I know, I need to stop talking ...

Biff, Chip and Kipper and the Mother's Day Surprise

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sun, 26 Mar 2017 13:43:00 +0000

It was nearly Mother’s Day.

‘All I want for Mother’s Day,’ said Mum, ‘is five minutes’ peace.’

‘Five minutes’ peace?’ said Chip. ‘What do you mean, five minutes’ peace? We’ve been out of the country for the past seven days fighting vampire warlords and all you said when we came back was “Did you have a nice day at school?” You don’t need five minutes’ peace. You need a watch and a sense of your children’s whereabouts.’

‘I believe in encouraging your independence,’ said Mum. ‘The parenting books said that it was good to encourage children’s independence.’

‘I’m 4 years’ old,’ said Kipper. ‘They meant I should be able to go to the toilet by myself, not leave the country by myself!’

‘Foreign travel broadens the mind,’ said Mum.

‘Not according to Donald Trump,’ said Biff.

‘I didn’t realise having children was going to be so hard,’ said Mum. ‘I thought it would be just like having a puppy. Puppies are easy to train. Look at Floppy.’

The children looked out the window. They could see Floppy. He was running out of another house with some sausages in his mouth. Suddenly an old man came out of the house. The old man was chasing Floppy and shouting. He had an umbrella. He was trying to hit Floppy with the umbrella. Floppy turned around and bit the umbrella. Floppy and the old man were playing tug of war with the umbrella. Floppy won. Now Floppy had some sausages and an umbrella.

‘Well, quite,’ said Chip.

Just then, Dad came home. He walked into the kitchen. He had the front door in his hand. ‘Whoops, silly me. It just came off in my hand. I don’t know my own strength.’

Mum sighed. The children sighed too. ‘Have you ever considered you might be better off getting us adopted,’ said Chip.

The children went to Chip’s bedroom. ‘We need to do something nice for Mother’s Day for Mum. We have to make her a surprise.’

‘Dad said he would help us make a surprise,’ said Kipper.

‘I don’t think the house razed to the ground and the shed on fire will be the kind of surprise Mum will want,’ said Biff.

‘Valid point,’ said Chip.

The next morning Mum woke up late. It was light outside. The house was very quiet.

‘Where is everyone?’ said Mum.

Mum went into the children’s bedrooms. In Chip’s room she found a note.

‘We have popped to the next solar system. We took Dad and Floppy with us. Now you have five minutes’ peace. Happy Mother’s Day.’

Mum smiled. Mum was very happy. ‘This is an EXCELLENT Mother’s Day,’ said Mum.

Meanwhile, Biff, Chip, Kipper, Dad and Floppy had been taken by the magic key to a new planet. On the planet were some aliens. Their heads were made out of umbrellas and their arms were made out of sausages.

‘Oh fucking hell,’ said Biff. Floppy made a lunge for one of the alien’s arms. ‘Oh Floppy,’ said Biff.

‘No Floppy,’ said Chip.

‘Oh Floppy,’ said Kipper.

‘No Floppy,’ said Dad.

‘Screw you, idiots,’ thought Floppy. Floppy ate up the alien’s arm.

‘Floppy, you fucking liability,’ said Chip.

The aliens looked cross. They waved their sausage arms at the children, Dad and Floppy. ‘Don’t worry, children,’ said Dad. ‘I will sort this out.’ Dad ran towards the aliens. He slipped on a sausage skin. He crashed into the side of the aliens’ palace. The palace started falling to pieces. Bits of the palace fell onto the umbrella-sausage aliens and skewered them. Dad and the children sheltered underneath a bit of rock. ‘Whoops, silly me,’ said Dad.

‘Mum was right,’ said Biff. ‘Dad is a fucking moron.’

Back at home, Mum was soaking in a deep bath with a magnum of gin. No one had asked her to wipe their bottom. No one had asked her to list twelve different types of igneous rocks. No one had decimated her home.

‘This is the best Mother’s Day EVER,’ said Mum.

Biff, Chip and Kipper and the Sex Education Lesson

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sun, 26 Mar 2017 13:42:00 +0000

Biff and Chip brought a letter home from school.

The letter said that Mrs May would be teaching the children about sex.

‘What’s sex?’ asked Kipper.

‘You don’t need to know,’ said Mum.

‘I know what sex is,’ said Kipper. ‘Sex is RUDE. I know about sex. Chip, you have a penis, and Biff, you have a vagina.’

Biff and Chip looked appalled.

‘I don’t think I want to learn about sex,’ said Chip.

‘Neither do I,’ said Biff.

Upstairs, the magic key was glowing. It took the children back in time. They were in a bedroom. It looked just like Chip’s bedroom.

‘Is this your bedroom?’ asked Biff. ‘Has the magic key stopped working?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Chip.

The children opened the bedroom door. They walked along the corridor. There was a funny noise coming from inside Mum and Dad’s bedroom. The children listened.

‘Harder, harder, harder!’ said a voice.

‘That sounds like Mum,’ said Kipper.

‘Who’s a lucky girl?’ There was lots of laughing. ‘You are, you are, YOU ARE!’ There was a smacking noise, and a meowing sound like a cat, and then a big grunt.

‘And that sounds like Dad,’ said Chip.

‘It sounds like a farmyard to me,’ said Biff.

Suddenly the door flew open. Biff, Chip and Kipper hid behind it. In the doorway was Dad. He looked a lot younger and a lot hairier. He had no clothes on at all. He stood with his legs apart and his hands on one hip. He was swivelling his willy around in one hand.

‘Lover lover lover man,’ said Dad. Just then a puppy ran up the stairs. The puppy ran in front of Dad. Dad fell over the puppy. He crashed through the bannisters and fell into the downstairs hall. He broke a table lamp, an armchair, and made a big hole in the middle of the tiled floor. He shook his fist at the puppy. ‘Floppy, you fucking liability,’ said Dad.

Mum came out of the bedroom. She was wearing a dressing gown. She looked at the broken house. She looked at Dad. She shook her head. ‘I hope the baby we’ve just made isn’t as much of a moron as that idiot down there,’ said Mum to the puppy.

The magic key glowed. It took the children home. They all stared at each other. Biff looked like she might be having a breakdown.

‘What did we just see?’ asked Chip.

‘Was that sex?’ asked Kipper.

‘I didn’t think sex meant so much broken furniture,’ said Biff.

Just then the bedroom door opened. Mum and Dad came in.

‘STAY AWAY FROM ME, YOU PERVERTS,’ howled Chip.

The next day Biff and Chip went to school. Mum and Dad and Kipper walked with them.

‘Don’t leave me alone with them,’ said Kipper. ‘What if they take their clothes off and start making animal noises again?’

‘It’s okay,’ said Chip. ‘We will probably get adopted soon.’

Biff and Chip went into their classroom. Mrs May was standing at the front of the class. Next to her was the creepy caretaker. He was holding a very large courgette.

‘Today, children,’ said Mrs May, ‘we are going to be learning about...'

Biff and Chip looked at the creepy caretaker and his courgette. They did not wait to hear what Mrs May was going to say next. They ran out of the classroom and went and hid in the library. ‘Fuck that shit,’ said Chip. ‘I have had enough sex education for a LIFETIME.’

Biff, Chip and Kipper and the Messy Divorce

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sun, 26 Mar 2017 13:42:00 +0000

Mum had had enough.

‘I’ve had enough,’ said Mum. ‘Dad is going to have to go.’

Dad was sad.

‘Why do I have to go?’

‘Because,’ said Mum, ‘you are a fucking liability.’

‘Just like me,’ thought Floppy. ‘I am not just ANY fucking liability, mind. I am the ORIGINAL fucking liability.’

‘I am not a fucking liability,’ said Dad. ‘I am an excellent husband.’

‘Excellent husband?’ shouted Mum. ‘EXCELLENT HUSBAND?’ In the last 24 hours you have fallen down a manhole, released a herd of cattle onto the M1, pogo-sticked into the neighbours’ garden pond and set your own foot on fire. You are not an excellent husband. You are a fucking moron.’

The children went upstairs. ‘What is going to happen?’ asked Kipper. ‘Why are Mum and Dad arguing.’

‘Because Dad is a fucking moron,’ sighed Biff.

‘Are they going to get divorced?’ asked Kipper.

‘I expect so,’ said Chip. ‘I wouldn’t stay married to Dad if I was Mum.’

‘No,’ mused Kipper. ‘I wouldn’t either.’

‘Who will we live with?’ asked Biff.

‘The one who social services say is the best parent,’ said Chip.

The children looked at each other. ‘We’re screwed,’ said Kipper.

The next day Mum and Dad sat down with the children. Mum said that her and Dad were having an argument. ‘We are going to live in separate houses for a bit. But we still love you all very much.’

‘No you don’t,’ said Chip. ‘We have an attendance level of 34% and we spent half of last week outside of our own solar system fighting alien pirates. You don’t deserve to have children.’

‘Who are we going to live with?’ asked Biff.

‘Mum,’ said Dad, just as Mum said ‘Dad.’ There was an awkward silence.

‘Let’s go and see Gran,’ said Chip.

Gran was at bingo. She was drinking lots and lots of water. The water came in a bottle called VODKA.

‘Hello Gran,’ said the children.

‘Hello children,’ said Gran.

‘Mum and Dad are getting divorced,’ said Biff.

‘About bloody time,’ said Gran. ‘I never did like that man. Not since he spiked my drink that Christmas with ketamine, tied me up with a piece of tinsel and whipped me with his slipper.’

Everyone was very quiet for a moment.

‘Can we come and live with you, Gran?’ asked Kipper.

‘Not bloody likely,’ said Gran. ‘I’m running a bar in my living room, a pole dancing club in my kitchen and a brothel in my basement. I don’t want you lot ruining my fun.’

The next day the children went to school. At the end of the day Mum was waiting for them at the school gate. She was holding Kipper’s hand. Kipper looked suicidal.

‘Hello children,’ said Mum.

‘Hello children,’ said the creepy caretaker.

‘What are you doing with my Mum?’ asked Biff.

‘I’m going to be your new daddy,’ said the creepy caretaker. ‘I have some puppies in my car. Would you like to see them?’

‘I’m calling Childline,’ said Chip.

‘I’m calling Ofsted,’ said Biff.

‘Oh no,’ said Kipper.

Biff, Chip and Kipper and the Spelling Test

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sun, 26 Mar 2017 13:41:00 +0000

Biff and Chip had a spelling test. They brought the list of spelling words home from school with them.

‘What are those?’ asked Mum.

‘These are our spellings,’ said Biff.

‘We have to learn them for a test,’ said Chip.

‘But you don’t do work at school,’ said Dad. ‘You just do plays.’

‘Ofsted are coming to inspect our school,’ said Biff. ‘If we don’t all pass our spelling test then Mrs May says the school will get closed down.’

‘Oh no,’ said Mum.

‘Oh no,’ said Dad.

‘You’re screwed,’ said Kipper.

Mum told Biff and Chip to go to their rooms and learn their spellings. Chip did not want to go to his room and learn his spellings. ‘You stupid old bitch,’ said Chip to Mum. Chip slammed the door in Mum’s face. Then Chip set fire to his bedside rug.

Mum tried to do a Happy Face. Mum had been on a parenting course. The course was called Dealing With Your Spirited Child. To deal with your Spirited Child, it was important to do a Happy Face.

Mum could not do a Happy Face. ‘Oh fuck this,’ said Mum. In Mum’s bra there was a hip flask. The hip flask had gin in it. Mum drank the gin.

Upstairs, the magic key was glowing. Biff and Kipper ran upstairs. ‘Why is your rug on fire?’ Biff asked Chip. ‘Has Dad been in your bedroom?’

The magic key took the children to a white house. It was very clean. The children went inside the house. They saw a family sitting at a table. There was a mum, a dad, and three children.

‘Just like us!’ said Kipper.

‘Shut the fuck up,’ said Biff, holding her hand over Kipper’s mouth and shoving him in a cupboard. ‘Do you want to be done for breaking and entering?’

The children had a list of spellings to learn. Their mum and dad asked them to spell the words. The children got them all right. Their mum and dad gave them a hug and told them how clever they were.

Chip laughed. ‘This is a silly adventure,’ he said. ‘That is not what real families are like at all.’

The magic key took the children home. From downstairs came the sound of breaking glass. ‘Dad is home,’ said Kipper.

The children went downstairs. Dad had fallen through the kitchen window and was stuck in the sink. ‘Whoops, silly me!’ Mum was not helping to get Dad out of the sink. Mum was sitting in the cupboard under the stairs holding a bottle.

‘G… I… N’ said Chip. ‘That spells APPLE JUICE!’

‘You fucking moron’ said Kipper. ‘You are never going to pass your spelling test.’

‘Aren’t you going to test us on our spelling words?’ asked Biff. ‘Like proper families do?’

Mum laughed hollowly. ‘Proper families don’t have a man stuck in the FUCKING SINK,’ said Mum. Mum drank some more of her apple juice.

The children shut the cupboard door. ‘I think Mum needs to go on another parenting course,’ said Kipper.

The next day it was the spelling test. Biff and Chip woke up early to practise their spelling words. They could not find the spelling list.

‘I’ve found it!’ shouted Kipper. The spelling list was on the floor in the kitchen. Floppy was weeing on it.

‘Floppy, you fucking liability,’ said Biff.

When the children got to school, there was a man sitting next to Mrs May at the front of the classroom. ‘This is the Ofsted inspector,’ said Mrs May. ‘He has come to see whether our school needs to be closed down.’

‘NO MORE SCHOOL!’ shouted the children. Mrs May threw the interactive whiteboard at them.

After school Biff and Chip went home. Mum was waiting for them. Dad was still stuck in the sink.

‘How was your test?’ asked Mum.

‘There wasn’t a test,’ said Biff.

‘Hooray!’ said Dad. ‘So everything is okay. Did you learn anything at school today?’

‘Yes,’ said Chip. ‘We learnt that you are not allowed to throw an interactive whiteboard at your class if you are a teacher. If you do, the Ofsted inspector will shut your school down.’

‘Oh no,’ said Kipper.

‘Now you will have to home educate us,’ said Biff.

‘Fuck that,’ said Mum.

Biff, Chip and Kipper and World Book Day

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sun, 26 Mar 2017 13:40:00 +0000

The school sent a letter home about World Book Day.

The children were allowed to dress up as their favourite characters from books.

Biff and Chip were very excited.

Mum was not.

‘What is your favourite book?’ Mum asked Biff and Chip.

‘I don’t really like reading books,’ said Biff.

‘Is a computer game a book?’ said Chip.

‘Fuck my life,’ said Mum.

Mum had a good idea. ‘You are already characters in a book. You can go as yourselves.’

Biff and Chip looked at Mum as though she was stupid. ‘Are you stupid?’ asked Biff and Chip.

Dad was looking forward to World Book Day. He gave the children some ideas about what they could dress up as.

‘I’m going to be a dragon!’ said Chip.

‘I’m going to be a robot!’ said Biff.

‘I’m going to be a man-eating snake!’ said Kipper.

‘How am I going to make a dragon, a robot and a man-eating snake costume, you fucking idiot,’ shouted Mum at Dad.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Dad. ‘I will make the costumes.’

‘Oh no,’ said Mum.

Upstairs, the magic key was glowing. It took the children and Floppy the dog to a magical land. In the magical land a dragon, a robot and a man-eating snake were all having a fight.

‘Cooooooooool’ said Chip.

‘Phew,’ said Biff. ‘Now we can wear those costumes to World Book Day, because those characters have appeared in a book, which is this book, about us.’

‘Are you drunk?’ asked Chip.

The key glowed and took the children back home. Half of the walls of their house were missing, and the front garden was on fire. Dad was in the middle of it all.

‘Dad, what have you done?’ asked the children.

‘Whoops, silly me,’ said Dad. ‘I was making your World Book Day costumes.’

‘Oh no,’ said Kipper.

The next day was World Book Day. Dad showed the children their costumes. ‘Floppy needs a costume too,’ they cried.

Dad found a cat mask. ‘Floppy can be a cat,’ he said, putting the mask on Floppy.

Floppy bit Dad’s arm. Floppy did not want to be a cat. ‘Floppy, you fucking liability,’ said Biff.

Dad took the children and Floppy to school. Everyone was dressed up. Mrs May was dressed up as a lady who she said was called Anastasia Steele. The creepy caretaker was standing next to her. ‘I am Christian Gray,’ he said. Mrs May had a rope around her neck.

Dad had brought a can of petrol with him into the classroom. ‘Here comes the dragon!’ he cried. He poured the petrol over the dragon’s head and got out some matches. ‘Watch the dragon breathe fire!’ said Dad.

‘Fuck this,’ said Chip, and took off the dragon costume. Biff, Chip and Kipper ran and hid underneath a table. Dad lit a match.

Later on World Book Day, a policeman came and asked Dad lots of questions. Biff, Chip and Kipper went to see Mrs May.

‘Are you sad that Dad burned your school down, Mrs May?’ they asked.

‘Not really,’ said Mrs May. ‘I never did like teaching you horrible children anyway.’

Biff, Chip and Kipper went home to tell Mum Dad was being sent to prison. They thought Mum would be sad.

Mum was not sad. Mum was furious. Mum was standing in the middle of their broken house looking at her online bank statement.

‘HOW much on World Book Day costumes?’ shouted Mum. ‘Dad is a fucking MORON.’

‘Oh no,’ said Kipper.

Biff, Chip and Kipper and the Standard Assessment Tests

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sun, 26 Mar 2017 13:38:00 +0000

It was time for Biff and Chip to have their SATs at school.

Mum was worried.

Mum did not think that Biff and Chip would do well in their SATs.

Neither did Biff and Chip.

Biff and Chip had an attendance level of 35%.

“We are basically fucked”, thought Biff and Chip.

Dad told Mum not to worry.

Dad told Mum that he did not have any SATs, and look what had happened to him!

Mum cried.

Upstairs, the magic key began to glow.

The magic key took Biff, Chip, Kipper and Floppy the dog to a school.

This is a shit adventure, thought Biff, Chip, Kipper and Floppy the dog.

In the school, lots of children were having their SATs. They were working very hard.

A man came up to the children. The man was a teacher.

“Are you taking your SATs soon?”, he asked.

“We are”, said Biff and Chip.

“And have you been working very hard?”, asked the man.

“No, not really”, said Biff.

“We should be in school right now”, said Chip.

“Our mum and dad don’t know WHERE we are”, said Kipper.

Floppy bit the man’s leg.

“You little shits, get out of my school”, said the man, shaking his fist at them. “You will never amount to anything if you don’t pass your SATs.”

The children left the school. “Floppy, you fucking liability”, said Biff. “Now we are going to fail our SATs, and it will all be your fault.”

“Yeah right”, thought Floppy.

The magic key glowed and took the children home. They went downstairs.

“Did you have a nice day at school?”, said Mum

“It’s 8pm, you stupid woman”, said Chip. “Have you not been worried about us?”

“I thought you were practising for your SATs”, said Mum.

“I’m a dog, you fucking moron”, thought Floppy.

Suddenly, Dad fell through the ceiling. “Whoops, silly me.”

Mum cried.

“Oh no”, said Kipper.

The next day it was time for Biff and Chip to take their SATs.

“Good luck”, said Mum.

“Good luck”, said Dad.

“You’re screwed”, said Kipper.

When Biff and Chip got to their classroom, Mrs May was waiting for them.

Mrs May said that instead of doing their SATs, they would put on a play.

Biff and Chip cheered.

Ofsted closed Mrs May’s school down.

Biff and Chip were sent to a different school to take their SATs.

The teacher at the new school was an angry man with a dog bite on his leg.

"Oh no", said Biff and Chip.

Biff, Chip and Kipper

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sun, 26 Mar 2017 13:37:00 +0000

This is Biff.

This is Chip.

This is Kipper.

Biff, Chip and Kipper’s parents would clearly have benefitted from a book of baby names when they were planning the naming of their children.

Biff, Chip and Kipper are looked after by Mum and Dad.

When we say ‘looked after’, we mean that in the very loosest sense of the phrase.

Mum learnt her hair and makeup skills in the 1980s. It is clear that Mum causes Biff, Chip and Kipper intense embarrassment whenever they leave the house.

Dad is inept. Whether undertaking DIY, looking after the children, or simply engaging in the art of polite conversation, Dad fucks it up every single time.

Biff, Chip and Kipper have a dog called Floppy.

Floppy was named by Mum in a fit of vitriol to get back at her errant husband after he had fucked up one too many basic household chores.

Occasionally, Grandma turns up. Grandma is something of an anarchist and clearly likes her gin.

Biff, Chip and Kipper have adventures, instigated by something called the Magic Key which is almost certainly a sexual metaphor. Quite how they have time to have all of these adventures when they should be receiving an education is never made quite clear. Their LEA is clearly a bit slack.

When they have these adventures, Biff, Chip and Kipper disappear for several hours, sometimes days, to exotic countries, far off places, and sometimes even outside of our solar system altogether.

MUM AND DAD DON’T EVEN NOTICE THEIR CHILDREN HAVE GONE.

Occasionally Floppy the dog comes with them, but he is a fucking liability and will almost immediately drag them into a near death situation.

Once Grandma came with them. That didn’t end well.

EVEN WITH THEIR ENTIRE FAMILY MISSING OFF OF PLANET EARTH, MUM AND DAD STILL DO NOT BAT AN EYELID.

Biff, Chip and Kipper somehow always manage to get out of their ‘scrapes’ with aggressive pirates, aliens and visiting foreign dignitaries.

This is a crying shame.

Mum and Dad are under investigation by social services.

Not only do their children have ridiculous names and disappear unnoticed for several days a week, but no one in their house speaks using words of over two syllables.

Dad has announced that he will lead the conversation with the social worker, and that no one else is to worry, everything will go like a dream.

Mum is making plans to get a kitten to remind her of her errant husband once he is imprisoned for child neglect. The kitten is going to be called Wanker.

Of Facebook

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Mon, 01 Aug 2016 19:29:00 +0000

So, first off, apologies for my week's absence. I went on holiday, but was obviously not desperate to advertise that to the many random people out there on the internet. Nor could I fit my laptop into my suitcase, 'packing light' most definitely not being one of my strengths.

While I was away, however, I discovered the magic of BLOGGING VIA FACEBOOK. There are a number of reasons this is excellent:

1) I can do it from my phone and not end up hurling the device across the room out of sheer frustration. (Yes, Blogger mobile platform, I'm talking to you.)

2) I can lazily write much shorter posts and still look like I've made an effort.

3) Instant feedback via the joy of the 'like' button. My ego fucking LOVES the like button. (If Facebook ever invents a 'dislike' button it may be a different story.)

And so... I'm experimenting with a brief hiatus blogging over there. If you haven't already joined the madness, please do. I am so self obsessed these days that the endorphin rush I get when a new follower comes along is UNREAL.

To find IKINTST on Facebook... head on over here. There is even more swearing (if such a thing were possible), even more nudity and even more of my children being absolutely barking mad. Would love it if you came and joined us :-)

Dieting

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 22 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

There is a lot of money in the diet industry, so they say. We are apparently all obsessed with attempting to slim down to Kate Moss size, despite the fact we'd all have a lot more fun if we gave it all up as a bad job and breakfasted on a kebab and a pint of Baileys instead.

Given this, I am wondering if I should patent my own diet in order to make shit loads of money. As someone who is depressingly well versed in the many idiosyncrasies of said diet industry, I reckon I am likely the world's leading expert on one particular diet. We shall call it the I Know, I Need To Stop Talking diet. Such a dieting expert am I, I reckon this is the diet I've followed almost every single week since the year I turned 21 and realised some people had thighs which didn't look as though they'd been shaped out of (lumpy) playdough. And here, for you, my most excellent blog readers (I love you all), I bring it to you in all its glory. Don't say I never give you anything.

It goes a little like this...

Monday
Fast day. Apple for breakfast, salad with lean protein for dinner. A metric fuck tonne of calorie free liquids (water, Diet Coke, mint tea) drunk throughout the day to help distract you from the fact your stomach appears to be consuming itself from the inside out.

Tuesday
2lb off. (Likely because you were up every 30 minutes during the night to piss out the 50 litres of fluid you'd consumed during the previous day.) Dieting is easy! Apple for breakfast, salad with lean protein for lunch, more salad with lean protein for dinner. Why mess with a winning formula? Marginally less liquid consumed than on Monday, largely because you fear your bladder may give out.

Wednesday
1lb off. THIS IS THE BEST DIET EVER. Apple for breakfast. Followed by some chocolate because, y'know, 3lb off. Salad with lean protein for lunch. And some overpriced chopped up fruit in a plastic tub. It's Wednesday. You deserve it.

Dinner would be more salad with lean protein but you're getting a bit sick and tired of all that shit now so you go wild and feast on the children's dinner. What? Most other parents you know eat their children's leftovers. The very thought makes you want to gag, so you reverse proceedings instead and eat the bits you know they're going to leave before they get to them. There's strategic thinking for you.

Thursday
0.2lb off. You are a dieting genius. Apple, chocolate and TOAST for breakfast. Ah, toast, how have I forsaken you for so long. Salad with lean protein for lunch, which is clearly the key to such awesome, sustained weight loss.

Get home and decide you can't face another fucking salad. Decide to treat the children to a Chinese instead because it is good not to deprive yourself all the time, and you have, frankly, run out of menu ideas. Think to yourself, in for a penny, in for a pound, and accompany said Chinese (which you somehow now appear to be actively participating in) with a large glass of wine. Maybe two.

Friday
STAY THE SAME. After the Chinese/wine blip you count this as an enormous success. Maybe you had actually been STARVING your body, and the Chinese and wine were needed in order not to bring your metabolism to a grinding halt. Apple for breakfast, lean protein and salad for lunch. You are determined to have a very sensible day so that you can have a couple of glasses of wine with your dinner of salad and lean protein tonight.

Drink one bottle of wine, a gin and tonic and a family sized packet of crisps. And the leftover Chinese. And the leftover children's dinner (your principles are now out of the window). And some ice cream to top it all off.

Saturday
1.5lb ON. Fuckers.

EAT ALL OF THE FOOD IN THE ENTIRE WORLD.

Sunday
Repeat Saturday, and throw in a Sunday lunch for good measure.

Monday
Discover you are now at exactly the same weight as you were when you started the week.

Repeat.

Holiday shopping

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Wed, 20 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

There are some people out there who actively enjoy and look forward to holiday shopping. I know this, because I have met them. Interestingly, they all have two things in common: they are a size 8 and they are child-free.

Being neither of these things, I looked forward to the recent holiday shopping I had to do a bit like I look forward to root canal treatment. On the plus side, I had managed to persuade the children to stay with Neil and not accompany me, after one too many 'MY MUM HAS GOT HER FRONT BOTTOM OUT AND IT'S AAAAAALLLL NUUUUUUUUDEYYYYY' changing room disasters in the last eight and a half years.

In an attempt to get organised, I had made a list of the items I needed to buy. I do this every single time, and never know why I bother. The chances of anything I end up buying actually resembling a single item on that list are pretty much non existent.

So, error number one was not having spent the last 12 months working to get my body down to a size 8.

Error number two was picking a time of the year to go shopping when the sales were on. (Although: is it just me, or are the sales on All. The Fucking. Time. these days?)

Error number three was somehow inexplicably ignoring all of the advice I have ever given myself ever AND WALKING STRAIGHT INTO THE MIDDLE OF DAY 1 OF THE NEXT SALE.

I don't know what possessed me. I don't like Next at the best of times: I think it's overpriced old lady clothing. However, clearly on autopilot, I turned left instead of walking straight on and was suddenly trapped in the middle of the third circle of hell.

You will, not unreasonably, argue that surely at this point I could have walked straight out - and you're right, that's what I thought too. Alas, the crowds had reformed behind me like the un-parting of the Red Sea, and therefore there was no alternative to walk further into the madness.

Sales turn people mad, I swear. Despite my hatred of Next clothing I bought three items of clothing for myself and two dresses for Beth, none of which I tried on and all solely down to the psychological manipulation which is a 50% off sticker in the middle of a price label. I bought these even despite the fact I had to stand in a queue for 27 minutes to do so, throughout which I was repeatedly stabbed in the back of the head with a coathanger being brandished by the lady standing behind me. 'Oh look, Laura, I keep stabbing that poor lady in the back of the head.' As she did it again. The expression you're imaging on my face is pretty much spot on.

Having escaped from Next, I inexplicably decided to compound the horrors of my morning by going into Primark. Primark and I have a very chequered past. The urge to hand out Vitamin C tablets to shoppers was as pronounced as ever. On the plus side, after the hell of Next, the people barging past you to grab a synthetic giraffe print net body stocking and questioning their children's parentage seemed almost civilised by comparison...

Finally, I visited H&M. I don't know why. I never know why I go into H&M. Firstly: I am a size 12. In H&M speak this means I will struggle to get a size Large over my ankle. Secondly: their mirrors. My god, their mirrors. If I wanted to look like I'd rolled in suet and stapled a packet of lard to my stomach I could create that magic in the comfort of my own home...

Sweating, depressed, vowing never to eat again and with not a single item on my original list purchased, I returned home, where I presented Beth with her two new dresses. She looked at me as though I had urinated on her foot.

'Why have you got me these?'

'Um... to wear?'

'No.'

And that, as they say, was that.

Fucking holiday shopping. Next year I'm cutting to the chase and will simply be holidaying naked.

School reports

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Mon, 18 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

Ah, that joyous time of year, when the school reports come out and your Facebook timeline is filled entirely with Other Parents Gloating.

I am not one of those parents. In part, because if I did, I could no longer mock them mercilessly, and in part because... I have to be honest: I have very little to gloat about.

The school reports came out on Wednesday this week, when the first I knew of it was Mr Jamie running out of after school club with his eyes closed thrusting a white envelope in my direction. 'Just open it, just get it over with, Mum, I'm going to sit in the car, I CAN'T TAKE IT ANY MORE.'

Beth followed, holding hers. 'Here is mine, Mum. It's very good.'

'How do you know? Have you seen it?'

She shrugged. 'No. But it just is.'

Hmmm.

We got into the car, Jamie still pleading with me. 'Just do it Mum, just get it over with.'

'Jamie, how bad do you think this report actually is? I thought you'd been trying hard at school.'

'Well... sometimes.'

'And other times?'

'Then... maybe not.'

'Ah.'

I decided to start with Beth's. It was remarkably detailed, given she's only in Year R. It contained a large amount of information about her progress that year, including, notably, comments on her goal scoring ability and Match Attax football card collection. To be honest, it was a positive liturgy of praise, and could quite easily have provided me with some serious gloating material... had I not suspected, from the gleam in Beth's eye, that she had somehow bribed and corrupted her teacher into writing the whole bloody thing.

Moment of truth, then. I opened Jamie's, which was almost encyclopedia thick and left me wondering quite how much time his teachers had actually had to teach him last year given the amount of man hours which must have been required to put this together. Taking a deep breath, I read the first sentence. Oh good: and so it begins.

Now, I am married to a teacher, and as such I have become fairly adept over the years at interpreting school reports. I can therefore share with you the following 'highlights' from Mr Jamie's report this year... and what the teachers were no doubt really thinking as they wrote them.

'Jamie is a gregarious child' (we all know how those required to teach 'gregarious' children really feel about them!) 'who thoroughly enjoys the social aspects of school life.'

Jamie treats school like a youth club.

'Although articulate and well-informed, he does not often choose to initiate conversation with his teachers.'

He never stops talking... unless asked to by a member of staff, when he suddenly loses all power of speech.

'Jamie is interested in the topics covered in class but he does not yet have the discipline to consistently motivate himself.'

Jamie needs a rocket up his arse.

'He finds it more difficult to remain focused in group or individual tasks, as the urge to chat can sometimes be overwhelming!'

We have frequently considered the use of a gag.

'A capable reader, Jamie has a tendency to try and get by with the minimum amount of effort.'

Jamie really cannot be arsed.

'We have enjoyed the challenge of teaching him this year.'

You owe us a bottle of gin.

I reached the end. 'JAMIE. Can I talk to you?'

'Um, if it's okay Mum, I'd rather you didn't. I think I might just go and tidy my room. For a very, very long time.'

Anyone else got any school report gems to share?

Things you must never do as a parent

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 15 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

I was asked to write this post by a friend of mine - I would link to her Twitter handle, but I suspect she would prefer to remain anonymous, what with her request being based on some very much real life frustrations...

There are some things which I genuinely think all prospective parents should be required to sign a disclaimer to confirm they will not do once they have children. I am pretty sure I am not alone in this. There is no way that anyone, ANYONE, can possibly think that any of the below are adding any kind of value to society...

1) I Will Not Photograph My Baby Eating. Actually, scratch that. It's your baby, it's your camera. You go right ahead and photograph your baby eating. But placing it on social media, where the rest of us might be happening to glance through while grabbing a quick snack and immediately find our gag reflex in full throttle? Absolutely unacceptable. Babies are gross, and babies trying to find an orifice to insert food into are really quite exceptionally gross. Please stop it.

2) I Will Not Bring My Child To Work. With the clue there being, you know, the word WORK. As opposed to CRECHE. I have never entirely understood why people think this will in any way delight or surprise their colleagues. Particularly when they bring in an appallingly behaved child, and then blame their surroundings for their behaviour. 'Oh, I know she's wailing like a banshee, but you can't blame her for that, she's really hungry and there are lots of strange people around. She doesn't like being hungry and seeing strange people.' WHY THE FUCK HAVE YOU BROUGHT HER INTO A CROWDED OFFICE AT LUNCHTIME THEN? (In the interests of full disclosure, I have brought my children into my office on at least one occasion. However, Beth was dressed in a full Spiderman costume, complete with latex mask, which meant she couldn't actually speak, and therefore I believe this was probably acceptable.)

3) I Will Not Stealth Boast. By all means, be proud of your child's achievements. It is likely you will be the only person out there who is proud of that sculpture which is allegedly a self portrait, but in all reality just looks like an oversized shit, so you praise away. What will make every other person in the near vicinity want to stab you, however, is when you employ the Stealth Boast, in a pitiful attempt to cover your gloating with self-deprecation. 'I can't tell you how disappointed I am that little Delilah has only read the first five Harry Potter books. She's three next week and I would have thought by now she'd at least have made it to the Half Blood Prince. Hoping that early morning tutoring is going to do the trick.' LOLZ. And also, FUCKOFFZ.

4) I Will Not Expect Other People To Marvel At My Child. We know, we know, you think they're the greatest being the world has ever known. And that's absolutely your prerogative. To the rest of us though, they're just a food covered, chattering midget whose existence is as a direct result of the fact that you couldn't get your contraception sorted out. So forgive us for being a tad underwhelmed.

5) I Will Not Bring My Child To Weddings. Yes, they might have been invited. I can tell you now: the bride and groom were only doing it because they were being polite/because they had to. Do everyone a favour - including your child - and don't bring them with you. They will hate it. Everyone else will hate you. And them. Leave them in the care of a trusting babysitter and go and get senselessly drunk instead. The wedding will improve ten fold as a result. I guarantee it. (My children have been invited to several weddings over the course of their lives, and have never yet attended one. Mr Jamie asked me why he hadn't been to one the other day. I described what happens at a wedding. His response? 'Please don't ever make me do that.' Quite right too.)

Add your own...

Go the fuck to sleep

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Wed, 13 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

Is not an original post title, but is the phrase I most think about getting tattooed across my fucking face every evening as the clock ticks round past dinner time and I attempt to get my children to go to their beds and bloody well stay there.

It is like I'm speaking in Mandarin. Actually, no, strike that, because if I was speaking in Mandarin, I actually think they would have learnt the bloody language by now. Or at least learnt the gist of what I am saying, which is essentially always 'GO TO YOUR BEDS AND STAY THERE UNTIL IT IS MORNING'.

The debacle which is herding them into bed usually starts immediately after dinner when, without fail, it will appear to come as an abject surprise to them that they actually have to go to bed. Upon realising this, they will then waste at least 20 minutes telling me how horrendously unfair it is that they have to go to bed, that if I had any ounce of decency in me as a human being I would never make them go to bed, and that their lives have effectively been ruined by the fact I don't allow them to remain awake 24/7 and run themselves into hysteria.

Once we've got over the fact that yes, it's true, I really am going to make them go to bed, just as I've done every single night of their lives so far, and once they've finished telling me what a terrible person I am as a result, their attentions turn to the fact that, not only am I going to make them lie down and rest, I'm also going to avoid them rotting and festering away and am going to insist on some kind of water-based cleansing activity.

It is as though I've suggested corporal punishment.

'WHY? Why do we always have to do this? Why do you make us? I don't want to. It hurts. I CAN'T.' A good half hour can be wasted as they argue against the merits of bathing or showering. And, if I consider adding the threat of a hair wash in there as well? They will still be arguing with me about how horrific their life is by the time they get up the next morning.

Once washed, you'd think the process would speed up a bit.

No.

The next step is tooth brushing - takes 15 minutes, minimum, with no more than 30 seconds of those 15 minutes spent with an actual toothbrush in their mouths - followed by what is apparently the very onerous task of finding and putting on their pyjamas. To this day, neither of my children have ever managed to find and get into their pyjamas without assistance, which means that, unless I can be bothered to get up off the sofa and herd them around the house like an elderly sheepdog (highly unlikely), they will go to bed sleeping in whatever insane combination of clothing they can find. Highlights include Mr Jamie wearing nothing but a pair of Beth's pants (3 sizes too small), and Beth putting herself to bed in full football kit, complete with shin pads and studs.

After that, you'd think they might actually make it into bed. Don't be fucking ridiculous. They know that the next stage in the process is to spend at least 25 minutes employing themselves in the most ridiculous yet apparently essential activity that they can find. Tonight they formed a ukulele band, apparently called The Crazy Ukuleles. I managed to not drink gin in response to this, which I think is a sign that I am growing as a person.

Eventually, eventually, I will have shouted at them sufficiently for them to capitulate and actually get into bed. I will read them a bedtime story, allegedly designed to calm them down and get them ready for sleep. I might as well simply dose them up on E numbers for all the good it does.

The next hour will be spent with me sitting on the sofa fielding increasingly ridiculous reasons as to why they need to be downstairs and not in bed. In recent weeks we've had 'I just need to be close to you', 'Do you think Lionel Messi is in bed yet?', and 'I've put a toy on my windowsill that scares me, so now I'm scared'. The latter was actually dealt with relatively quickly, with my pithy response that, if they thought that was scary, they should wait to see how scary I was able to be if they thought about coming back downstairs again...

Finally, finally, finally... I will crack and go upstairs to bed myself. This seems to sedate them - after all, there's no point repeatedly coming downstairs if it doesn't massively inconvenience at least one of your parents - and they will eventually fall asleep.

The next morning?

'Why are you making me get up? I'm so tired. Why are you so MEAN?'

Anyone else?

When sex ed backfires

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Mon, 11 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

So, I've sat on this blog post for a couple of weeks, which is quite abnormally restrained for me. I genuinely thought it might be a bit unfair to exploit my children in such a way.

And then I realised how much everyone I told it to in real life laughed about it, and decided I didn't really care.

However. To protect the innocent... this is a story about my 'friend'. And what happened to her the other night as she sat reading her son a bedtime story...

She was sat on the bed next to him, reading The Witches. Her son was listening intently, and they were about halfway through the chapter, when all of a sudden...

'MUM! Mum! Look at my MASSIVE erection!'

There was a stunned silence, both of them, she suspected, feeling rather different emotions.

'Mum, do you know what this means?'

'I absolutely dread to think.'

'I must REALLY like witches.'

Fuck.

My.

Life.

Her life, that is. HER life...

The bare necessities

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 08 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

'Bare' being the operative word.

Now, I have never had an issue with nudity. (Three years at drama school and all that.)

But my god, my children. We've made a conscious effort to try and ensure they were comfortable with their bodies... and it has absolutely backfired.

Jamie, Friday night. We had people coming round. He was wearing a Star Wars dressing gown loosely draped around his shoulders and absolutely nothing else.

'Jamie, can you go and put some clothes on?'

'Why?'

'Because we have people coming round.'

'So?' Genuine, absolute surprise. Why would people coming round be in any way related to my lack of clothing?

'So they don't want to see your willy.'

'Yes they do. They luuurrrrve to see my willy, my willy, look at my sexy willy, look at my sexy willy dance.' As he gyrated across the kitchen doing what was apparently 'the sexy willy dance', but looked more like he was having some kind of seizure.

And then there's Beth. Tonight I was on the phone to my best friend James (also the children's godfather, and therefore at least part responsible for this madness), when I saw Jamie run out into the back garden. Unusually for him, he was actually clothed... this time in a three piece suit. He is a boy of extremes, my son.

30 seconds later, he was followed, by the naked missile which is Beth.

'BETH! Put some clothes on!'

'NO!' Half of me admires the way she genuinely does not give a fuck. Sighing, I was about to give up and leave her to it, when she bent right over and spread her legs, rather as though auditioning for Stringfellows. Which is alarming, in a child of 5. Particularly given the proximity of my neighbours.

'BETH! PUT. YOUR. LABIA. AWAY.'

Sentence #539 I never, ever, ever thought I'd say. Particularly not to my child, in my back garden, in my very, very middle class neighbourhood. Or, at least, what might once at one time have been a very, very middle class neighbourhood, before we moved in and people started getting their labia out in back gardens.

Is it just me running a nudist camp, or is anyone else blessed with exhibitionists as children?

Saturday morning

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Wed, 06 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

Not my finest hour.

Friday night had been marvellous, out in London drinking free champagne (my very favourite type of champagne) all evening.

Regrettably, I had failed to plan strategically, and was doing so having not eaten since 7am that morning.

Saturday morning was fucking hideous.

Staggering out of bed, no more than 5 hours after having gotten into it, I realised to my horror I had to get Beth to her swimming lesson, a ten minute drive away.

Problem 1: My car was at the station.

Problem 2: Neil does not drive.

Problem 3: I had to get my car back from the station in time to get Beth to swimming.

Problem 4: I somehow convinced myself it would be a good idea to RUN to the station (a mile away) to collect my car.

Problem 5: It was very much not a good idea.

Problem 6: I was now running late.

Problem 7: To combat our lateness, I decided to tell Beth she could pack her own swimming stuff.

Problem 8: She's Beth.

Problem 9: I didn't check her packing.

Problem 10: We arrived at the swimming pool. Beth took off her clothes and started to get changed.

'Beth, where's your swimming costume?'

'I didn't bring it.'

'God help us. So how do you think you're going to go swimming then?'

'I brought' - big reveal - 'my BIKINI.'

'Oh god.'

With the sole purpose of shutting her up on a recent shopping trip, I had indeed bought Beth a bikini. It was exceedingly cheap, no doubt because it was two sizes too large for her. An investment purchase, and all that.

She put it on.

The bottoms immediately fell down to her ankles.

'Beth, how is this even happening? What are you doing? You can't go swimming like that.'

She was unrelentingly cheerful. 'Don't worry Mum. I'll just hold them up. You go and sit down.'

It was a sign of how excruciating my hangover was that I listened to her. Delivering her to the poolside I left her to wait for her lesson to start and Jamie and I headed up to the over-pool balcony to watch. He leaned over to observe.

'Mum, have you seen what's happened to Beth?'

Several metres below... thirty extremely sensibly dressed children jumped into the pool... and one, absolutely not sensibly dressed at all, lunatic, launched herself into the pool as her bikini bottoms plummeted to her ankles and her bare naked derriere was exposed to the collective assembled parents, also watching in horror from our vantage point...

THIS is the real reason drinking is bad for you.

Love is in the air

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Mon, 04 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

I don't know if I have mentioned it... but Beth is in love.

Because she is Beth, she can't do the normal thing of falling in love with her teddy, her best friend or an inanimate piece of fluff.

Instead... she has pronounced her love for the most popular boy in the school.

When Jamie first told me this, I thought he was making it up. 'Mum, Beth has told me she's in love with Elliot.'

'No she's not. He's in Year 3 and she's in Year R. Plus he's got about 500 girlfriends. She wouldn't be so ridiculous.'

'She would.'

I went to quiz Beth.

'Beth, what's this I hear about Elliot?'

'I love him.'

'But he's in Year 3.'

'I don't care. He loves me too.'

'He does, Mum.' Jamie was back. 'When he sees her in the playground he reaches out his arms so he can give her a hug.'

'But what about his other girlfriends?' Seriously: every girl in the school seems to have designs on Elliot.

Jamie shrugged. 'Beth's sorting them out.'

I could only imagine.

The next day I was in the playground waiting with both children for the doors to open into school. I was answering one of Beth's many, constant questions when she gave a very pointed look behind my back. I turned... and there, shyly smiling, was Elliot. Staring directly at Beth... and apparently absolutely delighted to see her.

'Look Beth, it's Elliot. Aren't you going to say hello?'

She shook her head and turned away from him. 'I'll talk to him later.'

5 years old... being approached by one of the coolest boys in school... and she's playing hard to get. She absolutely terrifies me.

A couple of weeks later, Jamie had something to report when he came out of school. 'Mum. You should have seen what Beth did today.'

'Oh god. What?'

'She wanted to go over and see Elliot, but two of the other girls in Year 3 who like him were in the way.'

'So what did she do?'

'She tripped them up.'

Fucking hell.

Questions my children ask me

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 01 Jul 2016 08:00:00 +0000

It is not just me, surely? I mean, I get that small children are prone to asking questions. Thank goodness for Google, really. (Absolutely no idea whatsoever what our parents did in the days before t'internet. Lied through their teeth and necked gin, most likely.) But is it only in my house where every single fucking question comes before 8 in the morning? Like mornings weren't chaotic enough.

Recent questions I have answered before 8am. Bonus points if I answered them a) accurately (highly unlikely), b) whilst only partly clothed, c) whilst on the toilet, and d) without swearing:

'What am I?'

'Why has Lionel Messi retired?'

'Is God watching me while I'm on the toilet?'

'Does God like me?'

'Can I have a tattoo?'

'What happens when you die?'

'If an alligator and a hippopotamus had a fight, who would win?'

'Why are England rubbish at football?'

'Is it your house or Daddy's house?'

'Can I wear Beth's pants today?'

'Can I shave my head?'

'What will happen if a nuclear bomb explodes on us?'

'Did Hitler get any presents at Christmas?'

'Can I watch Jaws?'

'What is the most trouble you have ever been in?'

'I know Dad loves you, but does he actually like you?'

'Can you have a baby without having to do sex?'

'What will my voice sound like when it breaks?'

'Can I have a willy?'

'Do you like Jamie or me best? YOU HAVE TO PICK ONE.'

It is a surprise to me every single morning that I manage to resist pouring vodka on my cornflakes.

I do not know why I bother

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Wed, 29 Jun 2016 08:00:00 +0000

Occasionally, I behave entirely out of character, and do something that I think will delight and enthrall my children.

I do not know why I fucking bother.

Today, owing to a well timed doctors' appointment, I thought I would pick them up from after school club early as a surprise. I got there so early that I was there before they even walked through the door.

Beth was first to arrive.

'Why are you here?'

'Now I won't have time for snack.'

'You never let me have fun with my friends.'

'I don't even like it at home, anyway.'

Closely followed by Jamie.

'Oh. It's you.'

'But I wanted to play on the computer.'

'Haven't you got some work to do?'

'I don't like it when you make us tea.'

Both children conferred as I collected their coats and bags like the Sherpa they clearly both assume I am. As I herded them out the door they reached a mutual consent.

'Next time, can you just stay at work instead.'

It is so utterly marvellous to be appreciated.

Fathers' Day

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Mon, 27 Jun 2016 08:00:00 +0000

Most normal women-with-children I know dealt with Fathers' Day by cobbling together some sort of homemade card/present offering from their small children, which looks like absolute shit but which you know the receiver will be forced to feign delight at. Those people with really evil intentions towards the father of their children maximised potential distress and ensured that said homemade gift had Display Qualities, meaning there was no possible way it would be permitted to put safely into a drawer and would instead have to be kept out for public viewing in a central position until such time as either a) the small children forgot about it (in my experience this happens NEVER), or b) someone took a mallet to it.

Either way, it would require minimal input and by 9am you would have entirely fulfilled your Fathers' Day responsibilities and could be back in bed with a bottle of gin, leaving said father to enjoy quality time with his offspring.

Because I am not a) normal, b) sensible or c) possessed with any kind of common sense whatsoever, I decided that I would open it up to Neil to do WHATEVER HE WANTED on Fathers' Day. Hindsight suggests that I should perhaps have added some subsidiary clauses to this offer. Whatever You Want... provided it doesn't require me to move, participate, or feign enthusiasm in any way, shape or form.

Neil decided he wanted to go to the beach.

Briefly... I thought this sounded rather nice.

'Lovely. We'll go to Sandbanks and pretend to be rich. What time would you like to leave?'

'6am.'

It was at this point it all started sounding rather less nice.

Sunday morning, or possibly still the middle of the night. It's hard to be sure. Neil was up, happy and joyous, encouraging us all on our way. 'Come on, morning, it's beach time! Time to get up!'

Mr Jamie sprang out of bed. I'm never entirely quite sure we are actually related.

Beth, as expected, was furious. 'WHY am I up? Why is Daddy so happy? It is NOT morning.' Absolutely no doubt about her parentage whatsoever.

And so we drove to Sandbanks. I have to say that, even though I could only open half of one of my eyes (it had been an interesting drive) and was yet to speak in words of more than one syllable, it did all look rather beautiful. If I had only been watching some other family experiencing it in a film, which I was watching at least 5 hours later than the actual time, it might even have been enjoyable.

Over the next 6 hours, the following things occurred:

Neil lay down on the beach... and fell asleep. Yes, it was Fathers' Day. Yes, I had told him he could do anything he wanted. IF ALL YOU WANTED TO DO WAS SLEEP, COULD YOU NOT HAVE DONE THIS IN YOUR OWN BED AT HOME, was what I wanted to say, but obviously didn't, what with us doing Whatever He Wanted and everything.

No one else came down to the beach for at least another 2 hours.

On an entirely deserted beach, Mr Jamie and Beth fought over the same, 1 metre in diameter, patch of sand with almost zero pause in proceedings.

I drank five bottles of Coke Zero in quick succession and still couldn't open my eyes properly.

Beth shouted at the sea. Repeatedly, aggressively, and at a volume level which sent even the seagulls wheeling away out of our vicinity.

Mr Jamie collected a load of dead crab legs and shoved their stinking remains into my face.

Beth found the shell of a dead crab. Mr Jamie spent the remaining 5 hours, 30 minutes telling anyone who would listen about how unfair it was that he hadn't found the shell of a dead crab.

It started to rain.

We ate some sandwiches, laced with sand.

Beth shouted ICE CREAM on repeat, until the last of my parenting morals had entirely deserted me and I went and purchased ice cream, in the pouring rain, on a beach so cold I could no longer feel my own face, purely to shut her up.

Neil suggested we could go home.

We all practically trampled him in our stampede to the car.

We spent the second half of Fathers' Day removing sand from every orifice and attempting to bring our core temperatures up from zero.

And do you know the very worst bit of all?

It was all really rather lovely :-)

(Though Neil, if you're reading this, just to be clear: next year we can do Whatever You Want... provided it's inside, in the warm, and doesn't start until after 10am... :-) )

Absolutely, categorically, 100% off topic... the EU Referendum

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sat, 25 Jun 2016 12:56:00 +0000

Advance warning: there is not a front bottom in sight. This is very much a departure from the norm when it comes to blogging...

Like a large number of us, I am shell-shocked by the events of the last 48 hours. In trying to process my emotions, I wrote this piece on Facebook, and subsequently decided to transfer it onto here. Would love to hear your thoughts.

"My view [on Brexit] has not changed. I still passionately believe we should have remained within the EU. I believe that leaving will bring to fruition a number of the fears of the Remain campaign, and fail to deliver against the majority of the hopes and promises of the Leave campaign.

Now. When I voted, I did so not for me, nor even for my children, but for what I believed to be the greater good. I could easily have taken the line of 'I'm alright, Jack'. (I have no idea who Jack is.) I am one of a small, privileged minority in this country. It is highly likely that I will be just fine whether we had chosen to leave, or to remain. There is an argument that actually says that, personally, I might end up being better off as a result of us leaving. And my children? Well, again, we're in the incredibly bloody fortunate position that they'll probably be absolutely fine too, regardless of whether we're in or out of the EU.

But my vote wasn't based on that. My vote was based on what I thought was the best thing for the majority, and for our country as a whole. Some of the people I was voting for are, ironically, some of those who chose to vote Leave. And, much as I don't agree with their vote, I can't blame them for doing so. The lack of actual Real Live Facts clearly communicated by either side of the campaign was absolutely appalling.

And so now, here we are, trying to make sense of this strange new world we find ourselves in. Those of us who voted to remain have been working through the grieving process: I've seen various displays of denial, anger, bargaining and depression, both in real life and via social media. And I am now personally working towards trying to find an acceptance.

It would be easy, right now, as someone going through that grieving process, to turn my back on this country. To disassociate with those who have voted to leave; to wash my hands of the whole affair; to leave the country entirely.

I am not going to do that. Because, having worked through it all in my head, I feel that, right now, right here, this is when my country needs people like me - you - us - the most. None of us, as yet, really knows what it means to leave the EU. 'Leave' is a very broad term. There is likely an entire spectrum of outcomes, from a country with huge metaphorical walls all around it who refuses to let any foreigner cross its border, to a country which actually, despite its non EU status, retains many of the values which are personally so important to me: diversity; acceptance; love. And, as I see it, my role - our role - is to now channel the passion we all displayed in fighting to remain, into fighting for the best possible outcome for a country which is redefining itself.

Please don't give up. Please don't let the grief turn into anger, bitterness and recrimination. We are better than that, all of us, and we are so much stronger together. It may not feel like it right now, but there is a bright future out there, there really is, if we can only fight hard enough to find it. Let's make it happen."

The strong arm of the law

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 24 Jun 2016 08:00:00 +0000

An important part of being a parent is occasionally shamelessly lying to your children through your teeth in order to get them to carry out a task, believe what you're saying, or simply shut the fuck up. Mr Jamie was always a delight when I rolled out these untruths, rarely if ever questioning them and simply moving onto his next train of thought or activity.

Beth is a very different child.

On Saturday mornings, Beth goes to swimming lessons. Saturday mornings are not usually my high point of the week, since swimming lesson timing forces me out of bed at least 3 hours before I would naturally emerge.

Beth is also very, very loud.

This particular Saturday morning, she was begging me to let her sit in the front seat of the car next to me. I knew what she wanted me to do. She wanted me to put on ABBA's greatest hits which she would sing along to with vigour, caring not one jot for tune, lyrics or rhythm.

I decided I simply couldn't face it.

'You can't, I'm afraid. Children aren't allowed to sit in the front of the car.'

'But I did last week.' She misses NOTHING.

'Well, you're not allowed to any more.'

'Why? Did the police say?'

'Yes. The police made a new law, which means that children aren't allowed in the front of cars any more.'

'Otherwise you'll go to prison?'

'That's right.'

Me going to prison isn't always enough to get Beth to comply, but on this occasion she acquiesced and got into her car seat in the rear of the car. The journey passed without further comment.

Upon arrival at the pool, I went round to open her door. She picked up her swimming bag and was walking across the car park with me when she saw not one, not two, but three other children arriving in cars with their parents.

All of them, but all of them were - you guessed it - sitting in the front seats, where their car seats had been safely strapped in.

She responded within a nanosecond, hands on her hips, shouting towards them at the top of her lungs.

'YOU'RE BREAKING THE LAW. THE POLICE ARE GOING TO GET YOU. GET OUT OF THE FRONT OF THOSE CARS NOOOOOOOOW!'

I should have known: they always say that telling lies never, ever pays. And don't I know it!

Geography

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Wed, 22 Jun 2016 08:00:00 +0000

About 2 years ago now, I was required to attend a work event up in Slough.

Now. Full disclosure here. Geography is not, and probably never will be, my strong point. I spent a disturbing amount of time thinking Sweden was in Africa. I am not the sort of person who you want to ask for directions when you're lost.

Knowing this, I never travel without a sat nav. And so it was, on this particular day, that I got into my car at home on the South coast. I switched on my sat nav. I entered the postcode of the venue in Slough. I set off on my journey.

Approximately one and a half hours later, I arrived without incident.

(Ha! Bet you weren't expecting that. Don't worry. You haven't heard the half of it yet.)

The day was a success, and at approximately 4pm I got into the car to drive back home. To the venue that I'd left, earlier that very same day.

Because my sat nav was playing up slightly, I decided to also make use of the sat nav functionality on my phone. Two sat navs, running in parallel. Returning home, simply reversing the journey I'd made that morning.

What could possibly go wrong?

For some time, the two sat navs appeared to be in dispute with each other. One telling me to continue straight on, the other telling me to reverse back on myself.

Hmmm.

I decided to settle on the advice of one and ignore the other. The first one pinged happily as I followed its instructions. The second one went silent, no doubt in a fit of pique.

I drove along.

After a while, the first sat nav became unhappy. It suggested I may want to reconsider some of its previous directions. Meanwhile, however, the second one had perked up, and happily suggested I continue along the main road out of Slough.

Which I did.

Shortly afterwards, both sat navs announced to me in almost perfect synchronicity that they had lost all GPS signal.

Excellent.

Fortunately, by this point, I kind of knew what I was doing. I'd seen signposts for Reading, which I knew was definitely going in the right direction. I didn't need sat navs. I would simply carry right along this wonderful, long road...

Meanwhile, Neil had arrived home, having collected the children from school and nursery enroute. Regrettably for him, he had forgotten his keys. Knowing I was on my way, and knowing how far away Slough is from home, he decided to sit with them in the front garden and wait for me to return.

Many, many miles away, things were not going quite to plan.

It had started off so well. I was going to Reading. I had the South coast in my sights.

But THEN. The Reading signs disappeared. Signs for mysterious, unknown towns I had never even heard of replaced them.

I kept driving.

And driving.

And driving.

Down that long, long road.

Then... something strange happened.

In the distance... I could see a bridge. Quite a large bridge, from the looks of it.

I felt sure I'd seen this bridge somewhere before. Now. Where had I seen a bridge like this before? And, more to the point, how come I hadn't seen it on my way up that morning.

I thought. I thought some more. And then a sign loomed up in front of me.

Oh FUCK.

Back home, it had started to rain. Beth, then aged 3, had not responded well to such symbolism, and had promptly wet herself. This was shortly followed by the Ocado man arriving with his delivery. At this point, Neil's phone rang.

It's safe to say it wasn't a high point in our relationship for either of us. Neil, not unreasonably, wanted to know where the hell I was and how long it was going to be before I got back home and relieved him of 20 Ocado bags and a urine soaked child.

I, on the other hand? Well, I was searching for the selection of words with best to tell my husband that I was currently, it's true, on my way back from Slough.

Unfortunately, for reasons which to this day fail me entirely...

... it appeared that I had somehow, inexplicably, managed to return from Slough...

... VIA WALES.

I am my own, very, very special brand of special.

The School Run

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Mon, 20 Jun 2016 08:00:00 +0000

Because I am mad, I choose to manage my full time job in such a way that it also allows me to do the morning school run. I mean, I could happily put my children into Breakfast Club (which they adore) and avoid any part of the drop off routine... but why in the world would I choose to do that, when I get instead to experience THIS.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe the other parents see me coming and secretly chat amongst themselves as I approach. 'Here she comes. Let's do everything we can to make her attempt to deposit her child at the classroom door as difficult as humanly possible.' And, in fairness to them, they really do live up to that promise.

Now, I have to be fair here. Jamie and Beth go to a brilliant, brilliant school and the vast majority of parents are marvellous. But. But. There are the odd one or two who really, really push my not very extensive at all morning patience to the limit. (And no, it's none of you reading this blog. Calm down.)

For avoidance of doubt, perhaps we could just clear up the following, and make absolutely everyone's morning so much, so much better.

1) We are doing the school run. Not hosting a garden party. You don't need to engage absolutely everyone you happen upon in extensive conversation.

2) If you do decide you need to engage absolutely everyone you happen upon in extensive conversation... perhaps you could do so in a manner which doesn't block everyone else hurrying to drop their child off from getting past you.

3) Yes, my shoes are always ridiculous, always vertiginous, no, I can't really walk in them, and yes, they do bloody hurt, hence my eagerness to get the 'walking' part of my day over and done with. You are currently hindering this. Which will explain the look of fury on my face.

4) No one else on the school run gives a shit what your child has done in the 17 hours since you last saw them. Save the 'amusing anecdotes' for a time when you don't have to block the pavement in order to tell them.

5) We all swear at our children. Most of us wait until we're behind closed doors to do so, or, at the very least, don't do it at a decibel level so pronounced I suspect your kids would have still heard them if you'd left them at home.

6) Yes, I'm sure your toddler is incredibly cute. They're not, and you're wrong, but, y'know. Do you know what would make them even cuter? IF YOU STOPPED LETTING THEM TOTTER AROUND IN FRONT OF ME WHEN I'M TRYING TO GET THROUGH AND MOVED THEM OUT OF MY FUCKING WAY.

7) There are 30 children in Beth's class. If each parent spends 5 minutes wittering on to the poor, long suffering classroom teacher about their child as they drop them off, then that teacher will be there for 150 minutes. That's two hours and thirty minutes. SHUT THE FUCK UP.

8) No teacher, however devoted to his or her charges, wants or needs to hear a Match of the Day style highlights package of everything your child has done since they left their care the previous day. Please tell someone who cares. If you won't, then at least record your running commentary onto a memory stick instead and simply pass it to the teacher in the morning rather than holding the rest of us up while we wait for you to please, please stop.

9) If you really, absolutely feel that you must stand and deliver your eulogy each and every morning... then, I beg you, move out of the way of the open door and let the rest of us send our children through. My daughter's patience levels are on a par with mine, and she will push through your legs to get out of the British weather systems if you don't start to curtail your ramblings.

10) Don't even think of taking the risk of parking anywhere near me, if you know what's good for you (and your vehicle). Coordination in a small and crowded street: absolutely not my forte.

Just me?

Hair-raising events

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 17 Jun 2016 08:00:00 +0000

Beth is generally not Neil's biggest fan, but ever so occasionally ventures over to the dark side and defects from me. Just how acute her defection had become, I was about to find out...

For some time now, she has been asking for her head to be shaved. I know. I know. This first came to my attention a couple of summers ago, when I was at work and Neil was looking after the children at home. My phone rang. "I just wanted to check... Beth said that you'd said it was okay if I shaved all of her hair off so that she can look like a boy. Is that really true?"

(Thank goodness he had the sense to call, that's all I can say. Thoughts of having to explain her 'grade one all over' cut to a school whose uniform regime makes North Korea look laid back... yep, horrendous.)

This evening, I was upstairs reading The Witches to Mr Jamie. For about the fifth time: we're both sufficiently impressed by my Grand High Witch voice (Angelica Huston, eat your heart out) to have made it worth multiple readings. Beth had used the opportunity to sneak off (like me, she has no interest in listening to someone else talking while the focus of attention is off her) and subject Neil to a grilling.

Tonight's topic? His hair.

'Dad... you know your hair?'

'Yes. What about it?'

'Well, this bit here doesn't really look very good, does it. Or this bit here.'

'Why don't you think they look good?'

'Because they're a bit sticking out. It would be much better if you just cut it all off.'

'But Mum doesn't want me to cut all of my hair off. Mum likes it like this.'

She barely paused for breath. 'Well, just get a new mum for us then. You're allowed to do that. You can get a divorce, and then you can have a new wife and this time, Dad, pick one who likes short hair.'