glaring mono-browed at you and you relinquish your bundle with much sighing and regret. Until, that is, you look into Mummy's eyes. You forget you see, that behind every cute, fragrant bundle is a Mummy, leaking from every orifice, sleep deprived to the point of delirium, sobbing into baby's neck every night as he wails the hours away, wondering what on earth she's done to her life and who's bright idea it was to have another baby (hormones, lady, I tell you). And often behind Mummy there's a Daddy, sleeping in the spare room, attempting guesses as to when aforementioned orifices are going to stop leaking, wondering what on earth he's done to his life and worrying about the proximity of The Vasectomy (it's closer than he thinks, the vet's doing a home visit tomorrow).

And behind daddy are the grandparents. Doe eyed and willing - to an extent- to help out, but just as willing you understand to hand baby back. You see this is where nature got it right; your parents just can't wait for you to have children, as many as you please! Have sex at ours any time you like dear (as long as it's with Husband) and furnish us with as many little poppets as you can. Ahhh, because that's what you are aren't you sweetie, a poppet (cue copious amounts of cheek squidging), yes, that's what you are coogie coogie coo (yes, My Mother actually says Coogie Coogie Coo). But you see, grandparents get double the pleasure from their grandchildren. They get to watch them inflict years of sleep deprivation and what can only be termed as abuse on their parents, in much the same way as you did on them. Then, they get to have them for tea, fill them with mood enhancing additives and hand them back just in time to go out for dinner, return home at a reasonable hour and enjoy eight hours uninterrupted sleep.

So I suppose that's the only answer, have as many as you like, enslave yourself to the hormones, bring up the children, and then sit back. Sit back and watch the very people who gave you such a tough ride, attempt to do it themselves, secure in the knowledge that whatever happens, it can't be as hard as it was in your day. That's when my time will come. Excellent. I'll just give Husband a call about it and then I'll make a start on those oysters.

A Rose By Any Other Name

2008-10-31T13:38:00.008Z

I have recently installed a stat counter on this blog, just so I can keep an eye on you all you understand, nothing to be alarmed about, nothing, I assure you. Tum te tum te tum. Anyway, it has come to my attention that I may have chosen a rather unfortunate name for this blog. You see, Millennium Housewife was intended to imply a new wave of housewives, just like the housewives of yesteryear (who often used such words as yesteryear/gay to mean happy/frightfully/twin tub/hot dinner), except less inclined to cook/wash up/iron/bake/look after children/say yes dear. Oh no, the Millennium Housewife does none of the above unless she really wants to/is really good at cooking, instead she stays at home/starbucks waiting to pick the children up from nursery writing in her blog book (geek!) vast reams of copy for her blog that revolves around complaining about being the aforementioned housewife. This is, obviously, in between visits to Marks and Spencer/Waitrose to pick up ready meals, put them in a baking dish and arrange them so they look home made (mess it up a bit and add carrots usually, although leave out the carrots if serving creme brulee. Creme Brulee? Oh yes I make an amazing one. Aisle 4, Waitrose). Later the Millennium Housewife will serve her Husband a delicious meal, and when (as he is wont to do) he remarks on the general deliciousness of it all and the amount of toil it must have taken, Millennium Housewife smiles sweetly and simply explains that the magic ingredient is the extra bit of love (a love of ready meals especially).

The Millennium Housewife does do general child care/dog care/ Husband care, but when she does she acquaints her tongue firmly with her cheek and performs the tasks with a huge sense of irony. In this way she can tell herself that she has not sold out to feminism, could still be a suffragette (if she lived in yesteryear and was not very gay about being a housewife) and it allows her to use her best sarcastic lines on the entire family without fear of retribution (any retribution rearing it's head is met with a firm, I gave up my career to do this which usually does the trick). The Millennium Housewife then heaps Male Guilt (for suppressing us all those years you see) atop the irony and makes sure that Husband does his fair share of child care/dog care/washing/ironing and asks him to cook one night a week to give her a break from the delicious-meal-producing toil, it goes without saying though that no irony is allowed.

So, here I am, blithely blogging, imagining that you all got at least some of what the title was about (you did didn't you?), when along comes the stat counter and ruins my day. The stat counter, as one of its (free) services, allows you to look up all the keyword searches that have lead people to your blog, and therein lies the flaw. I was expecting (as I'm sure you all were) that the Google searches would be awash with such words as ironic/feminism/intelligent/doesn't really think she's a housewife. But no. It turns out that quite a few people are interested in housewives, apparently lots of people requesting dominant housewife/submissive housewife/sexy housewife/role play with housewife/nice round bottomed housewife/housewife who is strict are lead directly to this blog. I didn't know we had so many uses, or followers for that matter. Excellent.

The main worry obviously is that this blog is going to be a huge disappointment to anyone searching in this genre. Rather than the desired site of (I assume) writhing housewives dressed in next to nothing holding a whip/feather duster/spider man costume (it's all she could find, the kids have lost the key to the shed) they get a blog bleating on about being a housewife. Rather like a very long and boring bit of foreplay, with no satisfaction at the end.

So I suppose I owe anyone who has come to this blog with hopes of something a little more risque a huge apology. I am sorry, I didn't realise you see that I was supposed to writhe as well as buy ready meals. Oh dear. I'd better go and practise. Now, where did I put Jack's spider man costume?

Things I Have said To My Four Year Old Today

2008-10-26T11:39:00.002Z

Well, I'm not sure really
I just don't know where God lives
Well I don't think that he's a person
A person, like you and me
We are girls yes, but we're also people
I don't think God is a person
No, as I said I don't know where he lives
Or even that he's a he
Well he might be a she
I don't think he's got a bottom
Yes, I suppose that's how we'd tell
No, I still don't know where he lives
Yes it might be on a cloud
Perhaps he lives in Maidstone?
Maidstone
Sorry darling Mummy was just being silly
Maidstone's in Kent
It's just a town
No, I don't think God lives there
Yes you're right, Aunty Margery lives there
Well she had blue knees when we visited but I think they're better now
And her wobbly lip, yes
No I don't think she ever had six toes
Yes she may have cut them off with scissors
No God doesn't live with Aunty Margery
Mummy just doesn't know where God lives sweetheart
Yes, you're right he lives in Maidstone
With Aunty Margery
Well done darling
God lives at 24 Beausale Rd, Maidstone
Yes, in Kent

Soap Opera

2008-10-16T11:58:00.007+01:00

We are being thrifty in the Millennium Housewife household, showing willing during the credit crunch and saving all we can. You never know, reuse enough tea bags and we may just make our mortgage payment this month. My Mother has been over daily with useful titbits and tips which has been exciting as you can imagine. Today she breezed in with her Jute Bag slung over her wrist and briskly ran a finger over the hall shelf. Dust dear she said, screwing her lips into that I've Eaten A Water Buffalo And I don't Much Like Your Foreign Muck look that only she can do. I was well aware of course that there was dust on the hall shelf, I've been cultivating it nicely, it's almost done now and is ready to create life of its own. Success. Anyway, My Mother put her hand into her Jute Bag (have you got a Jute Bag dear? Very useful you know, organic, whatever that means, Shirley-the-competition still uses plastic, I mean, plastic! in this day and age. Chuh!) You have to be very afraid when My Mother puts her hand into her Jute Bag, you never know what's coming and it's usually something hideous that she thinks will suit you because you're young/save you money/decorate your house in a style becoming to an eighty year old. Last week she pulled out a big, white, plastic toilet roll holder to hide your toilet rolls in the bathroom. It took a lot of tea and most of the biscuit selection to convince her that four toilet rolls stacked up in the bathroom looked more attractive than the box.

So, she put her hand into her Jute Bag and pulled out a see through plastic container with a cloth inside. This, she announced with an I've Practised In The Car flourish, is an e-cloth. One wipe and you're done dear, and not just those easy-to-reach dust areas, oh no, wet it and presto it cleans your bathroom too. Marvellous! But that's not all, oh no (here she winked at me, she'd obviously been at the Kleeneeze again), the best bit about it (she paused building the suspense/boredom) is that you need no soap! No soap whatsoever, she added, unsure that her announcement had created just the right amount of excitement. Think about it darling, she urged, you'll save thousands!

Thousands? Sorry, did I hear that right?If I think back really carefully, in minute detail, all the way back to my birth, I can honestly say that added up over the years I have never spent thousands on cleaning products. Any cleaning products, not just those that could reasonably be called soap. Really the annual saving would be about £8.92, and if the e-cloth is £22 it will take approximately two and a half years to start paying for itself, by which time it will have become raggedy and need replacing (by this time with inflation it will be selling for around £178.34). It would just be better I suppose to sack the cleaner, thereby saving £22 a week (I could easily furnish a weekly e-cloth habit with that) and do the cleaning myself. Ah, right, talked myself into a bit of a corner here haven't I? Look, let's forget the whole sack-the-cleaner fiasco shall we and go back to what a ridiculous product the e-cloth is. Ridiculous is what I say, la la la la la.

I took the e-cloth in its plastic container nervously from My Mother (once you take anything you're as good as saying, you're right Mother Dearest, and I shall be using the e-cloth/portapotty/special pastry lifter/Kleeneeze special gift daily, hurrah), and looked at it. E-cloth? I could do that! All I'd need to do is buy a pack of a hundred regular cloths from Asda for 24p, package one in a very environmentally unfriendly plastic box, cover said box with words such as eco/save/rainforest/fool/money/parted, hang it on the end of the supermarket aisle in the impulse buy zone and watch them flock. Simple, £22 handed over, cleaner paid for. La la la la la.

Twenty Reasons Not To Get A Dog

2008-10-10T14:39:00.003+01:00

They steal your Granny's iced bun
They search and rescue empty cigarette packets from the bin and leave them on the floor, leading your mother to concluded that you have yet to give up that occasional cigarette habit
They rub their bottoms along the floor in front of your boss
They bark heartily at anyone under 2'2" but not at Big Burly Man
They attempt to mate with dogs blatantly too large to attempt mating with
They dig up your new turf causing the gardener to get cross and refuse your cake
They attempt copulation with anything, including your new Magi Mix
They chew your husband's used socks proving lack of any hygiene skills
They chew the buckles off your new shoes
They think that 'sit' means attempt to snatch the biscuit out of your hand in two alarming leaps
They enjoy watching you shout their name loudly and desperately across the park for several hours
They think your car is a portaloo
If you're camping, they will see it as an opportunity to eat raw sausages/show up your lack of dog control/bark steadily and consistently through the night at a volume only you can hear/use your car as a portaloo/sleep on your husband's head
They attempt to catch every fly they have ever seen by leaping generously around the kitchen knocking over your cup of tea
They rub their bottoms across the floor in front of your dad
They prompt many many questions from your children about mating/attempts to mate/mating habits/your own mating habits/general biology of mating
They eat the cork of the wine bottle thereby forcing you to consume the entire bottle
They attempt to mate with dogs that are blatantly too small to mate with
They crush smaller dogs in mating attempts
They cost you thousands in replacing small dogs

Things I Have said To A Waiter Today

2008-10-06T19:50:00.003+01:00

Could I have the chicken and avocado sandwich without the chicken?
The same sandwich but without the chicken
If you could just take the chicken out
I know it comes with chicken but I don't want it
Just forget to put the chicken in
It might be on the chef's sandwich list but he could just pretend to forget couldn't he?
OK, I'll have an avocado salad sandwich
I know it's not on the menu, it's the chicken and avocado without the chicken
I don't mind paying for the chicken as long as it's not in the sandwich
Couldn't you just give the chicken to someone else?
It's not unhygienic, I didn't mean serve me the chicken, let me remove it then put it in someone else's sandwich
Could you just ask the chef?
What do you mean there isn't a button for it on the till?
Just press chicken and avocado sandwich
I know you're going to forget the chicken but I'm happy to pay for the whole sandwich
So the chef only reads the computer print out?
Can't you go downstairs and tell the chef in person?
Why won't health and safety let you walk down the stairs?
How does the chef get down?
Special rubber shoes, oh OK.
You got me there.
So you can only press chicken and avocado on the till and there's absolutely no way of telling the chef to forget the chicken?
Could you phone him?
No
Just no?
Oh
Well then could I see the manager?
You are the manager.
Well then I'll just have a cheese and pickle sandwich.

Growing Pains

2008-09-27T10:45:00.004+01:00

So the dog has entered puberty, we're delighted as you can imagine, delighted. To be fair (on me) I was expecting more warning, a kind of slow descent into puberty, a process if you will that gave us plenty of warning that Twizzle was All Grown Up and ready to fly the coup (oh if only he would). I expected at least an awkward period where he changed from bouncy, happy-to-see-you, grateful for a pat puppy to sulky, grumpy, hid in his kennel when he saw you coming, said whatever to any question asked however reasonable (would you like me to bury your bone for you darling? Whatever), a stint writing soulful, yearning poetry by the light of a torch and wearing black because it expressed his inner self. Next (my expectations went) would come the Embarrassed Period where his voice broke when he least expected it. One minute he's lolloping happily around the park trying out his poetry on any lady dog that came his way, the next he's trying to bark out the line my heart, black as pitch, alighted upon your sweet bosom, only for it to be delivered in a thin squeak followed by a croak. This is the bit where he stops communicating altogether and simply lives in his kennel eating entire loaves of bread and cultivating Stinky Feet Syndrome. He appears occasionally for walks but makes Husband walk at least one hundred yards behind him so as not to embarrass him in front of the lady Rottweiler he's got his eye on (he likes them big and beefy apparently, I found the magazines).

Did Twizzle supply me with any of this? Did he give me any warning at all - which would have been the courteous thing to do, I have after all cleaned up after him all his life in the manner of a chamber maid.

No.

One day he was that happy-go-lucky, tongue hanging out cuddly mop of a Spaniel, the next I came down to find that his best 'friend' is his dog pillow and he plans to spend as many amorous hours with it as possible and could I please leave his dinner outside the door? I have had to remove anything of humpable height into the garage, put cling film on the sofa and ban anyone watching Crufts because the ensuing mayhem is far too much to bear, and I fear for the poor pillow's life. The crunch came last week when I left Jack for one minute (one minute!) to return to see him exhausted and dishevelled as he attempted to outrun Twizzle's advances on his little one year old legs. It was time to call in the Rottweilers.

So I have begun taking Twizzle to the park more often, firstly because a bit of exercise may run off some of the urges, secondly because he may meet a Lady Dog and get a bit of social life going. I've upped his allowance so that he can treat on a date and generally kitted him out in fresh boxers (of the under wear kind unfortunately, not the canine kind, dog ladies of the night not being too abundant round here), and helped him gel his hair. He's started out quite well really, I'm proud of him, his chat up lines seem to go down well with the bum sniffing community and he's even had a few dates. He took the Greyhound from across the way for a drink last week, but she dumped him for drinking Babycham rather than a pint (I mean really, is that any reason to dump a fellow?). Two nights ago he scored big time with the love of his life the Rottweiler (called Stacey apparently, Stacey the Rottweiler)but a few days later, teary eyed and heartbroken he told me that she'd finished with him because his name was to effeminate. He sunk into his kennel and wrote lyrics about his lost love, begging for guitar lessons as he went because he'd finally found what he wanted to be (though with the musical genes he will have inherited I fear it is not to be).

So he's moping about the house, getting in everyone's way, eating the contents of the fridge and refusing to let me wash his bedding. He says it's all our fault for giving him the name Twizzle Sportacus (to be fair it's all Isla's fault really, but she is four and mad on Lazy Town, he's lucky she didn't call him Stephanie), and lamenting that in a rush of love he'd told Stacey the Rottweiler his middle name. He also says that we've ruined his life and that he hates us, jolly good, puberty moving on steadily then.

Anyway, he seems a lot cheerier this morning, more his old self. He went out on his own last night and found some kind of club called The Village People or something, I haven't really heard of it. He even tried out a new look of studded collar and tight white T shirt. I think he met someone too, he's being a little coy about it, but apparently no one at this club seemed to mind about his name and he came home with a few phone numbers, and there's definitely a spring in his step this morning. He even said that he felt more like himself than ever, which was cheering, and enjoys trying out new mustaches in the mirror. He even speaks to someone called Tiny regularly, I hope he brings her home to visit soon.

Things I Have Said To My Husband Today

2008-09-19T13:46:00.002+01:00

Oh that's fantastic news, tell them congratulations!
What did they have?
Boy or girl?
How can you not know?
You did actually speak to Steve didn't you?
And neither of you thought to discuss the sex of his firstborn.
You can't think it's a girl, it's one or the other definitely
He didn't mention it
Did he perchance mention how Karen is?
I suppose that was a silly question considering you forgot to ask if the baby was a boy or a girl
How do you know she's fine?
You talked to her too? Fantastic!
What exactly do you mean she was shouting in the background?
Shouting what?
It's coming?
Darling, she wasn't actually in labour was she?
Are you sure that's what it sounded like?
Well why on earth was Steve calling you in the middle of Karen's labour?
What score?
Football.
Oh I see
I'm not surprised the midwife took Steve's TV off him
Well. I would have done the same thing
So, Karen's had the baby
She may have?
Well I suppose we will find out if Steve's ringing back at half time

A Real Brick

2008-09-15T16:26:00.006+01:00

I do realise that I hardly ever mention Jack, apart from in Second Child Syndrome he has never had a post dedicated to him. When you're the youngest and can't speak/whine/negotiate/bribe you tend not to get much of a look in I'm afraid. He is lovely though, and going through a Duck Phase at the moment. This is not, as you may be forgiven for imagining, an actual fixation with ducks, or even one duck in particular, not at all. We call it the Duck Phase because (apparently, I'm no Duck enthusiast except if it's number 72 on the Jade Palace menu) when they hatch out as Ducklings they decide that the first thing that they see is their mummy and fixate on her for life. Fantastic evolutionary idea if the first thing they see is Mummy Duck; instant rapport and easy discipline for Mummy Duck as offspring simply follows Mummy around and around, simple. Not so clever though if Mummy Duck has been taking a well earned break from egg hatching (she's allowed some life you know) and Baby Duck hatched out of sight only to open its world-new eyes and alight on a brick. A brick is a jolly useful thing obviously if you want to build a house or some such thing, but it makes a pretty rubbish duck. It doesn't peck at seed or quack, it doesn't flap its wings, indeed it has absolutely no wings at all with which to demonstrate flapping to its new offspring, and it's a dreadful swimmer. Sinks, you see, straight to the bottom. In fact a brick would be the best thing ever if you needed to drown a duck, but not to teach it to swim. A Rubbish Duck is all I can say. Baby Duck would be at a disadvantage from the start, all the other ducklings would be waddling after Mummy Duck to the water to try it out for the first time, while Baby Duck was left, standing very very still trying to look as oblong as possible, next to its Mummy, the brick, wondering when it was going to teach it anything useful.
Anyway, Jack is going through this Duck Phase in that the first thing he sees in the morning becomes his fixation. He loves it, it is his new best friend, he wants to marry it. And to prove his commitment to his new fiance he absolutely has to carry it around with him all day. On Saturday he wanted to marry the broom. Not his own, appropriately sized plastic broom, oh no, Mummy's big wooden dangerous one. Said broom was dragged from place to place, had to be found its own place in the car, was used to sweep the toys up in creche and carried home again, exhausted, to bed. Yesterday was Tupperware Box Day, easier obviously than Broom Day but more reluctant to be useful at creche. Today it's Half A Coat Hanger Day. I'm not sure why or how we have half a coat hanger but at this moment Jack is proposing to it earnestly. It has been used to poke the dog, eat porridge and lever a dog biscuit from under the sofa.
The only way out of this that I can see is to pre determine his crushes and present him with an object immediately upon waking. Tomorrow I'm giving him a carrot to fall for. It's small, easily inserted into the car, not sharp enough to hurt the dog when poked and can double as a snack in creche.

Just Loving It

2008-09-15T16:15:00.006+01:00

How excited was I to receive such a lovely award, thankyou Nunhead Mum of One, I really did feel the love. I'd like to pass it on to Man and Boy the splendid Froggy and A Confused Take That Fan, three of the blogs I love reading.

One Day (part two)

2008-09-09T13:01:00.002+01:00

Today Isla refused to hold my hand while going into school because the other girls and boys don't. It seems One day is closer than I thought.

One day I will have a small car again. One that only fits me and the occasional passenger and is clean, shiny and hand print free at all times.
One day I will go with my husband on a second honeymoon (for two), wake with the sun high in the sky, get ridiculously and dizzyingly drunk at lunch time and go straight to bed until the next morning.
One day my house will stay the way I left it, not mysteriously mess up the minute I turn my back.
One day I will pop out to the shops - and I mean pop - and be finished in five minutes. I may even treat myself to a basket rather than a trolley-for-three and queue up giddily in the baskets only aisle.
One day I will go to all the shops in my village and buy elegant things for dinner, stopping to chat or for a coffee at leisure. I will be able to fit myself (because there is only myself and no pram) into every tiny specialist shop, smug and happy that I'm 'buying locally'.
One day I will have a cup of tea during nap time without the tension that someone may wake at any minute and ruin the moment. In fact I may even have a set cup-of-tea-time that I adhere to religiously just because I can.
One day my children will refer to me as That Mad Old Bat or The Parental Guidance rather than Mummy Can I Have and I will be pleased at my eccentricities and lack of responsibility.
One day I will actually go on a 'date night' (ha ha ha, did anyone really believe they would ever get to do that?) with my husband without the little knot of tension that everything's alright at home.
One day my kitchen will be my own, the high chair, mini chair-and-table set and play mat will be gone and I will dance a waltz with my husband around our own elegant dining table in all the space.
One day my day will end when I want it to, possibly as late as 11pm, rather than at 3pm when I start thinking about school pick up and tea.
One day evenings will be for relaxing, possibly a glass of wine or even the cinema, not getting-ready-for-the-morning, ironing, sandwiches and signing notes.
One day I will sleep all night long without nightmares/coughs/toilets/monsters to wake me.

But

One day the house will be ever so quiet, I will be able to whisper to myself and hear the echo.
One day strangers won't smile at me on the street, pause and say; isn't she/he lovely, envious of my status, my life, my treasures.
One day I won't get up to two smiling faces, ever so pleased that I'm awake and ready to play.
One day the worry will be further away and thus more scary and less controllable.
One day my tea break will be interrupted by the phone ringing, and it will be one of the children and I shall be very very glad.
One day my heart won't burst with pride every morning just for the existence of another human being.
One day the feeling of a tiny hand slipping into mine, skipping and pulling at it while I go, will be a distant, precious memory hard to grasp and pin down.
One day tiny clothes and underwear that are so cute your heart skips will be missing from my washing line, my ironing pile.
One day I will wish for little cold feet and snuffly noses to creep into bed with me. I may even wake in the night thinking they have only to find it was a dream.
One day I won't be a hero, a queen, the focus and meaning in my children's lives. Just an ordinary person living invisibly.
One day life will be for filling, but not necessarily fulfilling, not in the same way anyway.

Until grandchildren?

Big Chief Little Chief

2008-09-03T14:10:00.004+01:00

So Isla has gone off to school, all pony tails, scrumpled socks and too big hats. That was it, I thought, off she goes into the big blue yonder to make and break friends, eat inappropriate lunches and learn how to play kiss chase. They do still do that don't they? Or have Health and Safety banned it on the grounds that running is dangerous, grabbing someone is dangerous and you need written parental permission to kiss someone? If so school will never ever be as much fun as it was for me. Kiss chase was the girl's version of conkers; the tougher the nut the bigger the challenge, unless of course they had been soaked in vinegar first, that was just cheating and downright off putting.

I spent the day in nervous anticipation; would she find someone to play with/go to the toilet properly/remember her manners/find a cool boy to kiss, and arrived half an hour early to pick her up. She ran straight at me and hugged, while looking over my shoulder to see if I had bought her anything for being such a good girl. Nothing had changed then, lovely, my worries about no longer being the main influence in her life over. School was, as Husband had assured me simply a continuation of parenting, I was still the Big Chief just with a few more little Indians to delegate to, lovely, just what I wanted to hear. I love being in charge. And delegating.

We drove home, Isla puffed with excitement and words unspilled, desperate to impress on me the importance of her day.

Mummy, she said, red faced, eyes shining can we have coco pops for breakfast? Coco pops?

Whaa t? I spluttered, trying to gain composure and decorum, Isla, I said soberly Where did you hear a word like that? You can tell Mummy.

From Sophie, she replied,

Well then, I said deep breathing, whatever Sophie says, no we can't have coco pops for breakfast.

But coco pops and milk make a bowl full of fun.

Coco pops and milk? Make a what? I struggled to comprehend the world at this point and was almost (but not quite) lost for words. That infernal (but to be fair pretty catchy) jingle was about to haunt me.

A bowl full of fun, finished Isla helpfully.

Yes I got it the first time I assured Isla grimly and I'm afraid it's a no.

Still the main influence am I? School is just a continuation of parenting is it? How on Earth did I fall for that one? Oh, I know, I didn't want to home school. Right, well then better get on with exerting my still dominant influence. I took a deep breath.

Isla, I said, coco pops do not make a bowl full of fun, they make a bowl full of chocolate which is not a decent breakfast and will not give you enough energy to play kiss chase at school.

A bowl full of chocolate? She squealed well then we have to get some, I love chocolate. She then went on to inform me that Sophie's mummy had a nicer dicer from JML which will chop vegetables much better than I can. Great.

So that's it. My days of rule are over, instead I am at the mercy of other four year olds and their unique take on the world. Fabulous.

Or, I could just ban Isla from making friends with children who are allowed to watch adverts. And ban adverts myself. Yes, that's it, problem solved. From now on it's British Broadcasting Corporation all the way.

Last of the Summer Whine

2008-08-28T12:40:00.005+01:00

So it's the end of another camping trip for the Millennium Housewife family, the last of the summer unless all those ridiculously optimistic friends of ours are right and we have a 'late summer' (read: few hours of sunshine which everyone desperately and idiotically takes as the summer and walks around in shorts shivering). So we packed away with more care this time, aware of the fearful moment we face each year at the beginning of the camping season when we realise that neither of us removed the old sock/squashed banana/woodlouse family/entire cast of Grease! from the ground sheet and it is about to be presented to us in all it's eight month old glory. In fact Husband and I have been known to draw straws to see who actually has to unpack the tent at this time. I tend to win, I have an extending straw. Thankyou Paul Daniels Magic Kit and my tendency to hoard decades of birthday presents.
It was fun though, the weather held (and when it didn't we held it with an umbrella), camp fires were built, games played and best of all (according to Husband) I didn't insist on cleanliness.
Normally I tend to ruin Husband's camping trips and insist everyone showers at least every other day. Yes, I know that it's all a bit basic and cold but the tendency to build up smell while camping is simply too much to bear. Between campfire smoke, dirt, grass and sleeping in a sleeping bag you have quite a potent mix, hence the insistence of showers.
I do sympathise with Husband, as he puts it he likes to look rustic and really feel the grime. Lovely of course on a campsite with other like minded individuals, but what about when we go out, say on a long walk? If we stopped in a little tea room for refreshment (which we are wont to do) the couple at the next table wouldn't sit and smile genially at Husband and say ah, smell that really smelly man, isn't he enjoying his camping trip Bill? to which Bill would reply; phew! yes, he really is feeling the grime isn't he, what fun. Let's sit here for a while and really take in the smell.
Oh no, much more likely they will look at us suspiciously, wondering why this nice woman and children have befriended the local tramp and lent him some camping gear. They'll shift away to the furthest point that their table will allow (which isn't much in a tea room I assure you) and the wife would say Careful Bill, (obviously all this depends on the lady's husband actually being called Bill, otherwise a Who's Bill? argument would ensue and Husband's odour would thankfully move down the list of Things To Be Discussed Urgently In Hushed Whispers to number nine after: if there's been a Bill how many others have there been? But before: Any other business). Anyway, she'd say: Careful Bill, the man over there really smells don't sit too close. Breathe this way you don't know where he's been. At which point, my hackles will have been raised and I would be forced to leap to the defence of my lovely (but, to be fair, very smelly) Husband and shout He's been camping and he's enjoying himself in his natural state, haven't you ever felt the grime? And stomped off out of the cafe (having left payment and a fair tip). To be honest though, my nerve would probably fail me and I'd just hunch silently at our table, blowing Husband's air down wind. Or else point to a random man and shout to the husband There's Bill, there's the man you want, he's been at it with your wife! And scarper as quickly as possible.

Things I Have Said to Myself Today

2008-08-19T19:16:00.002+01:00

OK you can have one
Just one mind
One biscuit doesn't count
Not if you have it for breakfast
Hmm how many calories?
Let's see
117?
Ah
Well then, being as it's breakfast
117...x3...300 calories allowed
I can have three
Goody
If I break a bit off each biscuit that'll make them about 100 calories
There
Yum
I suppose I might as well eat the broken off bits
They're only about 17 calories
That one looks quite small, it's probably only about 10
No one else will want them anyway
Today I will be a better mummy
I will not shout
Unless the situation warrants it
No, I will not shout at all
Or get them to do things by saying that Daddy will be cross
Or by pretending to give the dog away to the neighbours
I must apologise to the neighbours
Perhaps five times in one day was too much
They're probably sick of the dog
OK, I will not give the dog away
Or say that Santa phoned and he was very disappointed
I will not take Jack to creche with a dirty nappy
It is nice that they do it though
But £2.50 an hour to change a nappy is a bit steep
OK, I will take Jack to creche but I will do a work out while he's there
Not sit in the cafe
Eating the soft cookies
Ooh, soft cookies
I wonder if they'll have the double chocolate ones today
One won't count
Not if I have it for lunch

Just Call Me Sherlock

2008-08-16T15:12:00.002+01:00

Today I have solved a myth, a riddle, a puzzlement if you will that has been niggling at me for ages. There is nothing quite like the feeling of actually getting to the bottom of something (especially if that something is called Mr. G Clooney) and sighing a satisfied aha! in your face sister, or some such hip and happening remark. I am hip aren't I? Anyway, today I had my moment.

My friend Kate and I had decided to take the children to feed the ducks, Kate is a typical Mum-about-town, all 4x4, gym membership and Boden, and before you ask I am not jealous one tiny bit, oh no, I swear. I mean 4x4's are terrible for the environment, if God had meant us to exercise in an air conditioned studio she would have made them free and Boden? OK I'd quite like the flowery boot cut thingys, and I do have visions of Isla being one of those achingly cool models, but I'm afraid the gene pool I have supplied her with will make it nigh on impossible. So no, I am not envious of Kate and her Mum-about-town status.

Anyway, this is the riddle: every time we go to the park to feed the ducks Kate's children whip out bags of fresh (yes, fresh) granary bread. The sort you get from those specialist shops in a paper bag, the sort where the shop also home makes the Chelsea buns and remembers to accidentally slip one in with the bread to eat on the way home. I didn't think much of it at first, being my only Mum-about-town friend I just assumed that this is what they fed the ducks. Indeed a daily boost of B vitamins would go a long way to ensuring a healthy duck population. How community minded. But last week we went to Kate's house for tea rather than feed the ducks, who wouldn't have been there anyway since the rumour of Noah building a Modern Interpretation of the Ark to escape the rain and flooding meant all the local animals have been queuing for days. Our dog even camped out, but came home when his sleeping bag flooded. It won't do them any good though as apparently the Modern New Interpretation involves lots of holes through the hull representing (I'm told by the dog) the disintegration of society, so not much chance of floating off towards an olive tree (we have two in the back garden for them to aim for, though no dove, unless they want to borrow Jack's hand puppet one).

Anyway, having tea at Kate's I noticed one tiny thing; she served white bread. I looked around the kitchen to see if it was just for the children and that she kept a lovely fresh granary for her and her Husband but no. Why? Where was it? Cue music for Scooby Do and the arrival of the Mystery Machine. Oh yes, I was about to become one of those Pesky Kids. I spent most of the afternoon trying to find reasons to look in cupboards, Kate began to think I may have had some mental impairment or at least a brain as leaky as (New Modern Interpretation) Noah's ark, as for the eighth time I offered to make the tea and proceeded to open five different cupboards before locating the cups. But it paid off, unless she kept the bread in the cloak room there was no granary loaf to be seen. No granary loaf at all. Right, something strange is going on and I have to get to the bottom of it (or perhaps I need a part time job to give my brain something else to do).

So today we met at the park, and there it was; the brown paper bag filled with fresh granary bread. Why? It turns out that Kate doesn't like to feed white bread to the ducks in case Other Mums-about-town think she eats it at home, or worse feeds it to the children. She does though, the family get through two loaves of thin white sliced every week. They don't eat the crusts either so she puts them in the middle of the compost bin so that the bin men don't see them and think that she eats white bread and is very unhealthy and feeds her children unhealthy things too. So the granary loaf is bought fresh from the bakers before going to the park and dolled out to the children much in the manner of left over bread. She recycles the brown bag though, she told me solemnly. She uses it to hide the Nesquick packet in the recycling bin.

Things I have said to my Husband today

2008-07-24T13:43:00.002+01:00

Ooh, yes I'd love a night out tonight
What do you mean just you?
But I do like them
I love Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head
Oh
Right
Of course I want you to have a good night
I know Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head don't have girlfriends
Apart from each other
Nothing, sorry
I didn't say anything I just coughed
Will you be coming home after?
Are you sure you don't want to stay at Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head's?
Yes of course I want you to come home
Well you only have to sleep in the spare room if you snore
I know you snore when you're drunk
So you're guaranteeing that you're going to snore?
Well then it'll have to be the spare room
Because I have to get up with the children
What do you mean where will Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head sleep?
Invited them here?
After a night in the pub?
Hmm
Well OK then
Could you just make sure you all throw up in the toilet?
I know there was a queue but the wok's just never been the same
OK I'll put buckets out
Send my love to Pokey, Stu and Bucket Head

Super Dooper

2008-07-21T14:23:00.007+01:00

One of the universal truths of life is that Super Nanny is neither Super nor a Nanny. She may have been at one time but now she is a TV presenter who wears unsuitable attire for the job in hand. Have you ever worn what can only be described as daytime bondage attire complete with spiky dominatrix heels to look after the children for a day? No I thought not, even if you wanted to it may be a little difficult to make friends at playgroup if you look like you're about to whip anyone who comes within whipping distance. Regular readers of this blog may think that for some reason I dislike Super Nanny, I do, but not the actual person, I have absolutely nothing against Jo Frost (aka Super Nanny), she's done really well for herself. She was doing a perfectly ordinary job and simply by adding the prefix Super to her job title, she automatically made herself a force to be reckoned with in the field of child care. In fact if that's all you have to do to release yourself from the tedium of ordinariness and launch yourself a high profile television career both sides of the Atlantic with regular appearances in your very own magazine then I'm amazed more people aren't doing it. Forget blogging, just upgrade your job title to a non existent one that makes very clear that you are the very best. There are loads to choose from; we could have Super Accountant, the most Super of accountants who marches into your house, shouts at you for all the unpaid bills and unanswered correspondence regarding said bills, sorts them out for you and leaves for a week. You then spend a week enjoying the paper-pile-free existence that had heretofore been only a dream while letting the post build up until Super Accountant turns up again to see how you've been doing to sort out that week's bills for you. A year later for the update show, you could have a whole room filled with unopened bills for Super Accountant to shout at you about before sorting them again and leaving you with stern words about how to look after your accounts. A small price to pay for not having to bother with your bills, you never did anyway.

Consider if you will also, Super Plumber, who arrives with a long declogging thing and inspects all of your pipes. The cameras focus in on just how grimy and disgusting you are, highlighting the Sunday roast fat in the dishwasher and hair in the drainpipes, Super Plumber performs this most retching of tasks for you and cameras cut to clean shiny pipes that will take years for you to clog again. Super Plumber even gets a tie-in magazine Plumbing New Depths where photos of you and your pipes are displayed with canny headlines about your lives being changed by Super Plumber: 'My marriage flows better now my pipes do' or 'Drainage never seemed important before, now Husband and I discuss it every night, it keeps things interesting.'

So no, I take no offence at Jo Frost I just dislike the way the programme makes you feel as if any tiny misdemeanor on your child's part is all your fault. It is of course, I accept that deep in my sub conscious, but I keep it in the Survival Cortex area of my brain with such truths as food eaten standing up counts where it lays quietly, with only occasional firing up of the denial synapse to remind me of my self delusion. What the TV show doesn't get that its message of you're rubbish, don't even try to bring up your children alone or you'll mess them up. In fact you probably already have, is no new thing. We know that! Why else do we go around guilt ridden to every class/extended education programme/experiential workshop, dragging the children whose only wish is to play with the playdoh? Because we know we're going to mess it up somehow and we'd like someone else to blame in the future: Sorry madam, but your son's been arrested for graffiti.

Really? Oh dear officer, I blame the existential artist he studied with when he was four, used graffiti as a way of expressing community concern. Whatever happens you have somebody other than yourself to blame.

I did give it a go once though. I tried all the Super Nanny tricks to bring a semblance of discipline to the Millennium Housewife brood, oh yes. But it didn't work, I just couldn't get the tone right for explaining that things just weren't acceptable. In one last, huge attempt at getting it right, I donned the Super Nanny attire in order to give me the necessary stern look and started bossing the children about once again. To be fair it did have more of an effect, I quite enjoyed it really. Until Husband came home and looked at me delighted, thinking that at last I had decided to agree to a little light bondage.

California Dreaming

2008-07-16T19:51:00.006+01:00

My Mother has returned from Los Angeles where she has been visiting one of my sisters for a month. It's been rather quiet round here. Disconcertingly quiet. It's difficult not to miss hourly phone calls with regular updates on the dog's appetite/Shirley-the-Competition's latest downfall/the new rich tea biscuits Recently Discovered/Dad's vasectomy (still a matter of interest twenty years later apparently, he's never been the same poor fellow).
But miss them I did, not least because I had to steal myself to enquire about any particular area of obsession of My Mother's and report dutifully on progress or lack of in a weekly e-mail to my sister. The report was then printed out for My Mother's perusal and comment (she can't read the computer language on the screen and has to have it translated into English by the printer). Have you ever asked your Dad about the state of his vasectomy? The one he's forgotten he had? The one where he's never been the same poor fellow and has probably forgotten about on purpose. No? Well I have, once a week for a month, and it doesn't get any easier. I don't think he realises you see, that My Mother has his vasectomy down as Particular Point of Interest (PPI). I think she just checks surreptitiously, how I don't know and I am unwilling to debate the possibilities. So now Dad thinks that I have developed a once weekly curiosity about his fertility capabilities, or lack of them. I think he has concluded that I have deemed it Husband's Time, because he keeps looking at him mournfully and patting him on the shoulder with a kind of there there hunch of the shoulder. I swear I even heard him whisper you'll never be the same.
So the best thing about My Mother returning from LA is release from Vasectomy Watch (coming to a screen near you) and now I simply have to listen to updates rather than research the material myself. Ah, bliss.
Such was the anticipation that I even offered to pick her up from Heathrow myself, oh yes, I even told My Mother myself. Oh darling, she breathed, that is grown up of you. Now, when you get to the airport look for ARRIVALS. She spelled arrivals for me in case I had trouble spotting the sign, I was all set.
I arrived at Terminal Two fairly buoyant, it's amazing what a month away can do to soothe the nerves and plant Forgetful Fug in you memory. Crikey, I was even giving fond inner smiles to our hourly conversations, her A-line skirts, Deidre Barlow perm, beige Hush Puppies (well, it had been a month).
I stood, eager and excited, tiptoed and straining trying to catch a glimpse of her through the ARRIVALS channel (see, I had done my homework). Her plane had landed but so had eighteen others so it was a little difficult to check everyone who was coming through. And then I heard it. The Cooo ee! that the Forgetful Fug had hidden from my memory. It pierced my brain, blasting away the Fug in the manner of a sonic blaster gun. This Cooo ee! takes no prisoners, it says here I am, take notice of me, and if you don't I'll shout it louder. Soprano. I whipped around trying to catch her, to let her know another greeting wasn't necessary. Once again I was in the playground, surrounded by giggles, whispers and points (I eventually solved the Playground Problem by telling My Mother that all students over seven were expected to walk to and from school on their own as part of Independence Training. I told my friends that My Mother had run off to be a lion tamer. It was believable) My eyes focused across the barrier in the direction of the call. Focused and re focused. That was her wasn't it? It was, it was, but different. She was wearing a leotard. And matching stirrup tights. And leg warmers. And head band (sparkly).
She had, as she informed me later, found her inner self in LA. She'd discovered something alright but I fear it was her inner, older, fatter, Jane Fonda.
There you are dude she yelled across the concourse (dude?), and to my shame and horror she dropped her bag and proceeded to lift her leg high in the air and wrapped it around her head. Power Yoga she breathed, it'll do you the world of good sister (Sister?). It'll get rid of those saddle bags of yours! It'll help with your cellulite too, although I don't think even Power Yoga can deal with it all. And the wonky way you walk, I'm sure it's because of your weak core darling, we'll soon get you sorted out. She clutched her saddle bagged, cellulite sodden, wonky walking, weak cored middle daughter by the arm and marched me out of Terminal Two.
I'd missed her, oh yes. But never mind, she plans to make up the time I have missed with frequent visits as opposed to phone calls. In fact she's on her way now, bin liner in hand, to De Carb my house.

Flight plan

2008-07-07T21:01:00.004+01:00

It's been far too long since I last had to sit with a one year old on a plane. Far too long. If only I had dredged those smoldering brain cells through the smog of potty training and Getting Rid of the Dummy, I may have grasped a scant wisp of the time we took Isla abroad aged one-and-a-bit, and warned myself firmly off it (I love it when I'm firm with myself). But no, that's the trick of children you see, they tire you out so completely and supply such an endless stream of inane but urgent questions to be answered that the really important stuff lies dormant. So like lambs to the slaughter, or idiots to the £39 both ways website (what they forgot to mention was that they meant £39 cubed), we convinced ourselves of Jack's cherubic nature under stress and opted for two and a half hours with a one year old and a four year old stuck inside a metal tube. Ah relaxation here we come.
We were the only people with children on the plane. Do you hear me at the back? The only people with children on the plane. And we walked on last. Late. And Jack needed his nappy changing. It was a sober moment. Even the plane seemed to sigh its displeasure and sank ever deeper into the tarmac, as if it wanted to tuck its cockpit under its wing and just sleep the ordeal away. The ordeal of children in an enclosed space. An enclosed space where they absolutely have to be tied to a seat for a significant proportion of the time. It was the law in fact, there was no choice about the tying to the seat thing, and the less choice there is is directly proportional to the level of protest that will be made. Guaranteed (apparently Einstein had a really good theory about it and even produced an equation, but everybody was so caught up in the theory of relativity thingy it sort of got lost).
We entered the plane employing the First Rule Of Entering A Plane With Children: make absolutely no eye contact whatsoever with anybody. Do not look up, do not pass go/collect 200. Unless in a brief second you glimpse another parent when you are entitled to catch a glance, nod ruefully at each other and then sort of smile in a we're in it together kind of way. Of course you aren't and you're secretly hoping that their child is a little monster and drowns out any noise your angel makes cooing happily at the sick bag. In fact you even attempt an quick administer of a smarty to their child as you pass, hoping the sugar will create the desired effect.
The second rule is never ever to apologise as you go, thus pointing out to all that you are aware that you are bringing several unwanted passengers into the metal tube. Passengers who kick seats/make a mess/crawl in the aisle/pull hair/insist on using (and blocking) the toilet every ten minutes. Yup, that was us, the lepers, heading to our seats, daring to attempt a holiday.
Doom descended along the aisles, the stewardess swapped the little basket of boiled sweets that she was handing round with a little basket of Prozac, using a sleight of hand that Paul Daniels would be proud of (maybe even a little jealous of; she was a lot better looking than him and had all her own hair, but I doubt she had a wife called Debbie so he could probably use that to cheer himself up). The pilot came through from the cockpit to personally speed up the handing round of alcohol as we walked, the funeral march playing resoundingly in everybody's heads.
As we got closer the Zone of Despair thickened, reaching crescendo level around rows 13-15ABCDEF, everybody eyed the empty 14ABC with suspicion and contempt. Our seats. No one looked up as we sat down, instead the the instructions on the sick bags became crucial and compelling reading (something that never seems to be achieved with the inflight magazine, despite the recent craze for including porn). As we sat, a man in front gave a disapproving sniff and turned away in disgust. We placed Isla in the seat directly behind him and forgot to mention the no-seat-kicking rule.
We rustled and bustled, found bags and colouring books, and then at last we had it. We could look up now, even attempt a grin. The members of The Zone of Despair looked around. An audible sigh reverberated around, smiles of approval, shuffles as people made themselves comfortable and cracked open broadsheets, crikey I even detected a ruffle of high fives. There was something you see, that I had brought out of the smouldering remains of my brain cells, this was no ordinary mummy-on-a-plane. I had bought chocolate.

Tagged!

2008-07-07T10:36:00.006+01:00

So while I have been away on holiday I have missed all the excitement of being tagged by Froggy, and have appeared extremely rude at not responding to all the lovely visits that I have had. So this is a heartfelt apology to you all and a group reply. I'll try and dedicate this evening to getting back to all the comments.

Anyway, welcome everyone, and let's have a go at thinking about tagging, it promises to be quite an eclectic mix.

So firstly, the woman who makes me laugh, apart from Froggy is Nunhead Mum of One, funny, dry, a prodigious blogger with an interesting Mother-in-Law... I'll give you this one, some time out for her birthday...Then I think we could go to Santa Clause's very own blog. Fantastically done, by the real Santa (of course), great detail about the complexities of delivering presents in the modern day. This one is quite short, but as you'll see clever and funny at the same time.
Next we could look at Jolly Good Yarn Girl's blog. A new blog that mixes country life, quilting and Motherhood, it promises to be an interesting journey and has a wistful air, lovely. I give you the one about Country Living. Reading Ngorobob House is just a pleasure, a whole other way of life. Written about life living in a pink house on top of a hill in Tanzania, the everyday detail such as the blackboard list gives you an insight into a World away (unless of course you live in a pink house on top of a hill in Tanzania, in which case you'll really relate to this one, and perhaps even know each other?). I'll give you this one with lots of detail in it. Finally I couldn't go without tagging The God Diaries. Pretty heavy going sometimes, and completely over my head at others, this Guy is a massive thinker and well worth a visit. He always responds with great thought to your comments, even if they are rambling ones... I give you the very first blog, because as the name suggests, it all started In The Beginning.

I hope you enjoy them, and that the links work, this is by far the most technological thing I have ever attempted. It's taken several hours and my two typing fingers are numb and it's far too early for a drink.

Things I have said to my parents today

2008-07-06T19:35:00.004+01:00

Hi dad, it's me
Me
Your daughter
No don't fetch mum,
Well you answered the phone, perhaps we could chat?
Dad?
Hi mum
Can you put me onto dad?
He hasn't gone out, I just spoke to him
He's not down the garden, I told you I spoke to him just now
He gave you the phone for pity's sake
Hi dad
I just thought we could chat for once
Dad?
Hi mum, put me onto dad please
Thanks
So
How was golf today?
Yes
Uhuh
Oh dear
Umm
Can you put me onto mum?
Hi mum
Can you ask dad not to answer the phone again?

Camping gas

2008-06-16T15:21:00.006+01:00

Ah the first camping trip of the year, the excitement, the planning, the getting-out-the-old-stuff and checking it over, the buying of the new stuff, the non walking child, the dog. We set off bright eyed and full of hope, the specially picked camp site only an hour away door to door to test Jack's staying power and Twizzle's guts. The car packed with people and stuff; tent wedged between Husband and Twizzle, cool bag balanced precariously atop the dog cage (it follows me wherever I go, I call it The Shadow), sweets, treats and doggy drops lined up along the dash board for just-in-cases and tears. I'd thought of it all ladies and gentlemen, this was going to be one flawless camping trip, yes siree.
The queue started about ten minutes from home, unusual at this time and would probably start moving in a few minutes. It did, very verry slowly. Note to blue Golf on the A429 to Stow: if there is a two mile queue behind you and a caravan is tailgating you, perhaps you may want to take your foot/feet off the brake and apply the accelerator. It's the pedal to the far right of the foot well. Next to the Brake, your favourite pedal.
I maintained my dignity, refused to sound the horn and an hour later glided smoothly past said Golf, head up, pleased at my restraint and calm in the face of extreme provocation. I looked in the wing mirror to see Husband signalling Isla to flip the bird through the back window, she did, expertly. Ah.
Note to blue Golf, bird flipping child is not mine.
The camp site was just as promised, basic, rustic even and suitably outdoorsy for the Millennium Housewife family. Despite our everyday personas of normal working Husband-in-suit, Housewife at home (blogging and bleating about it) 2.4 kids, get us camping and we change faster than Superman in a telephone box. It's as if our real lives are our Clark Kent disguises but when let out for the weekend we become the love-children of Ray Mears and Bear Grylls, all campy and kitted out.
It goes without saying that a camping trip always involves a visit to the local camping store. Where else to feel outdoorsy and really part of nature than when buying all the equipment needed to experience it? I don't know about you, but I always get a sort of jittery feeling when going into a camping shop. Think of all the things I could be! The urge to buy crampons/climbing ropes/freeze dried beef casserole, as you imagine yourself skipping up mountains like Tom Cruise at the beginning of Mission Impossible 2. The red mist comes down as the desire takes root, in your head you need these things, they're just what you need for the rest of the weekend to be successful, it'll show everyone how part of it all you are. Look at her they'll all say, she must do out doors things every week, and you know that they're imagining that once out of the camping shop you're off to do something indistinct but dangerous and clever. The fact that after the camping shop trip you're going to drive back to the camp site and have a quick kip before opening the wine is irrelevant. Irrelevant.
The best bit about this particular camping trip is that we had invited Uncle Matt. Everyone's favourite uncle and Husband's best friend, Uncle Matt comes unfettered by children/dogs/strange wife wearing crampons in a field. He serves as a bench mark by which we can measure just how much more cluttered our lives are than the last time we saw him and, (the painful bit) what our lives may have been like had we made different decisions/used contraception/said no to the dog.
He arrived ten minutes behind us, all smart car, expert parking and I've-had-enough-sleep-for-the-last-32-years grin, you've got to love him. Once parked, he proceeded to open his boot and set up his tent. It took four and a half minutes, neat and crease free, he had opened and repacked it before setting off to check it was sound. He then started to bring out neat, well kept gadget after gadget: a small metal table as an extra surface, a slightly larger table because, well you know, you might need another, slightly larger table, a cafetiere with attached bean grinder, a spoon/fork/knife contraption, neat packets of teabags counted out before packing. I held my breath, praying that the next item would be a camping black Top Hat out of which he would pull a fold up rabbit (a live one), but was disappointed to see only his fold away sofa, ah well, next time maybe.
Uncle Matt then proceeded to help us with our camp; the seven birth tent (fits dog and travel cot) that we still haven't cleaned since last year, the blankets and pillows, the complete lack of gadgetry, the copious amounts of Barbies/trucks. Oh I had packed well, everything (everything) the children could have cried for in the night had been thought of, blankies, teddies, duvets, Rabbit Clock, you name it Millennium Housewife had packed it. There were going to be no sleepless nights not attributable to the actual inconvenience and uncomfortableness of camping. Fab. What a fantastic mother I am.
But perhaps not Wife-and-supplier-of-comforts. There had been no room for anything Husband and I may need you see. I was more intent on the possibility (ha!) of sleeping that night. Oh dear. Still, Uncle Matt's spoon/fork/knife contraption came in useful (we wiped between users) and the fresh ground coffee was lovely. We didn't drink too much tea though, he'd only counted out enough for himself. He'll know better next time.

Careers I am now fully qualified for

2008-06-09T09:18:00.002+01:00

Bounty Hunter (tiny Barbie accessories and car keys a speciality)
War strategist
Hostage negotiator
Chips-and-bread-only restaurateur
Sleep deprivation consultant
Code breaker
Cut-corner-cleaning-co (owner)
Spy (Multi Tasking Division)
Spell checker
Doctor (over dramatic and minor episode ward)
IT engineer (call 0800 NOLIFE, anything from toast in the hard drive to finding Noddy home page emergencies. No job too small!)
Philosopher: difficult and seemingly impossible concepts analysed and answered.
Politician, Minister for Procrastination
Sat Nav (nagging dept)

Supermarket sweep

2008-06-03T20:30:00.003+01:00

It is the place guaranteed to reveal any flaws (any flaws whatsoever) in your parenting skills. The place in which, if you enter in a lighthearted I'm A Mummy And Aren't I Doing A Great Job mood, you will be crying and trying to sell your children to any shopper that dares show an interest by the end. The supermarket (or child market as I prefer to call the bit near the exit) is the place that Super Nanny always takes the parents and Very Bad Child at the beginning and end of the programme. A before and after shot, if you will, designed to show that ordinary parents Fail at the supermarket, and anything they Fail at will be highlighted here in a way that no other situation can show. By the end (shot at the same time as the beginning in different clothes with the children on Benylin? You decide), said Very Bad Child has become Reasonably Good Child, but only because mummy/daddy has engaged them in several highly intelligent games involving helping with the shopping. Now, I don't know about you, but I always make it a point to have a peek into the parent's shopping trolley at the end of the scene. It's nearly always empty, if there is anything, it is Jammy Dodgers, Dairy Lea Unmentionables or Barbie/Postman Pat spaghetti. In other words, things the parents have said yes to just so that the cameraman can get the shot and they can all go home. Anything else they may have wanted to buy has had to go by the wayside, simply because they were all too busy playing those stupid games to actually get around to buying anything.
Have you ever devised a Super Nannyesqe shopping game? I'll save you the trouble and tell you about mine. It took two hours of pre preparation at home, making and colour coding the chart (pink for Isla, blue for Jack - I have no imagination or issues about genderising the future population), another half an hour to get said chart into the car and away from the children who wanted to play it now. I then had to find a shopping trolley with two seats, one small enough for a one year old and one large enough for a four year old, Isla refused to walk you see as the chart game was a lot more fun than walking. We then spent a fruitful hour perusing the aisles looking for any of the things that Mummy had drawn on the chart and ticking them off. And here lay the flaw, neither child can read so the drawings were all they had to go on, and Mummy can't draw (do you see where I'm going with this), well Mummy can draw some things, but not can of coconut milk/smoked haddock/hair gel, so we ended up with a trolley of Jammy dodgers/Dairylea unmentionables/barbie and postman pat spaghetti, anything to end the chart game. Once the last unintelligible picture had been ticked off by each of them, I cheered wildly in the aisles, congratulated them both on a good job! lifted Isla from the trolley and proceeded to attempt my usual shop, just an hour later than usual.
Jack sat, gurgling and dribbling while trying to eat the trolley, bending double to get to just the right angle to cut his lip/lose a tooth, while Isla skipped beside me shouting slogans about why I should buy Cillit Bang/Philadelphia/Liletts and pointing helpfully at things we had no use for and suggesting we buy them. The only hairy moment was Isla disappearing, lost in tune, flapping her arms like wings, the sound of I feel like chicken tonight floating over the toilet roll aisle. But I had an answer to that; I steered them both skillfully to the cake aisle and let them choose whatever they wanted, anything that would get me round the supermarket without embarrassment or having to shout. Ha! One in the eye Super Nanny I thought, all your years of 'experience' and a cake would have done the trick just as well, and you could have filmed the before and after shot in a few hours. Cue scene with no cake and crying children, cut to scene with cake and biddable, quiet children. Job Done. And I didn't even try to sell them at the exit. Now where's my television contract?

Things I have said to my mother today

2008-06-01T12:17:00.002+01:00

Because I don't know what we're doing 23 weeks on Sunday
We should be free for dinner, yes
Hang on, that's near Christmas
It gets really fixed up
I know you're fixing us up, but I don't know if we'll be free
Yes we're free now
Fine, see you 23 weeks on Sunday
No, no I was just joking, of course we'll see you before then
I'm well aware you're only 10 minutes away
I'm not sure what I want for Christmas
Because it's June
I'll have a think and let you know
No don't think of something yourself
OK, I'll let you know by tomorrow
We're just getting over the shock
Of the burglary
Yes I know, it was awful
What do you mean you know just how we feel?
When were you ever burgled?
You dreamt it
That's hardly the same
Oh it is, right
Poor you
I'm so glad victim support were helpful
And the Samaritans
Yes I'll give them a call now

I have married my mother

2008-05-24T17:19:00.005+01:00

It appears that I may have married my mother. It wasn't immediately apparent at first, but it has shown itself in little winks and nudges over the years until today, when it finally twigged. Yes I have definitely married my mother. Oh dear.
Obviously I haven't actually married her, that would be weird, at the very least illegal, but the emerging similarities between Husband and my Mother are alarming. They both allow themselves a quiet panic (badly disguised) when confronted with my chocolate/chardonnay habit, they both treat texting like it is a form of devil worship (cue more badly disguised panic), both have a penchant for tutting under their breath when the television programme fails to meet their expectation (but never at Ray Mears/Jeremy Clarkson (Husband) Coronation Street/Heartbeat (Mother)), both think that anything the children do beautifully (manners/eating/general genius) is a direct result of their influence while any misbehaviour is down to my parenting skills, and neither has a clue as to how to work a dishwasher. In fact my Mother's dishwasher stands open at all times, gleaming and shining in the light, cleaner than the day it was bought, which it should be, she has never used it. She likes guests to see the inside so that they think that she's so fastidious that she cleans inside the dishwasher (should I point out that it's self-cleaning?) therefore giving the two fingers to Shirley-the-competition who also has a gleaming house/dishwasher and a secret cleaner to help her to do it.
I know about the secret cleaner because Shirley-the-competition has a daughter my age, we were pitched against each other at any opportunity when we were growing up as part of the competition - anything would do, as long as I won at it. The fuse finally blew when we were asked to have a Who Can Write Their Name The Quickest competition and I technically won, having written my first name first, but Shirley-the-competition's daughter went on to write her three middle names and started on the double-barrelled surname which, said her mother, negated the competition due to her daughter's obvious desire to stretch herself while I was obviously quite happy to do the minimum. Cue a fierce but polite row at which us two girls decided to throw in the towel. We were 27.
So here I am, several years free of competitive parenting and enjoying the freedom to tie my shoelaces without a stop watch being bought out. I have sworn many times that my children would never be subjected to the same level of expectation and they haven't. They will probably never appreciate it, having never experienced it, and will look up from their worthwhile job as a street cleaner and judge me for not having invited them to stretch themselves.
Or maybe not. This morning I walked into the playroom where Husband was dressing Isla. You know he said, Isla can put her dress on three seconds faster than last week, he showed me the stop watch as proof. I wonder how fast Matilda can do it, she's coming to stay next week isn't she, we could have a look.
I told you, I have married my mother.

Things I have said to my four year old today

2008-05-21T14:24:00.004+01:00

It's broccoli
You do like it you have it nearly every day
It's always been green
And stalky
I'll give you an ice cream if you eat your broccoli
Absolutely I promise
No I won't buy the green kind again
I don't think the shop sells pink broccoli but I'll give it a go
Good now eat your broccoli
Leave Mummy's tummy alone please
It is not all nice and squishy
It's not it's toned and tight
Stop bouncing teddy on it please
No you can't dress yourself today
Because we're in a hurry
Arm in please
And other arm
It's upside down
Yes I am a bit silly let's start again
Arm in please
Other arm
It doesn't matter it looks good upside down
Yes you probably would have done a better job
Pardon?
Please don't say that again Isla
About the lady's nice big round bottom
I know you were being nice
It is lovely and big
Ssh about her bottom
If you have to talk just whisper
No she isn't going to have a baby
Can you carry the milk to the checkout please?
What do you mean daddy says we don't have to pay for milk?
I'm sure he was joking
Well just don't mention it to the checkout lady
Isla I said not to mention it
I know you whispered but it looks rude
Why don't you talk about the lady's nice big round boobs?

May Day

2008-05-13T21:56:00.002+01:00

So Isla has had her party. I can hear regular readers breathing a sigh of relief, at last! We no longer have to hear about the ruddy birthday, get on with it please! And move on. Ok, but I have to stress, that any frustration you're feeling is incomparable to ours.
We did her proud, the princess theme was carried out right through to the napkins, we even rented a bouncy castle with a (rather dodgy and obviously in breach of copyright) picture of Cinderella on it, tea was set for twelve suitably attired princesses, and games and fun galore were planned.
Two o'clock came and people started arriving to drop off their princesses. Did you hear me? I said drop off. Drop off! Have some time to yourself! Enjoy the next few hours while I offer free, and extremely fun, childcare and food. But no, in came the mummies (some with husbands surgically attached) and refused to leave. I panicked, threw caution to the wind and gaily assumed the role of gracious of course I was expecting you host. Every spare cake was thrown into use and divided into twenty (didn't know you could slice a cake into twenty? Neither did I, I usually cut it into one and eat that slice myself). Tea cups were grabbed from the dodgy-and-chipped-tea-cup collection at the back of the cupboard, I even remembered to empty any spiders and bits of fluff. The spare emergency box of UHT milk was made use of and I improvised like a pro, all the time keeping up what I assume was amusing and interesting chatter in the manner of Frank Spencer. I don't know whether I didn't give anyone a chance, or that my chatter was so entertaining and informative that nobody wanted it to stop, but there was complete silence in the kitchen. I could hear Husband's brain whirring over time Talk! Oh Please! For the love of God, someone talk to someone else, anything to shut my wife up.
I shut myself up, by loudly and musically announcing I was off to the sitting room for party games, and would everyone please make themselves at home and help themselves to some cake.
I left the kitchen in a cloud of false mirth, desperate to face the relatively easy company of twelve princesses. Until I felt behind me a kind of ominous presence. I turned slowly, hoping aginst hope to find a poltergeist, a ghoul with it's head chopped off, anything (anything!) but what I knew I would see. There behind me in a funeral like procession walked the Parents-That-Refused-To-Leave, I almost (almost) stalled, before automatically moving into oh there you are, I thought I'd lost you! mode and beckoned them wildly into the sitting room.
There stood before us a glory of pink and sparkle, not one head was left unadorned, tiaras winked in the sunshine offering hope and, well, more hope I suppose. I picked up the pink CD player that Isla had been given for Christmas and trilled who wants to play some party gaaaames! I even offered a whoop whoop a la Oprah, but stopped short at the you go girl! for fear of looking false.
They stood there, in silence, all pink dresses, twisted knees and turned in toes, the theme for this party should have been awkwardness as opposed to princesses. Friend-from-pre-school Alexa began chewing her tiara, Ava started to cry, no one it seemed, wanted to play, except Isla who was on home territory and couldn't wait to begin.
I turned again (this was beginning to be a theme) and the Parents-Who-Refused-To-Leave stared silently, they didn't even have any cake in their hands, didn't they know how hard I'd sliced, and at great speed? What did they expect me to do? If they had in fact, as expected, left, then I would have danced around manically in a Ko Ko the Klown stylee, roly poly-d like a rabid dog, roared and lept re enacting a lion and gazelle hunt, anything, to get them going. Instead I sheepishly started the CD player, the rendition of Pants! not serving at all to lighten the mood, while Husband and I realised that it was not as cute as first though that Isla knew all the words.
I think you'll find came a well meaning voice behind me that they'll liven up a bit after the tea, a bit of sugar works wonders. Tea? Sugar?But the tea isn't until the end I spluttered, horrified at my gaff. Now, I know that Isla is our first child but our memories can't be that bad surely? Husband and I both remember parties in our day, pass the parcel, musical bumps, no parents watching and the tea at the end before going home time. Who had changed the rules? And not told me?
And sugar? Damn, damn my well meaning rice cakes and raisins, damn Gillian McKeith who haunts my dreams with innovative new TV shows such as Surprise the Inadequate Parent - which one shall we shame tonight? (cue looming large blue finger booming It Could Be YOOOOU) And I knew, just knew, that any sign of a jelly tot or French fancy at Isla's tea, she be down on me like a vulture to a field mouse and take me down in the manner of the Titanic (Jack! Jack!) and film her best episode yet.
Silence swelled about the room like an unwelcome large guest who's stolen from you before and you weren't expecting to ever come back to visit. In desperation I looked around, and spied Husband quivering behind the pink CD player still blaring out Pants! Lenny Henry's voice had never sounded so accussing. We caught each other's eye and I gave him the wink, the one that offered promises of glorious unmentionables later if he would go with me on this one.
Everybody outside! I yelled, in a voice that could have been heard around the globe, I think the monster's hiding on the bouncy castle! Twelve pink slippered princesses leapt into life and screamed appreciatively, Husband gave me a return look that meant said unmentionables were going to be considerable, and after a pint. A flurry of pink jumped onto the castle as Husband went behind to roar in his best I'm going to get you voice. And still the Parents-Who-Refused-To-Leave (from here on known as TPWRTL) refused to leave. They watched Husband give an Oscar worthy monster performance, his red face the only clue as to the humiliation he was enduring. I heard a loud voice, a scratchy desperate one exit my mouth. Tea! Tea is ready! It wasn't, but anything was less painful than this.
I sat twelve princesses down to a barely cooked tea of sausage and chips and watched them eat in silence, watched - silently - by the PWRTLs. But they did start to warm up, it was quite miraculous really. Chatter started, each princess tried to out do the other in how many jewels they had on their tiara, crikey food was even thrown and I was delighted, delighted! Ah, you see, it's not that bad, all they needed was a bit of food. And sugar on the chips.

I cleaned before the cleaner

2008-05-11T15:55:00.002+01:00

Oh dear, I cleaned before the cleaner came. Rubbish I know, but it had to be done, really, honestly it did. Now, I'm not one of those lucky housewives who get to have a cleaner every week, oh no. Apparently we don't need one, I have Husband you see to help, and the children, crikey even the puppy chips in. Apparently.
Obviously I didn't give up my career to clean the house, or clear up after everybody else. I gave it up to raise the children, provide them with that much heralded parent (read mother) at home.Oh yes. Cleaning was something we would do in the evenings and at weekends, rather like when we both worked full time. We had a democratic partnership you see. Not for us those pre war roles, we were re-writing the rule book, let's hear it for emancipation! Yeah!
You see, since giving up work, ostensibly I don't work. No! Not a jot! So there's acres of time to clean, and acres of time left to raise the children. Lovely. Lucky me.
So, there we have it, somewhere along the line (clothesline, if you will), I agreed, albeit in stealth like stages that of course I could cook the tea/pop into Sainsburys/pick up the dry cleaning/clean the loo (skid marks a speciality), crikey I'll even spin plates I've so much time. A sunny afternoon with Jack screaming in the trolly, Isla skipping in front getting under the wheels simultaneously undressing Barbie and me picking out the menu for the week (five fruit and veg a day/check all labels/pretend the chicken nuggets are for the dog, you never know if Jamie O or even more hideously Gillian McK might pop up behind you, microphone in hand saying loudly tell me Mrs C, why do you feed your children such hideous junk? Oh the shame). Yep, that's how I envisaged raising my kids, in the supermarket.
So that was it, I gave up cleaning about a month ago. Ahhhhhh.
Ah?
You see I was working on that stupid theory that if you don't wash your hair for a month it becomes self cleaning (it doesn't, trust me, it ends up smelling and anything within a two meter radius gets stuck in it. It's like a living compost bin). So I was going to put up with the slide into rubbish dump mess clinging on to the glimmer ahead that was shiny taps and fresh toilets. I closed my eyes with determination at the old toothpaste gnarled around the tube, hole completely blocked, the only way to dispense any was through a little cut in the side that Husband had made with his nail clippers.
I even turned a blind eye (and nose) to the blocked sink/shower/toilet. Husband blames my long hair, but if that's the only culprit then that would be admitting to being hairier than next door's dog (and she'd kill me, we meet for a glass of wine occasionally).
Gradually I began to despair, any glimmer in the distance was simply an old bottle top that no one had put out for recycling (another thing I have acres of time for). Either way the house looked disgusting, which in turn made me look disgusting. No one else you understand, me. At no point would anyone ever think that Husband allowed us to live in this mess would they? Oh no, he's busy at work, Wife has acres of time.
I booked a cleaner. Ahhhhhhhh.
Ah?
The terror began slowly. What would they think of me (it was so bad the company said they thought they should send two. Two!), how could I let everyone live like this. Oh no! What had I done?
So that was that. I clung on, sat on my hands, drank copious amounts of chardonnay each evening to numb the fear of Friday, Judgement Day, I was not, repeat not (in slightly strangled voice) going to clean.
But no use, Thursday arrived, chardonnay stayed on ice, and I caved (you'll notice I cave frequently, I'm thinking of buying one of those hats with a torch on). Scrubbing brush and bleach in hand I scoured, swept and de-toothpasted the house. It looked fantastic, it said here lives a woman who looks after her family, not for her the shoddy corner cutting of the sloppy housewife. I left no corner cut, not even grazed. Husband came to bed, oblivious to the difference, but then why would he notice, even though he'd just spent a month getting the house just as he liked it? But I noticed, and so would the cleaners.
They came, they cleaned, they made absolutely no comment. No comment at all. Nothing! Where was my praise, my A+, my admiration at being so house proud that even at this level of clean I thought it needed a good going over by professionals? They said absolutely nothing.
Until they left, going down the path: more money than sense said cleaner #1 I know, easiest day I've had in years, you'd think she would have left it a bit, you know, just to get her money's worth said cleaner #2. As I said, more money than sense.
Ah.

Theme tunes I know off by heart

2008-04-24T19:38:00.002+01:00

Balamory
Big cook little cook (has no one stepped on him yet?)
Top gear
Postman pat
Roooory the racing car (complete with roar)
Scrap heap challenge
A question of sport
Match of the day
Ray Mear's extreme survival
Ray Mear's bushcraft
Country file (?)
In the night garden (can spell all the names)
The Tweenies (can identify all the characters including Doodle the dog)
Roly Mo

Theme tunes I wish I knew off by heart

2008-04-24T19:35:00.002+01:00

Property ladder
How to look good naked (God bless Gok for trying)
XFactor
Strictly come dancing
Coronation street
Eastenders
Emmerdale
Pushing dasies
Desperate housewives (they read this blog apparently)
What not to wear (and wish Husband would watch too)
It's me or the dog (I relate)