I know, I need to stop talking ...

Reasons why high street shopping ...

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 16:58:00 +0000

... fucking SUCKS.

1) It's too cold, and therefore impossible to contemplate buying anything sheerer than a duvet. When you're shopping for party dresses, this makes for an unhappy mismatch.

2) It involves taking Mr Jamie and Beth with you. Turns out most dress rails are in very close proximity to the lingerie section. "Oh Mummy, oh Mummy, oh MUMMY. Come over here now. Look at this BEAUTIFUL NIPPLE THING." The last bit shouted, naturally, at a volume loud enough to be heard right down the other end of said high street.

3) It completely lacks the facility for Google searching. Is it only me who cannot function without Google in every area of their life? Searching for 'non-whore-like-nor-OAP-like black dress' on Google is easy. Trawling through the high street for one is another matter entirely.

(Speaking of Google ... go look.)

4) It invokes the mysterious law of sod which means that, regardless of what item you are searching for, regardless of with what regularity you may have seen it previously on your travels ... it will be COMPLETELY NON EXISTENT for the entire duration of your trip. Attempting to buy a plain, long sleeved, black dress? Not a hope in hell. Bikini, on the other hand? Despite the fact it's January? RAILS of the fuckers. Bastard high street morons.

5) It is filled with increasing numbers of random sales people, who seem to think it is their god given duty to stand in your pathway, accost you as you attempt to pass by, and scream in your face attempting to get you to buy their pitiful products. I had the last laugh today though ... and the poor LoveFilm sales man is quite possibly scarred for life:

"Hello madam. Do you like films?"

"Do I like films? DO I LIKE FILMS? Do I LOOK like the sort of person who likes films? Do I LOOK like the sort of person who has time enough in their day to HAVE A WEE IN PEACE, let alone sit on my arse for TWO HOURS STRAIGHT and watch a film? Oh, and two hours of the attention not being on me? Do I like films indeed. MY FUCKING ARSE."

And with that ... I'm off to Google. 'Long sleeved black dress which doesn't make me look like a whore or an OAP and is therefore eminently suitable for a work do which I really really really don't want to attend.' How hard can it be?

Petrus

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sun, 22 Jan 2012 16:15:00 +0000

So, yesterday I had a most staggeringly awesome day, consisting as it did of:

Good food
Great company
Fantastic wine
And, most importantly of all ... no children (much though I love them)

The occasion was my mum's belated Christmas/birthday present, for which my sister Helen and I had cunningly contrived to treat her to lunch at Petrus, setting for my 30th birthday celebrations (part 1). Cunning, because of course we couldn't possibly let her dine alone ... it would have been rude not to have accompanied her and made sure she got there safely. Oh, and stayed for the meal, naturally ... So, small children safely encsconsed at home with Neil (he is a most excellent husband) - just as well really ... quite what the staff of Petrus would have made of Mr Jamie doesn't really bear thinking about - I set off for the hustle and bustle of London Town.

I raved about my trip to Petrus last time, and was a bit troubled that I'd got myself over hyped and that the reality wouldn't be nearly as good as the memories. Not so. If anything, it was even better. And so, to share the magic with you, my lovely blog readers, here are all the reasons why you must most definitely go and eat there ...*

1) It's the perfect excuse to get rid of your children for the day. (If you don't have children, I am more than happy to loan you Mr Jamie and Beth for 24 hours. You will need a meal at Petrus to recover.)

2) Before you even get to the restaurant, you have an opportunity to visit The Best London Pub I Have Found To Date. (And, trust me, there's a fair few years of research has gone into this.) The Pantechnicon looks pretty, smells divine, and sells a delightful range of cocktails and very nice champagne which don't require you to remortgage your house in order to purchase them. In London, particularly Knightsbridge, I think you'll agree this is something of a rarity. They do permit children and dogs, but you can't have it all. (Although I do think the three of us probably brought down the average wage by about 5000% upon entering.)

3) Back to Petrus, and you don't need to sell your soul to get a table. A lunch booking is extremely easy to come by provided you don't just plan on turning up on the day and plan your calendar a couple of months in advance.

4) The waiting staff are LOVELY. Without exception. I am sure they probably had us marked as Poor People (most likely having remembered us from last time, when Neil and Matt - Helen's other half - took about three hours to manage to take their coats off), but if anything this meant they were even more delightful to us.

5) The layout of the restaurant means you get a great table wherever you sit, but for whatever reason we pulled the long straw and got what must surely have been the best table in there: sat right in the corner, in what effectively equated to a private dining room. (Though the thought they may merely have been attempting to protect their other guests from us had crossed my mind ...)

6) While you could never describe Petrus as a low cost option, when it comes to value for money I believe it has got to be pretty much unrivalled. The three of us had champagne on arrival, their 'Perfect Match' tasting menu (five courses, wines to match three of them, plus various other random 'bits' (you can tell I am never going to make it as a food critic) which arrived out of nowhere, such as miniature icecream cones covered in popping candy, and petit fours served in liquid nitrogen. I had a diet Coke, my mum had a coffee (we know how to live), we drank mineral water throughout (albeit sternly monitored by Helen, who clearly remembered the £16 water bill from last time) and the meal finished with a wooden chest arriving on our table, full of little slices of what was clearly exceedingly good quality chocolate. All of this, and the bill came in at just over £200. I am most definitely not a Rich Person, but I think this is an absolute bargain. If you're a bonafide Rich Person you'd probably class this as costing about the same as a McDonalds. Well. Maybe.

7) The toilets have red sparkly walls. It's like having a wee inside a big red sparkly womb. Never really thought you wanted to have a wee inside a big red sparkly womb? You are SO wrong.

8) Speaking of the toilets ... should you happen to be somewhat childishly minded, you can play a little game with the waiting staff whereby you attempt to sneak into said toilets without one of them having an opportunity to rush over and open the door for you. As you get drunker, this becomes funnier and funnier. Although I admit they may not have felt quite the same about it.

9) Despite my toilet-games, we were still invited down to see the kitchen at the end of our meal which, I kid you not, must be the cleanest room I have ever been into. You could see your reflection in the big polished metal surfaces (I would find this something of a distraction, but I'm guessing not everyone working in there is quite as narcassistic as me). Apparently the final of Masterchef has just been filmed there. I hope they make sure they keep those shiny surfaces shiny.

10) It is just bloody LOVELY. It really, really is. It may not be the most hip and trendy Michelin starred restaurant out there ... but my goodness, the food is beyooooooooooooooooooooootiful. Go, go, go. (And let me know how you get on with the toilet game. My record is 1/3 ... see if you can beat it.)

*Not, alas, any kind of sponsored post. Although if Mr Ramsay happens to be reading, and would like to pay me in free Petrus visits in return for mentioning his restaurant in every blog post for ever more I am more than happy to oblige.

Work Experience

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Thu, 19 Jan 2012 08:51:00 +0000

Last week at nursery, 'Circle Time' took on a new and sinister quality.

(For those who are wondering, 'Circle Time' is less about some sinister toddler cult, and more about the pre-school children spending some time ... in a circle. I know. It's a wonder how they think these things up.)

The topic this week was 'Jobs'. Otherwise known as: 'What do my Mummy and Daddy do all day once they've finally managed to get rid of me for a few hours?'

I know. You can imagine what went through my head when Mr Jamie told me that was what they'd been discussing that day. Much like when you're about to die, a list of the hellish possibilities of what he might have come out with flashed across my mind in quick succession.

"Oh god. So what did you say?"

"I said that my Daddy goes and sits on his train. Because he likes trains."

"Excellent. Did you expand on that at all?"

"Yes. He sits on his train A LOT."

"And after he's finished sitting on his train ...?"

"He does pretending. And then he sits on his train again."

"It's a fair assessment, I suppose. And how about" - gulp - "how about Mummy?"

"I told them ALL about what you do."

"I bet you did. So ... what do I do?"

"Well, you go to your work and your boss tells you off when you get your work wrong. Then YOU tell off the other people who are naughty, because you haven't got a naughty step to put them on, and then you are very nasty to them and you tell them they are not allowed to have any jobs any more, and then they are all sad and cry a lot because you are so mean and nasty to them. I don't think I would like to be at your work Mummy. Are you not very nice?"

"Well, that's one way of looking at it. Thank you for your review of my career. Did the teachers ask you any questions?"

"Yes, they said what else did you do, and then I said that you just come home and get nudey with your big black nipple things and drink all that bad wine which makes you get poorly. Isn't that right Mummy?"

I suppose it could have been worse ...

The Inner Musings of Mr Jamie

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sun, 15 Jan 2012 09:10:00 +0000

The scene: parked outside a large sports retail outlet, waiting for Neil to emerge from within. Thus far he'd been about 15 minutes and counting.

The inner monologue; which, fortuitously for me, became very quickly an outer one, as mused upon by one Mr Jamie:

"Where IS Daddy? Where can he be? Oh, I can see him over there. He is standing still. Oh, no. That's a tree. Oh, THERE he is. There he is with that other lady. Walking over there. Oh, no. That is a man who looks like my Daddy. He must be inside still. It must be very busy. Maybe he is in the queue. Or maybe he has got into a fight. NO. Maybe he's DEAD. Yes, he must be dead. And then he will NEVER come back out again.

"Actually ... no. He can't be dead, because there are policemen with guns, but those policemen with guns are not in this world."

Quite.

I can't blame him for sounding rather demented. He's currently having to get his head around the fact his sister's new favourite toy is ... his genitals. Scenes of Beth chasing a small, naked Mr Jamie around our ensuite and making a beeline for his willy are going to stay with me for quite some time ... not to mention what I suspect it's done to Mr Jamie ...

Love and Marriage

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 08:53:00 +0000

Depressing though it is, there are occasionally times when it's not me who gets exposed to the full extent of Mr Jamie Madness. Last night, having put Beth to bed and done a workout upstairs (I have to put that bit in so that I can sound smug), I came back down to find Neil and Mr Jamie ensconsed on the sofa, with Neil urgently explaining to Mr Jamie all the reasons why he couldn't do a Marriage Kiss with him.

"But I WANT to do the Marriage Kiss with you Daddy." (At this point Neil had to physically wrestle Mr Jamie away from him. And I'm not talking about him just wanting to give Neil a kiss on the lips ... he was going in for the full on experience, tongues and all.)

"I know ... but it's something you only do with people you get married to. Like me and Mummy. Do you think you might get married one day?"

Mr Jamie looked as though he might vomit. "NO."

"But you might change your mind when you're a bit older, and you might want to get married to a girl."

"NO Daddy." And at this point Mr Jamie burst into full on tears. (I debated helpfully suggesting that he could marry a boy instead, but could imagine what Neil's reaction was likely to be.) I'm hoping this means his chances of causing teen pregnancy are minimal.

(That last sentence did NOT sound how I intended it to. What I meant to say is that I hoped it meant he wouldn't be shagging around too much in his teens. What it actually sounds like is that I'm worried about the possibility of Mr Jamie, aged 4, sexually menacing the local 'yoof'. I can assure you that this is not the case, even despite the area in which we live, and Mr Jamie's fondness for his willy.)

On a related note, I enjoyed greatly the moment yesterday when he told me that the magician who'd come to nursery at Christmas had brought some flowers with him to give to "all the gorgeous girls". We arrived home last night to be greeted by Neil at the front door.

"Daddy? When are you going to buy Mummy some flowers? She is a gorgeous girl, and that's who you need to get the flowers for."

That's my boy.

Farewell, my Naughty Step

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Tue, 10 Jan 2012 12:00:00 +0000

Sad times chez IKINTST.

The Naughty Step is no more.

Walk up our staircase these days and there's no chance that you'll suddenly find yourself compelled to sit down and think about what you've done. (At least not unless drink has been taken, and you realise attempting to take the whole staircase in one go is a tad overambitious.) The third step no longer houses Naughty People, and now merely sports fluff and the occasional mountineering spider.

Mr Jamie is devastated.

"What do you MEAN we don't have a Naughty Step any more Mummy? Of course we do. Look. I'll show you. There it is."

"That's not a Naughty Step. That's just a normal stair. The Naughty Step got taken away."

"Oh. Will it ever come back again?"

"Not a chance."

Before you accuse me of having taken leave of my senses (more so than usual, I mean), there is a very, very good reason for this. And the very good reason for this is that Mr Jamie had used all his wile and cunning to start to use the Naughty Step for his own benefit. It was no longer me and the Naughty Step in charge of discipline. It was Mr Jamie and - well - Mr Jamie.

Household task you want to get out of? No problem. "I can't do that Mummy. I have been very naughty. I'm going off to sit on my bottom for a little bit and think about what I've done."

Sister bothering you? Perfect solution. "Jamie, what are you doing with Beth? Why is she shouting?" "She's shouting because she doesn't want to sit on the Naughty Step Mummy, but I am putting her there because she has eaten my toast and she needs to go and think about what she has done."

And worst of all ... parent in need of a dressing down ...?

"Mummy?"

"Yes Jamie?"

"We need to have a little chat."

"Excellent. What would you like to chat about?"

"You know that mess in your room?"

"Always."

"Well have you cleared it up yet?"

"Um ... no. But that's okay."

"No Mummy. No, it's NOT okay. Because I have told you about this before. And Daddy will be very angry with you. Now you must go and sit on your bottom on the Naughty Step and think about what you've done. Go on. Off you go. Beth and me will time you for how old you are. How many millions are you again?"

Bloody-mother-fucking-bastard-wanking Naughty Step. Begone. And never darken my doorstep again.

Psycho

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 06 Jan 2012 10:59:00 +0000

There can be only one conclusion.

I have given birth to Norman Bates.

(I know, get me with my classic film references. Trust me: it'll only happen the once, and in fact it's only happened at all because I happened to watch that film during my A Level English Language classes in excess of 12 times. (There is a reason for this ... but it'll keep for another day.) )

Mr Jamie is PSYCHOTIC.

Obviously, we always knew that with a parent like me he was never going to be entirely of sound mind. Recently, however, things have reached a whole new level.

Like most small boys of around his age, he has an unnatural obsession with death. (At least, I'm assuming most small boys are like this. If not then I've got even more than I thought I had to worry about.) It is now impossible for him to see a picture of anyone on the news without enquiring "Are they still alive?" If the answer is in the negative, this is followed up immediately by "And how did they die? Who killed them?" Alarmingly, he's also taken to doing this with family photographs ...

I can cope with the death obsession, and I can live with the fact he spends half his life wielding a giant latex sword and axe (Neil is 100% to blame for this). Last night, however, on the drive home from nursery (which currently seems to be producing almost 100% of my blog material ... I'm not entirely sure what it is about my driving which inspires Mr Jamie so, but there you go), we got the following:

"Mummy?"

"Yes Jamie?"

"What happens to you if you kill someone?"

"Well, you'd be in an enormous amount of trouble, and you'd go to prison for a very long time."

"What about if it was an accident?"

"You would still be in an enormous amount of trouble."

"What about ... if you got a big axe, and you chopped down a tree, and that tree fell onto someone's head, and then that killed them?"

"The principle is the same. Big trouble."

"But what if it was someone else's tree?"

"Oh god."

While he may be on his way to becoming a serial killer, it's reassuring to know that there are some things which still phase even Mr Jamie. He accompanied me up to change Beth's nappy the other evening, and requested a look at her poo. Who am I to deny such a (freakish) request? I obligingly opened up her nappy for him and he craned his head forwards before recoiling in disgust.

"My GOD Beth. What HAVE you done?"

Love him.

Slapstick Moment

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 11:18:00 +0000

There aren't too many people who could go to open their car door, grasp the handle, firmly pull it open, inexplicably forget to move their head out of its path, crack themselves on the forehead hard enough to knock themselves to the ground, black out, come to (in a puddle), haul themselves up, stagger into the car, carefully shut the door, drive rapidly out of the nursery carpark hoping against hope no one has witnessed your act of stupidity, drive to work, wonder why people keep looking at you strangely, realise you now have a very large and very obvious bright red mark right in the middle of your forehead.

I am that person.

2011: Review of the Year

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Mon, 02 Jan 2012 15:03:00 +0000

First off, Happy New Year. Eagle eyed readers amongst you might have noticed the fact that this post is about 24 hours later than it should really be. Yes, well, if you had anything like the amount of Bad Pink Gin in your head that I did yesterday morning then you'd understand that walking upright was more of a priority than blogging, particularly when faced with a 1pm lunch with your inlaws. (I made it: and I didn't vomit on the table either. Who says there are no such things as Christmas miracles.)

Bad Pink Gin now eradicated (in part due to a medicinal glass of 'hair of the dog' sparkling wine at yesterday's lunch), and with both of my children upstairs making strange growling sounds (which I feel absolutely zero desire to go and investigate, strangely enough), I can now devote myself to penning you a brief review of 2011. And what a year it was.

With 256 blog posts to choose from (I know: get me), it would be a struggle, not to mention a completely pointless waste of time, to pick out all of the highlights. I did however go back to January last year ... and found my list of New Year Resolutions. Just as well I didn't write this yesterday; as if I wasn't feeling bad enough ...

According to this time last year then, I was going to do the following:

1) Lose two stone. At LEAST.

Hmmm. Well. Not quite, although I gave it a damn good effort and made it to about one and a half ... pre Christmas. Post Christmas, post pink gin quaffing and pork pie eating ... well, let's just say the daily enemas and limb amputations start tomorrow.* (*This may be slightly tongue in cheek, before you start panicking and hiding your garden hoses and hacksaws. Besides, I now have Thinking Slimmer in my repetoire ...)

2012 revised resolution: hide the scales down the back of the sofa; manage to run 10k (actually, this bit I would seriously like to do); padlock the pink gin bottle.

2) Get back into daily blogging. Bad luck.

Clearly this was a fail, what with 256 being some way off 365. This may however have come of something of a relief ...

2012 revised resolution: try not to become so distracted by real life that the blog comes to a grinding halt; maybe attempt to put some kind of decency filter on my brain/mouth/typing (or maybe not); keep up not just the one blog but also devote a bit of love to the Tickling Honda (or I fear Mr Jamie will give up on me completely).

3) Drink at least twelve times the amount of alcohol I drank during 2010.

See? It's always good to include at least one resolution that you know has 100% chance of success.

2012 revised resolution: attempt to occasionally spare a thought for my liver ... although am also going to pin this inside my fridge door to cheer myself immeasurably.

4) Stop worrying about how to pronounce the name of the year. 'Twenty ten' didn't catch on, so it'll have to be 'two thousand and eleven'. It's okay. I'll have the last laugh when they all realise 'two thousand one hundred and twenty two' just sounds stupid. It's 'twenty one twenty two', dammit. And calm.

A miserable failure on my part here.

2012 revised resolution: ... but it's all turned out okay! Twenty twelve, here we are! At bloody last. (I always knew I was right.)

5) Not get pregnant. Hmm, must remember to sort out some form of contraception ...

Success! (Thank god.) Although I'm not sure you can exactly describe my contraception fiasco as 'success' ...
2012 revised resolution: have a trouble free, non blog-worthy front bottom.

6) Go back to work. Praise be. Maternity pay is nowhere near enough to make full time Mr Jamie wrangling appealing.

Another resounding success. Well done me.

2012 revised resolution: not to start shouting about my front bottom at work. Again.

7) Attempt not to put any further dents into my car.

On the basis that I screwed this up on the first day of the year, backing into my inlaws' wall, I decided not worry about it any further. It was just as well, really.

2012 revised resolution: to consider purchasing parking sensors, for the sake of all our sanities.

8) Start singing again. Cover your ears, good people of Havant (and surrounding areas).

Check. Bad luck.

2012 revised resolution: to do it more frequently, more publicly, and more soberly. (Alice, this is a reminder to both of us ;) )

9) TURN 30. Birthday week is going to become redundant. I'm planning on birthday month at least, possibly even birthday year.

Like I even need to remind you ...

2012 revised resolution: not to turn 30 again, sadly, given that to do so would require me to invent time travel. We'll aim for 31 instead.

10) Fall over. It's inevitable.

You KNOW it.

2012 revised resolution: give in to the inevitable and simply stock up on plasters/crutches/gin.

A bit of a mixed bag then, although overall I give myself B+ for effort. And when you consider I did all that alongside dealing with big black nipples, writing poetry and discovering my first GREY PUBE ... well, I think you'll agree it was quite a year.

Mr Jamie and the Tidy Streak

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Thu, 29 Dec 2011 11:56:00 +0000

For the love of god ... let it stop.

Mr Jamie has always enjoyed a bit of household cleaning, and for quite a while I'd thought of it as the best - and cheapest - slave labour ever. Almost worth the whole head-out-of-front-bottom fiasco. Recently, however, he's stepped it up a gear, as per his Christmas Eve antics. And I can confirm that, actually, child slave labour is really not all it's cracked up to be. For proof, read on to discover Things Which Have Happened As A Result Of Mr Jamie's Cleaning ...

1) I had to go into work MINUS MY FOUNDATION. This is an event of such rarity, it's probably on a par with Elvis returning from the dead, or some other such natural phenomenon. (Although I'm not sure you could ever really describe Elvis, or me, as 'natural'.) 7am that morning had found me fumbling around the table in the lounge where said foundation is always, always kept. "JamiEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE. WHERE is my foundation?" "Your pink thing Mummy? Hmmm. I'm not sure. Let me have a little think for you." At the time of writing, he's still thinking. For all our sakes - most especially his - I hope he comes up with the goods soon.

2) Beth got tidied up, much to her displeasure. "Jamie. Why is Beth crying?" "Because she is in that box." "Right. And why is she in the box?" "She was making a mess, so I tidied her." Poor Beth.

3) Bed time is being pushed back later and later. Last night we had real, full on tears. "But I can't go to bed yet Mummy. I just CAN'T. This living room is in such a mess, and if I don't tidy it up then this mess will stay here for EVER."

4) Attempting to get ready in the mornings - in a darkened bedroom, whilst the rest of my family snoozes - is becoming an occupation of such great hazard I'm almost tempted to dispense with it altogether and just go into work naked. Mr Jamie has been taking advantage of my bathing of Beth to reorganise my dressing area, lining up my various toiletries in ever more surprising combinations. As if the foundation-free look wasn't bad enough, I'm also sporting rather sweetly smelling deodorant-coated hair ...

5) I am being told off - in a very disappointed manner - by my son. My four year old son:

"Mummy?"

"Yes Jamie?"

"You need to tidy up that bit over there [my dressing area]."

"Well, don't worry about that. It's okay like it is, I think."

"Mummy. You NEED to tidy it. It is a real mess, and Daddy will be very angry with you. Come on. I will show you how to do it."

"Jamie. No. Leave it. Not everything in this house has to be tidied away."

Mr Jamie sighed. "It is such a mess, Mummy. Such a mess." And off he went, rolling his eyes in despair at his tidy-phobic parent.

It can surely be only a matter of time before I'm getting sent to tidy my room ... by my SON. Sigh.

So, Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Tue, 27 Dec 2011 12:28:00 +0000

That was that, then. Did you have a good one? We had something of a mixed bag. Mr Jamie, as one might have expected, was almost paralytic with excitement. I, alas, adapted my usual 'paralytic with drink' approach, and consequently feared something of a conflict when it came to Christmas morning. With the thought of pink gin in mind, I somehow managed to come up with what I can only describe as my greatest bit of parenting yet. Our conversation on Christmas Eve therefore went as follows:

"Jamie?"

"Yes Mummy?"

"Are you excited about Father Christmas coming?"

"VERY."

"Well, you know what you need to do, don't you?"

"No."

"You must make absolutely sure that you stay in bed tomorrow morning until it gets light. Because otherwise Father Christmas might not have had time to come and bring your presents."

"Okay Mummy. I'll do that."

And I know what you're thinking. As IF a plan like that has a hope in hell of working. This is Christmas Day, for goodness' sake. Excitement will surely get the better of him. This is the boy, after all, who went to bed on Christmas Eve muttering 'big fat bottoms, big fat bottoms', apparently apropos of nothing at all. Clearly not someone in control of his faculties. There was no way he was going to remember the 'no getting up until it's light' rule on Christmas Day.

And so it was ... the next morning ... that Mr Jamie woke us all up ...

AT QUARTER TO EIGHT.

Truly, the greatest gift of all.

Despite the delayed start, my pink gin hangover threatened to get the better of me, particularly when it came to the requirement to navigate Mr Jamie and his Tidying first thing. Yes, Mr Jamie, for some completely inexplicable reason has suddenly embraced the art of Tidiness. (Alas, this hasn't yet extended to his bedroom floor.) He is suddenly gripped with an uncontrollable desire to tidy the house (usually, it has to be said, when bedtime looms), and does so with such rigor that I had found myself the previous evening having clothes taken off me and tidied away before I'd even managed to fully strip them from my body. As a result, it meant I spent the first twenty minutes of Christmas Day lumbering around my dressing area, searching in vain for my hairbrush and smashing my (very hungover) head on the loft beams every thirty seconds. It was as well Mr Jamie was out of sight, having hurled himself downstairs to open his stocking just as soon as he was released. Getting dressed was clearly a low priority, which is why all of our early morning Christmas photos feature a very high percentage of nudity. Excellent blackmail material for future years to come ...

The rest of the day was lovely, despite the usually chilled out Beth suddenly deciding to indulge in a couple of hours of what I believe is technically known as Screaming Tantrumming during the early afternoon. The one bleak point was the fact that our cat, Sandwich (I know, I know ... blame Neil) disappeared on Christmas Eve and, as of the time of writing, is yet to return. Much like my liver, it doesn't look good. On the plus side, it did mean that Neil and I spent perhaps the most random Christmas evening of all, removing various large items of furniture from around our house as we played the 'Searching for Dead Cats' game.

Breaking the news to Mr Jamie went as one might expect.

"Jamie, I'm afraid I've got some sad news. Sandwich has gone missing, and we think she might not be coming back."

"Don't worry Mummy. She's probably just gone off on a big adventure."

"No sweetheart, I think it's probably a bit more than that. She might have been hit by a car, or got locked up somewhere, but I don't think she's going to come back I'm afraid."

Mr Jamie sighed. "You're probably right Mummy. I think that the police have probably got her, and they've locked her up in prison. She has been VERY naughty."

Poor, lovely, dead/locked up/adventuring/imprisoned Sandwich. We miss you a lot.

Finally, before I go and stuff my face/destroy my liver yet again, the news for any Tickling Honda fans is that there is ... drum roll please ... A BRAND NEW TICKLING HONDA BLOG. Head over here to get your Tickling Honda fix ... with not a front bottom in sight. (Almost definitely.)

Happy Christmas Blog Readers. I hope you've had an awesome one.

A festive plea

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 23 Dec 2011 09:46:00 +0000

Dear Supermarket Shoppers,

Firstly, a very Merry Christmas to you. Because you're right. Christmas is just around the corner. Christmas which - let me remind you - consists of a single twenty four hour period. That's ONE twenty four hour period. One day - and only one day - in which the shops don't open. And when I say the shops don't open, that's only the majority of shops we're talking about. I'm pretty sure that, even in the back end of beyond, you wouldn't have to go too far to find a 24 hour garage touting for business.

Given this, I'll be honest, your behaviour is completely beyond the reasonable boundaries of what one might refer to as 'common sense'. Racing around the supermarket to strip the shelves bare and line your house with so much food it outgrows the kitchen and spreads into the neighbouring rooms, are not the actions of someone preparing for Christmas. They are the actions of someone preparing for The Apocalypse.

When it comes to in-supermarket behaviour, again, your activity is more akin to someone expecting the end of the world than the arrival of Baby Jesus. Festive music playing, twinkly lights and tinsel on display, a break from work and with the weight of responsibilities off your shoulders. One might think that a nice amble around the aisles, pausing to smile and exchange witty banter with your fellow shoppers, would be an appropriate way to shop in these circumstances.

OR ... you could simply adopt the I'm Shopping for CHRISTMAS, Dontcha Know approach, much beloved of 90% of supermarket clientele in the week leading up to the big day. Grab trolley. Insert screaming children into trolley. Decide to take the supermarket aisles at a 'fast jog', despite the fact you have less than 30cm clear space in front of you. Ram raid other shoppers' trolleys with yours in order to push them out of the way and grab that item off the shelf in front of them which you didn't even know you wanted until you saw them looking at it. Pause briefly in Aisle 2 to have a long, drawn out chat with your best friend you're seeing in less than 2 hours' time, ensuring of course that your trollies are parked horizontally to minimise the possibility of anyone else moving past either of you. Purchase more food than one trolley will hold, and acquire a second one to tether to the first one. If people were struggling to get past you before, there's not a hope in hell they'll manage it now. Smile smugly. Search for your list to check you've got everything. Realise the list never made it out the house that morning. Shout. Swear. Hope for the best and add an extra twelve punnets of cranberries and some cut price Jaegermeister for good measure. Stand in a queue for fifteen minutes, spending the entire time tutting under your breath about the selfishness of other shoppers/inability of the supermarket staff to operate enough checkouts/ridiculousness of how much food the person in front of you has purchased. Check out. Pay. Wheel trolleys, food and screaming children to the car, shouting fraughtly about how much you need to drink gin. Pile food and children into car, electing to leave one child at the supermarket when you realise it's them or the crate of Bombay Sapphire. Drive home, breathing a sigh of relief that that's your supermarket shopping done for the year (and possibly the next, if the pile of food in your boot is anything to go by). Get out of the car. Unload the shopping, enlisting the help of random passers by. Get into the house. Find your shopping list. Realise you have forgotten the turkey, the sprouts, and at least ten other 'Essential' items. Sob into your pint of gin and resolve to return tomorrow ...

There is another way, you know. There really, really is. And that other way, my friends, comes in the form of Mr Ocado. Sanity, at the click of a mouse. And you know what? If you were all to turn to the cult of Ocado, and stay out of the supermarkets next year, that might mean that I could actually do my Christmas shopping in peace ...

Much love, IKINTST xxx

PS Anyone out there thinking I might be ever so slightly verging upon being hypocritical? I don't know what you're talking about. I haven't purchased so much food that some of it has had to go out in the shed, oh no. Particularly given we don't eat at home over Christmas. That would be madness. And I haven't been to the supermarket EVERY SINGLE DAY in the last week. Not at all. As for canape purchasing? Well, I ask you, who in their right mind would buy up so many canapes that they felt obliged to carry out a canape inventory in order to ascertain exactly what they had stuffed into the back of their large American-style fridge freezer? Madness, I tell you. Madness.

The Nativity

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Thu, 22 Dec 2011 10:59:00 +0000

Apologies for the delay in writing this one up. It's taken me a couple of days to get over it ...

As ever, I exaggerate. God was clearly smiling on me (or, more to the point, didn't want the story of the birth of his son tainted by graphic descriptions of nails through hands and baddies with guns), and Mr Jamie mercifully remained completely silent on the events of Good Friday. That's not, however, to say that the occasion was without comedy value. This is us, after all ...

You can picture the scene. 44 parents and hangers on, crammed into a room about the size of my lounge. Neil and I were suitably tardy and ended up standing at the back, which I thought might not be a bad thing if Mr Jamie did as he'd threatened to and we needed to make a swift exit.

After ten or so increasingly sweaty minutes (I debated stripping to my bra, but decided that a rousing rendition of The Big Black Nipple Song was the last thing that any of us needed), the door at the side of the room was opened and, one by one, the children were ushered on stage and said their lines before walking to their places. Bearing in mind these were all 3-4 year olds, the standard was as was might be expected. The majority of them shuffled onto the stage, stared around the room to locate their parents, either waved cheerfully or burst into tears, and then muttered some garbled version of their line. So far none of them had turned straight back round and run out the door again, which is what I fear a four-year-old me might have done (before I discovered the draw of centre stage). The staff member narrating mentioned innkeepers. Oh god. This was it ...

Slowly, around the frame of the door, peered a green-cloaked and hooded (seriously: he looked slightly like a member of the Klu Klux Klan gone wrong) Mr Jamie. He clocked the audience. He clocked the rest of his classmates. He readied himself ...

... and positively MINCED across the stage, flinging his monk's habit around his legs and sashaying over to his place whilst pronouncing in strident tones: "A KIND innkeeper said he had a ROOM for them."

Oh, we were so proud. SO proud, and SO smug. I congratulated Neil on the clarity of Mr Jamie's diction (clearly as a result of the vocal training), whilst electing not to mention that the scene I'd just seen played out was surely the strongest indicator yet that my designs to create the world's first gay baby looked like suddenly coming to fruition. Camp is not the word ...

It was probably just as well we had our moment of smugness, because after that we didn't see Mr Jamie until pretty much the end of the play. He located himself up stage left (we really must talk about the importance of finding that centre stage spot) and stood behind his friend Henry. His friend Henry ... who just happened to be dressed as a donkey. Complete with donkey head. Consequently, Mr Jamie's rousing rendition of Jingle Bells was sung to the back of a donkey, and our only glimpses of him were as he occasionally poked his head around the side of Henry, gave us a cheeky grin, and then disappeared back into oblivion. You'd hardly have known he was there. And my relief couldn't have been more palpable.

Post play, we congratulated him profusely. Like his mother, he is something of a praise-addict, and lapped it all up.

"What was particularly good Jamie was the way you concentrated on being the innkeeper. Some of the children were waving at their Mummies and Daddies and shouting things out" - actually this was genuinely hilarious, particularly when one of the boys spent the entire play shouting out "Mum! Mum! Can I go to Henry's house?" - "but you didn't shout or wave at us at all, did you? You were just concentrating on your line and doing the singing."

"Yes. I was. It's because I didn't have anything to say to you guys."

Can't argue with that.

PS With great excitement I have finally managed to publish my blog to Kindle. Ergo, if any of you lovely blog readers would like to go and leave me a review, that would be bloody MARVELLOUS. I promise you my undying gratitude, and tales of front bottoms for ever more ...

The Tickling Honda: Chapter Five

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 17:03:00 +0000

Well, it's been a long time in the coming. (And hasn't Mr Jamie let me know about it.) Apologies, TH fans. Enjoy ...

Chapter Five

… the mast of a boat.

“Is that a boat? I thought we were up in the sky. Have you not been concentrating, Tickling Honda? Are we going to fall into the sea?” Mr Jamie was rather worried.

“Ah … um … no, no, don’t panic. We’re not going to fall into the sea” said the Tickling Honda. “We have however got a very little tiny bit of a problem.”

“Don’t worry”, said Mr Jamie. “I’ll help you sort out your problem. What do you need?” Mr Jamie liked sorting out problems.

“Um … um … I don’t suppose you happen to have brought a sword with you?”, asked the Tickling Honda.

“YES! Yes I have!” Mr Jamie was VERY excited. He knew it had been a good thing to bring his sword with him. Except … where was it? It wasn’t down his pyjama trouser leg where he thought he’d left it. He looked around the cot … and saw Beth, holding his sword, poking it through the bars of the cot and just about to let it go.

“BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEETH. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. GIVE ME MY SWORD NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOW.” Mr Jamie jumped up into the air and threw himself on top of Beth, grabbing the handle of his sword just as it was about to plummet down to earth. Mr Jamie was very relieved. Beth just looked a bit squashed. “Oops. Sorry Beth, but you know you’re not allowed to play with my sword. It’s for big boys, and you’re a little girl.”

“BabababababaYAbaya”, said Beth. Which Mr Jamie knew meant: “I wasn’t playing with it. I was just having a look. And now I’m going to have a wee in my nappy.”

“Here you go Tickling Honda”, said Mr Jamie. “Here’s my sword. What do you need it for?”

“Ah … um … well.” The Tickling Honda looked a bit suspicious, like Mr Jamie sometimes did when he was doing something he shouldn’t do and Mummy came and found him and asked him if he was behaving himself. “Have you ever heard of Cloud Pirates?”

“CLOUD pirates?” Mr Jamie was confused. “I know about pirates, and I know about clouds, but what is a Cloud Pirate?”

“It’s a pirate that lives in the clouds”, said the Tickling Honda.

“Oh”, said Mr Jamie. It was a bit obvious when the Tickling Honda said it like that. “I like pirates. And I like clouds. Are Cloud Pirates goodies?”

“Hmmm. Well. That’s the problem”, said the Tickling Honda. “Some of them are goodies, but some of them are really Bad Baddies.”

“Badder than Darth Vader?”, asked Mr Jamie.

“Worse. Badder than Jabba The Hut,” said the Tickling Honda. He paused dramatically, but Mr Jamie didn’t think he could have got that right. Everyone knew that Darth Vader was the Baddest Baddie that there was. Jabba The Hut liked eating poo, which was a bit disgusting (well, very disgusting), but he wasn’t a really Bad Baddie. Mr Jamie thought that Cloud Pirates might not be that bad after all.

“Can I see a Cloud Pirate?”, asked Mr Jamie.

“I don’t think you’ve got a choice”, said the Tickling Honda. “Look over there …”

The Tickling Honda pointed over the side of the cot next to where Beth was sitting, and Mr Jamie could now see not only the mast but the entire ship, sailing quickly towards them through the clouds. It was black, with lots of really big sails and a big bad scary looking skeleton flag at the front. Mr Jamie thought maybe he didn’t really want to see a Cloud Pirate after all. He moved a little bit closer to the Tickling Honda (who was looking very worried) and put one hand on his sword, and the other one on his willy, just to keep them both safe. He hoped the Cloud Pirates wouldn’t see them, and would just go sailing by to find some other Cloud Pirates to have some fights with and take all their treasure. If they just kept really quiet …

Unfortunately, it seemed that Beth liked Cloud Pirates a LOT. The moment she saw the boat coming towards them she pulled herself up onto her feet and started shouting very, VERY loudly at the Cloud Pirate boat. “BaBAyaYAbabababaYAbaYAbayayayaya.” Which Mr Jamie knew went: “I don’t know what that is over there but I really really REALLY want to get it and put it into my mouth to see whether it’s something good to eat.” Mr Jamie sighed. Beth could be so silly sometimes. Even she couldn’t eat a whole ship, and now look what she’d done. Mr Jamie could see some people – Cloud Pirates, he assumed – running onto the deck and shouting and pointing in their direction.

“Oh Beth. You silly baby. Now look what you’ve done.” The ship was now moving very quickly towards them, and Mr Jamie could see the faces of the Cloud Pirates. They didn’t look very happy, although they all had extremely big beards, so it was quite hard to tell. Mr Jamie thought he might like to grow a beard when he was a bit bigger. He could do that, because he was a boy. Girls couldn’t grow beards. That would just be silly.

“Tickling Honda, what shall we do?” Mr Jamie looked over at the Tickling Honda, who looked VERY worried.

“Um … um … um … well, I suppose we’ll just have to sit here and see what happens. Get your sword out, and if they start getting fierce then, well, just wave them at it and see if that makes them go away.”

“Shall we do our fierce faces?”, asked Mr Jamie. He had an excellent fierce face which he had been practising for a moment just like this one.

“If you like”, said the Tickling Honda. “Right then. Here they come. Don’t look scared, whatever you do …”

And, with their fiercest faces on, Mr Jamie, Beth, and the Tickling Honda watched as the ship drew up beside the cot, a rope was thrown over the side, and down the rope, heading towards them, came a very, very Bad looking Cloud Pirate …

Bad Blogging

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 16 Dec 2011 09:17:00 +0000

Well, less 'Bad', more 'No'. Did you miss me?

I want to say I missed you - and for those of you who are sensitive souls: I did, like you wouldn't believe - but the truth of the matter is that I've been quite busy rediscovering Real Life (I KNOW) ... and it's actually quite good. Well, being strictly honest - this is me, after all - it's quite mad, but then that's come as absolutely no surprise.

It's not just blogging I've put to one side. I've had days where I haven't gone anywhere near the murky world of t'internet, days when I HAVEN'T PUT THE LAPTOP ON AT ALL. Can you believe it? Yes, over the past couple of weeks I've discovered pasttimes I never even knew I had. I've watched some TV. (Apprenticeapprenticeapprentice.) I've had a conversation with my husband. (It's unclear whether he thinks this is a good thing, or whether he preferred the silence.) I've had sex without Tweeting midway through. (This bit's a joke. At least, you - and Neil - 'd better hope it is ...) It's been a revelation.

The flip side is that moments of brilliance keep escaping without being firmly committed to the electronic word. Moments such as last night when my two children sat opposite me in the bath, pointed and laughed until they cried at the sight of my front bottom. No, I have no idea why. But it does suggest that if I ever make the move into stand up comedy I probably won't need to do anything more than pulling down my trousers ...

Oh, and Nativity preparations, needless to say, continue at pace. Mortifyingly, it looks like all my fears will be coming true. Mr Jamie's room leader informed me this week that his line is now regularly being said as follows:

"A KIIIIIIND innkeeper said he had a room at the inn ...

... and then Baby Jesus was there and the nasty men got him and they put him on the cross and got the nails and put them through his hands and there was blood EVERYWHERE and then he died and the people were very sad except for the bad soldiers because they had GUNS."

"Hahahahahahahaha." I laughed nervously. "Yes, he said that at home, and he said he was going to tell you about it, so hopefully he won't say it in the play, hahahahahaha."

"He does. That IS what he says in the play now. We can't keep him quiet."

"Oh god."

This follows the incident when he ran into nursery the other morning announcing he had "Baby Jesus toys to play with". ("Jamie. Shush. You mean you have a nativity scene at home. You make us sound like we're in a cult.")

With all this in mind, you can imagine my reaction when our church phoned me up last week to ask whether Mr Jamie would like to be in their nativity play, and whether he'd like to take on the starring role of Joseph. I thought about it for all of 30 seconds.

"You know what? I'm not actually sure he's ready for a role of that magnitude. Where I really think he'd excel would be in one of the silent roles. Jamie is EXCELLENT at keeping quiet. A king? Yes, I'm sure he'd like to be a king. Perhaps he could be a king wearing a muzzle. Just to be on the safe side ..."

Mortified

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Thu, 08 Dec 2011 20:44:00 +0000

I suspect my parents might say I had this coming ...

Beth got her school report this week. Yes. I know. We can't sort out the Euro crisis, so we'll deflect the issue by focusing on the requirement for 1 year olds to get regular school reports. Government nobbers.

It read as follows. Please bear in mind, when you read this, that I have, all my life, been a straight A student. Even Neil was an A/B student. We are not used to bad reports. Oh, and of course, Neil is a teacher. Which means I know all about the 'code' teaching staff use to attempt to fob off parents with. I only wish I didn't ...

Beth's Nursery Report
Beth is a real little character.
Beth is a fucking nightmare. She's just about cute enough to get away with it, but my god, if we could just put her in a box for half an hour, life would be SO much easier.

We are all very aware when Beth is not with us for the day.
See what I mean? Fucking NIGHTMARE. It's so blissfully peaceful when she's not in. We only wish it was for more than one day a week ...

Beth must learn to share her toys.
Beth bullies the other babies.

Beth enjoys eating.
Beth is a stomach on legs. Fair play. It's true. It is her favourite activity by quite some way.

It is good that Beth has started to learn to interact with all members of staff.
Thank god, Beth has finally stopped having a meltdown when anyone other than Frankie (her room leader, and favourite member of staff by a country mile ... she has eschewed me for Frankie before now) goes within a 12 mile radius of her. This means that Frankie can once again be allowed to go to the toilet by herself, without Beth screeching so loudly that all the other children in the nursery get woken up. It also means that Frankie can be allowed to go off on maternity leave at the end of the year. Otherwise we feared she might be taking Beth with her ...

I am mortified. MORTIFIED. At least I thought I was ...

... and then Mr Jamie, out of nowhere, knocked Beth's mortifying behaviour to one side and shot into first (mortifying) place.

I picked him up from nursery tonight and quizzed his room leader on how he'd been.

"Oh, he's been fine. You'll never guess what he's been telling us though?"

"Oh god. What?"

"He's been telling us: 'My Mummy eats people.' "

"Oh."

"Yes. Then we asked him when you did that, and he told us: 'Not now. But sometimes. You just never know when.' "

"Just in case there's any doubt, I can assure you I don't."

"That's what we told him, and then he said: 'Yes, she does, and do you know what else? My Mummy drinks LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOADS of wine. Loads and loads and LOADS of wine, and she does it ALL the time.' "

"JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMieeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee. Come. Here. NOW!"

FREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE stuff

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Mon, 05 Dec 2011 20:52:00 +0000

Really really really free stuff, and not just stuff which is only free when you sleep with someone. Not that I'm suggesting you would. Sleep with me, that is. (Although you'd be missing out, that's all I'm saying.)

Quite how I've already got into sex, which is SO not the point of this post, goodness only knows. Hmmm. 'Into sex'. Bit of an unfortunate turn of phrase ...

(I know. How I manage to hold down a relatively important and senior day job four days a week and give the illusion of being a competent balanced individual is completely beyond me. That was some seriously good acting training I got at drama school.)

Right. Back to the point. (You mean there actually is one? Yes. I know, I know.) Today, I have some lovely free stuff for you all. Get me. Well, more to the point, get Sandra, the most awesomely brilliant Big Boss over at Thinking Slimmer. (Yes. I'm plugging them again. Because it's my blog, dammit, and because they are bloody MARVELLOUS. (Not to mention completely sensational at PR ;o) ) She is very kindly unleashing the world of the Slimpod (no, not an anal probe: merely an MP3 download, panic ye not) onto the general public by giving anyone who 'likes' their Facebook page a COMPLETELY FREE (no sleeping with anyone required, at least not unless I've completely misunderstood their instructions) Christmas-related-Slimpod for your downloading pleasure. FREE thinness, and not a plastic surgeon in sight. You know what to do ...

(I realise that if you actually want to know what the Christmas Slimpod involves then this is probably not the most insightful post in the world. But seriously? If you're expecting insight then I'm guessing you know you're in the wrong person's head. Go head over to the proper Thinking Slimmer website and no doubt all will be explained ...)

And with that, I shall leave you, to go enjoy my newfound skill ... inserting my right nipple neatly into my tummy button. Oh yes. I know how to live ...

Hilarious shit

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Sun, 04 Dec 2011 20:43:00 +0000

Not literally of the excrement variety. I'm funny, but I'm not that funny.

Mr Jamie has made me laugh like a drain in recent weeks. Here are some selected highlights for you:

His kissing of boys. He returned from nursery to announce to Neil and I that he had been kissing 'Reese and Henry'. I was suitably delighted. Neil less so. He suggested to Jamie that he might not want to kiss the boys. Jamie responded with aplomb. "No Daddy. I kissing the boys, and I keep on kissing the boys, because it is BRILLIANT." And he dissolved into hysterical mirth. I bloody love him.

His viewing of A Muppets Christmas Carol. The Ghost of Christmas Future appeared, and Tiny Tim was condemned to an apparent certain death. Tears flowed. The camera panned in to his crutch (that's crutch, not crotch), sitting beside the fire, and also adjacent to a large black coal scuttle. "Oh Mummy. Have they put him in the bin?" Try not laughing at that.

His decorating of the Christmas tree. "Oh Mummy. That's beeeoooootiful that is."

His disturbingly frequent descent into Cockney. "Beeeoooootiful", "bo'om" (most frequently applied to Beth's grand derriere) and "nuffink". I have become the parent I never wanted to be. "It's boTTom, Jamie." "Bo'om." "BoTTOM." "That's what I said. Bo'OM." "Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah."

His depressingly accurate assessment of my body, once stripped naked. "Oh Mummy. Did you used to be beautiful once? Put on your marriage dress again. That might make you beautiful."

He is endearingly wonderful. And woefully honest.

Calling time on blogging

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 20:53:00 +0000

Might be what I would entitle this post, were I to be entirely self obsessed and completely melodramatic.

Oh ...

As ever, I am prone to exaggeration. This is no more the end of the blog than it is the end of Mr Jamie wearing my pants on his head. (I thought, having turned 4, he might have grown out of it. It appears not. Not only that, his sister is very clearly following in his footsteps. Why am I not surprised ...)

It is, however, an admittance to my very, very lovely readers that a world of daily blog posts is probably no longer within my reach. I know. Am rubbish.

I've been musing on this for a while, having found myself with less and less time and opportunity to unburden my brain via the medium of this blog with all things random and Mr Jamie related. Which is a shame, because they're bloody hilarious. (The half hour this morning spent discussing why Baby Jesus had a close affinity with 'certificates' would be a case in point. Oh, the mutual relief when we discovered he was actually talking about 'nativities' ...) Alas, real life has something of a habit of getting in the way, and when your laundry pile is higher than your oldest child then it is very clearly time to put down the laptop and get out the Ariel.

(I love the way I have written the end of that last paragraph to make myself sound like some kind of competent parent/wife/clothes washer. To put things into perspective, I've spent the last hour sitting on my arse, drinking Chardonnay and reading Heat magazine. Which is probably why the laundry pile has got quite so gargantuan ...)

So, it is not entirely calling time on blogging, but it is time to admit to a definite slacking off of posting. (I say this. Christmas is coming, with resulting hysteria, which probably means you'll get about a post an hour for the next month or so. Apologies in advance.) I could have just drifted off quietly, but, as you may have gathered, drifting off quietly is so not my style. Besides, for some utterly unknown reason I feel some kind of strange compulsion not to 'let anyone down', given how lovely you've all been to me. It's almost like I'm getting sentimental ...

Which means it is clearly time to end this here. (And put down the wine.) Thank you all for being the most awesomely brilliant blog readers one could ever hope to meet. In a pretendy-non-real-virtual-reality type world. (I fear some possible repetition there ...) I will still be around, and there will still be the occasional glimpses into madness (my favourite ever description of this blog - thank you, whoever it was that wrote it) on here, but it will be on a greatly reduced basis. Which is probably no bad thing. There are only so many 'big black nipples' and front bottoms one blog can take. In the meantime, it will leave me with oodles of spare time, with which to muzzle Mr Jamie, pressure hose the washing pile, and work out exactly how one does open a bottle of wine WITH CORK (how DARE they) in this enlightened, cork free, corkscrew free day and age.

Hic ...

The Most Crazy-Arsed Story Of All

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Tue, 22 Nov 2011 20:50:00 +0000

Nativity preparations continue apace. Which led to this discussion in the car home from nursery tonight. (For all those who are mystified as to why parents with small children have had their car insurance premiums dramatically increased: puzzle no longer.)

"How was nursery sweetheart?"

"It was okay. I touched a stinging nettle with Reese. It stung us."

"One might have hoped the clue was in the name ... Why did you do that?"

"Because Reese said we should."

"Excellent. Does it hurt?"

"Lots."

"Glad to know the experience didn't disappoint. Did you say your line today?"

"Yes."

"That's good. Who are the other children in your play?"

"Reese is Maryjoseph."

"Are you sure? Is he not perhaps, more likely, just Joseph?"

"No. He's Maryjoseph."

"Fair enough. Who are the kings?"

"Scar, and Simba's Daddy."

"What?"

"Scar is a king, and so is Simba's Daddy. But they don't wear the crowns."

"And they're in your play?"

"NO Mummy. LISTEN. They are the kings."

"Oh. Okay. I thought we were talking about your play. Are there not any kings in your play?"

"No."

"I thought they brought the presents. The gold, and the frankincense, and the myrrh."

"Oh, yes. Yes, there are. Jack is the Gold, and Henry is the Andmyrrh."

"The myrrh."

"That's what I said. He's the Andmyrrh."

"Excellent. More than ever, I look forward to seeing this. Do you know who the story is all about?"

"No."

"Jesus."

"Baby Jesus? Like at Church?"

"That's right. Because the Nativity story is all about when Baby Jesus was born, and Mary was his Mummy."

"And then they killed him."

"Well, not straight away, thank goodness."

"But they did Mummy. Those men came and got him and put him on the cross and put that ouchy crown on his head and then they killed him, because they were the bad soldiers without the guns. The ones with the guns are the goody ones. Baby Jesus was dead and everyone was VERY sad. Except the baddies."

"I may have to speak to nursery about you taking on a non-speaking role."

Help.

Weekend Of Doom

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Mon, 21 Nov 2011 20:08:00 +0000

Seriously. It's not often I look forward to a Monday morning, but today was one of those. Weekend Of Doom indeed. A concise summary for you, given I'm about to indulge in a very large glass of wine to help me get over it. (Oh yes. I couldn't even drink wine. I know ...)

1) I took Mr Jamie - and Beth - wedding dress shopping. I know. What was I thinking? No, not for me. My dad's only just recovered from paying for the last wedding. (He also now has a new wedding to fund, what with my sister Helen and her boyfriend FINALLY getting engaged, HOORAY!) Nor, contrary to a suggestion from one of my colleagues, for Mr Jamie to marry Beth (whatever he might think we do out in the 'suburbs'). No, this was wedding dress shopping for my lovely friend Lorraine, who is both a) going to look quite staggeringly beautiful in her chosen dress, and b) is perhaps the most tolerant person I know, permitting me plus small children to come along with her. They were actually surprisingly well behaved, despite Mr Jamie's insistence at dressing up at a pig. (Yes: really. Quite what the wedding dress shop were doing with a pig costume (to fit 4 year olds) in their repertoire is another thing entirely ...) In fact, upon reflection, this was probably the highlight of the weekend ...

2) I bought Beth her first pair of shoes. £28. TWENTY EIGHT POUNDS. I refrained from telling the lovely lady in Clarks that I'd just bought myself a pair of delightful Moda in Pelle knee high boots from Ebay for the grand total of £17, and instead gritted my teeth and smiled politely. I was a little worried that Beth might react to her first shoes in the same way as Jamie did: screaming blue murder and instantaneously losing the ability to walk, dropping to his knees and resolutely staying there. I had forgotten her penchant for all things shoe-related (so her mother's daughter). She reacted as though I'd presented to her her own personal heaven, careering around the shop and clearing all shelves of shoes to be then clutched in her sweaty grasp. Clarks have a little 'service' where they take a photo of your child wearing their first pair of shoes (thus attempting to justify the £28 price tag). Beth's is notable for the fact that she's not only wearing a pair of shoes ... she's also holding another twelve pairs. Oh, and needless to say, she hasn't actually worn her shoes once. Running the house screeching with joy and holding them aloft ... absolutely.

3) I rammed a two inch long splinter down the underside of my nail and into my nail bed. Those who are squeamish may wish to ... oh, too late. As if this wasn't bad enough, it then led to a truly mortifying chain of events. And not in a good, blog-comedy-potential type way. Be thankful you are spared.

4) I contracted tonsilitis, and therefore spent the majority of the weekend lying flat on my back, without getting any sex at all (this is not a slight on Neil, although I can't imagine a groaning moaning sweating woman with tonsils the size of kneecaps would be a particular incitement to arousal) AND losing completely my ability to drink alcohol. In case you don't believe me: I was in bed by 8.30pm on Saturday night. All wasn't entirely lost: I rallied on Sunday afternoon and drank half a shot of neat pink gin to blast my tonsils into oblivion. What can I say? Pink gin cures a myriad of ills ...

5) I failed miserably to learn from the error of my ways. It is clearly, for me, not enough to piss on your mobile phone once in your lifetime. No, no, no. There always has to be a repeat performance ... this time with a £300 handset. I am SO not cut out for designer accoutrements. Thank heavens for the marvel which is ... a bag of dry white rice. 48 hours later and said £300 handset is miraculously operational ... with just the faintest of piss stains underneath the screen to give away its traumatic experience ...

6) My debit card got blocked. Because of fraudulent activity. Sounds bad, doesn't it? It gets worse ... the fraudulent activity was carried out by ME. Yes, that's right. Confined to the sofa by the joys of tonsilitis, I set to work completing all of my Christmas shopping. In one afternoon. It appears the kind people at Barclays couldn't fathom how someone with such a large overdraft had managed to spend so much money on a Sunday afternoon ... so they decided to take the sensible approach and block my card. I only wish they'd done it prior to the pink gin consumption.

7) Mr Jamie has shown me well and truly where his loyalties lie:

"Daddy, I love you."

"Thank you. I love you too."

"And Beth loves Mummy."

"That's right. And you love Mummy too. We all love each other."

"NO Daddy. I love you, and Beth loves Mummy. That's how it works."

Weekend of DOOM.

"To be, or not to be ..."

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 18 Nov 2011 08:18:00 +0000

Mr Jamie has been cast in the nursery nativity play. He's playing an innkeeper. No, it's not the lead (wails, gnashes teeth), but it is both a named part AND a speaking part. (I honestly didn't realise my inner stage-school mother tendencies would come to the fore quite so early on.) The latter, I fear, may cause some problems.

You see, Mr Jamie, for some inexplicable reason, has developed a sudden fear of Christmas. (I'd like to think this would absolve me from buying him any Christmas presents, but can imagine the consequences if I went down this route.) Nursery have been getting into the festive spirit for some time now, and on almost a daily basis I get an update telling me that "Jamie was in floods of tears today - we made him wear a Christmas hat". (One might think that, given this, they'd go easy on the festivities ... but I guess they're going for an 'overexposure' attempt at a cure.) Fuck knows why. He's never had anything but positive Christmas experiences ... although I suppose if he's still going on the basis of this as his understanding of what Father Christmas does, I can perhaps understand some of his concerns.

Because of Mr Jamie's anti-Christmas stance, he was also refusing to say his line for the play. This was not good. I've seen first hand what happens when actors can't step up to the plate ... before you know it his understudy would be jumping in and he'd be relegated to 'bale of hay', or similar. Our son, following in the footsteps of his ~~ego maniac~~ actor parents, being given a non speaking role? Unthinkable. Which is why, when I came up to the bedroom on Tuesday evening ...

... I found Neil giving Mr Jamie VOCAL COACHING.

This is almost impossible to describe, but it's one of the funniest things I have ever seen, and therefore I shall do my best to recreate the magic for you here.

Neil was stood at the bottom of the stairs up to the loft.

Mr Jamie was stood at the top.

"Right Jamie. Like this. A KIIIIIIIND innkeeper said he had a ROOM at the INN for them." Don't worry about trying to imagine what Neil sounded like ... just imagine Brian Blessed standing at the foot of the stairs, and you're there.

"Akindinnkeeperhadaroomattheinn."

"Slower. Louder. A KIIIIIIIND innkeeper said he had a ROOM at the INN for them."

"AKINDinnkeeperhadaROOMATTHEINN."

"Slower. Remember to add all the words. 'Said', and 'for them'."

"AKINDINNKEEPERSAIDHEHADAROOMFORTHEM."

"Still slower. You need to remember to breathe. Breathe after 'innkeeper'."

(Thus followed about 10 minutes of Mr Jamie attempting to do said breathing.)

"I can't do it Daddy. I can't breathe."

"You CAN do it Jamie. Do what I do. A KIIIIND innkeeper - breathe - said he had a ROOM at the INN for them."

"A KIIIIIND innkeeper - BREATHE - said he had a room at the inn for them."

I had to leave the room at this point, I was laughing so much. And when I returned, some ten minutes later, they were still at it.

But fair play to Neil. The practise has paid off. Mr Jamie now not only knows his line, he can say it without bursting into tears, and whilst breathing. Now just to teach him how to use the most underhand, bullying means possible to make damn sure he gets right to the front and steals that centre stage spot.

Pushy parent? Me? I don't know what you're talking about.

Joint baths

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 20:11:00 +0000

I have something of a penchant for joint baths. Perhaps surprisingly (or not), this is rarely with Neil. The trend kicked off pretty much from birth, with my family regularly playing the oh so popular game of How Many People Can Fit Into One (Avocado) Bath. It subsequently enjoyed a major renaissance at sixth form college (David Poooooooooootttttttt! - love you!), and of course drama school pretty much speaks for itself.

Whilst Neil and I aren't regular bath sharers (he makes me have the tap end), Mr Jamie and Beth appear to take after their mother when it comes to enthusiasm for joint baths, as chronicalled on more than one occasion on this blog. Last night, Mr Jamie and I decided to indulge in a particularly hot and deep one after Beth had gone to sleep. I want to make some kind of witty link there between the deepness of the bath, and the profoundness of Mr Jamie's thinking, but after an 8 hour meeting my 'wit' brain compartment is dazzlingly empty. Regardless. The conversation went along these lines:

"Mummy?"

"Yes Jamie."

"Why do you have so much skin?"

"Well, I have to hand it to you. There are many ways of describing someone as overweight, but that's a new one on me."

"What did you say?"

"Never mind. The skin is there to cover up all of the bits inside of me."

"Like your blood."

"That's right."

"And the milk in your nipples."

"Yeeeeees."

"Will that milk NEVER come back again Mummy?"

"I'm starting to wonder whether you need some kind of trauma counselling. No. Never. Sorry."

"That's okay Mummy. It's not your fault."

"What's really interesting about skin" - note desperate attempt to change the subject from a) my bulk, and b) milk in nipples - "is that it has lots of tiny little holes in it. They're called pores."

"Like cats have?"

"Well. No. A bit. Yes, in that the word sounds the same, but no, in that it's spelt differently. Plus one refers to feet, and one refers to holes. And that was a terrible explanation given that you can neither spell, nor understand the meaning of the word 'refers'."

"Can I see the holes?"

"Yes. Here, have a look at my nose. Look very closely. Can you see the holes?"

"Ummm ... ummm .... ummm ... YES! Yes, I can see the holes Mummy, and they're not very little, they're MASSIVE." That pore reducing moisturiser was clearly paying off then. "I can see them there ... one ... two. Massive!"

Ah. "I think you might be confusing pores with nostrils. Look closer. Can you see some very, very tiny holes?"

"I can see some red holes. Red ones, and black ones. Are those them Mummy?"

"While I'd like to describe them as holes, it's probably more accurate to say that the red ones are spots, and the black ones are blackheads, although they are effectively the holes clogged up with dirt, so yes, well done you."

"I don't have any of those red spots do I Mummy?"

"Not yet. Just you wait. I mean, no, darling, of course you don't. You have lovely skin."

"Not like you Mummy."

"Thank you."

"But Mummy, it's okay. Because I do really like your front bottom. That's lovely, that is."

Nothing like a joint bath for an over-accurate assessment of your body, that's what I say. Anyone like to borrow a Mr Jamie?

Thinking Myself Into Less Of A Lardarse: A VERY Belated Update

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Fri, 11 Nov 2011 13:06:00 +0000

Sorry, sorry, sorry. Am rubbish.

So, you'll remember back in September when I started out with the cult of Thinking Slimmer. I gave you a couple of enthusiastic updates, waxed lyrical about it ... and then disappeared off into the ether. Which no doubt has left you thinking it's a load of old cobblers and doesn't work at all.

WRONG. I am a total cult devotee. Between starting in September and hitting my 30th mid October I lost round about half a stone. For me, official Slowest Weight Loser Of All Time, this was no mean feat. Bearing in mind that at the start of the year I was struggling to get into a size 14, and now my skinniest of skinny size 12 jeans fit with ease ... happy happy joy joy. Not to mention the fact I ran 8k. EIGHT. KILOMETRES. I am still not quite over it.

I did still secretly wonder whether it was actually all down to Thinking Slimmer. And so post birthday I thought I'd have a little bit of a rest. And I - gulp ... STOPPED LISTENING TO TREVOR.

And in two weeks I put 4lb straight back on.

Weep.

Needless to say, I started listening again, and that 4lb has started to melt away, but I was getting a tad deluded about the whole thing and wondered whether it was just going to be easier and quicker to go down the 'limb amputation' route to achieve my desired weight loss. Thank goodness then for the lovely Sandra, the Big Boss at Thinking Slimmer, who took some time out of her day to give me a ring and sort me out. (In a non violent, menacing way, just in case you were concerned.)

What she said makes a LOT of sense. When you're exercising a lot (and I really am), obsessing (me? obsessed? Surely not ...) over the numbers on the scales is quite likely to be the worst possible thing you could do. Had my clothes got looser? Um, yes. Was I very comfortably now down into a size 12, just one size away from the hallowed Size Ten (ahhhh-ahhh-ahhhh-ahhh - that was some angels singing there, just in case it needed clarification)? Um, yes. Was I running longer distances than I ever thought I was going to be possible for me and feeling fitter than I'd ever done in my life. Um ... yes.

And so, shiny glass electronic scales of doom/wonder (depending on which way the numbers are going): I am THROUGH with you. (Well, maybe not entirely through. Don't give up the ghost on me just yet. You've already demonstrated the longest battery life of all time (six years and counting), so we're not splitting up entirely.) I am, however, bringing a new component into our relationship ...

... THE TAPE MEASURE.

(Well. I say tape measure. This being me, what I actually mean is a pink spotty dressing gown cord and several 30cm rulers. But I'm sure the desired effect will be the same.)

Out with the lb and oz, and in with the in and ... whatever the little bits are that you get in the middle of an inch. Mini-inches, maybe. Sounds a bit like a skin disease. No longer will I be weighing my bulk ... I shall be MEASURING it instead. What's more, because I don't carry quite the same prejudices about distance as I do weight ... I'm even going to share it with you. Oh yes. Living the dream.

As of today then, here's what I look like. (As you can see, it's all incredibly technically accurate.)

Waist. (Even I can find that bit. The least sticky outy bit in the middle.) 33 inches.

Bottom. (I'm sure this is meant to be 'Hips', but does anyone actually know what a hip measurement looks like it's at when it's at home? I've just gone for the most sticky outy bit for this one. I am nothing if not consistent.) 44 inches. Isn't that equivalent to about half a mile or something hideous?

Breasts. (The most sticky outy bit up the top.) 37 inches.

Bit Under Breasts. (As described.) 33 inches. (Which is confusing, because my bra size is a 34 DD. Am I doing it wrong?)

Trevor, it's you, me, and my sticky outy bits. I'll keep you posted.

Reasons why ...

noreply@blogger.com (KT) — Thu, 10 Nov 2011 20:20:00 +0000

... I am somewhat irked.

(I know, right? 'Irked'. Not usually a word you'd find in my (profanity laden) vocabulary. It's because I fear if I start swearing, there's a strong likelihood I'll never stop. (Plus my mum might be reading. In which case I will be in SERIOUS trouble.))

I am irked in regards to all of the below, on the basis that I am bloody lovely, and such annoyances should simply not be allowed to happen to me. (I'm not actually bloody lovely: I'm a mouthy bitch, but allow me a little artistic licence, m'kay?)

Pre-ramble over ... here are all the reasons for my serious irkedness:

1) I have been vomited on today, not once, not twice, but THREE times. Not only have I been vomited on; you can also add in my car, my sofa, and my box of tissues. Oh, and my FACE. Thanks for that, Mr Jamie. The worst thing is that, because he is clearly Properly Poorly, I can't even get annoyed with him. Still, on the plus side, feeding your child nothing but Tunnocks teacakes and orange juice ice lollies, along with a side order of pink Calpol, makes for bloody lovely smelling vomit. Enjoying your dinner there?

2) People are so fucking prejudiced. (And thus: it starts.) It's not enough to wear clothes. We're expected to wear more than one item of clothing. Pants, a top, and a pair of opaque tights ... just not enough. At least not if the reaction of my neighbours was anything to go by when I inadvertently left the house sans skirt. Sorry neighbours. I'd wondered why my front bottom felt strangely shivery. And now I know ...

3) Wine only comes in 750ml bottles. Worse: you're not actually meant to drink one of those bottles all in one go. Worse STILL: one bottle of wine pretty much constitutes your recommended weekly alcohol units. (Which, clearly, you should absolutely not be drinking all in one go.) Bloody wine fascists.

4) Along with being prejudiced, people are so fucking insecure. Or maybe it's just the people I choose to follow on Twitter. Gah, enough already with your insecurity and your neediness and your POOR SPELLING OF YOUR PROBLEMS. Get a grip, learn to love yourself, and buy a dictionary.

5) I am so fucking intolerant. Damn me with my vomit hating/clothes shunning/wine drinking/antisocial behaviour ways. How hideously irksome of me.

Come on then. What has seriously, seriously, fucked the hell out of you this week. Screw the irkedness. Profanities are absolutely where it's at.