Random Thoughts from a Random Woman

The One With The Holiday Packing

2013-05-20T08:33:00.000+01:00

At the end of last week I was delighted that Tesco Magazine published a review article I had written for them, all about a weekend away in the New Forest.

http://www.tescomagazine.com/living/holidays/oakdene-forest-park-review.html

Tellingly the article starts with these words:

"Travelling with a toddler isn’t always the most relaxing experience. Packing for a holiday with one is a military operation!"

I hate holiday packing. I find it really stressful. It actually impacts on the first day or so of my holiday because I am so stressed.

I make lists. I tick things off. I highlight the stuff I have yet to do, or shop for, or wash, or find, or mend. I start days in advance. I have lists for me and separate lists for the boy. I have lists for things that need doing at home before we go. I have lists for things that need doing for work before we go.

Hubby does all his own packing for the love of Pete! (this is the boys latest saying, a cross between hubby's "For the love of God" and my favourite "For Pete's sake")

Still everything seems to need doing at the last minute! And we end up leaving about 3 hours later than we planned, because I'm still running around packing things, whilst crying and pulling out great clumps of my hair in anger and frustration.

How can that be?

Am I in fact spending all my time writing lists and not actually putting anything in a suitcase?

We have two holidays planned this year, one early summer (summer..HA!) and one later in the autumn. Both are in this country so there's no weight allowances to trouble us. We should be able to just load up the car and go.

Whether we do it with relative ease or whether I have a melt down worthy of my 3 year old boy remains to be seen!

Does anyone else hate packing for holidays with toddlers? I'd love to hear if you have any tips that will stop me becoming a gibbering, weeping wreck of a woman before I even get in the car....

The One With "The One With The Potty Training" Guest Post

2013-04-26T19:41:00.000+01:00

Recently I replied to a request on Twitter by fellow blogger thismummyloves for guest blog posts on potty training.

We have been trying to potty train the boy on and off now for quite some time with limited success. The weekend I wrote this

The One with The Potty Training

as my guest blog post we'd had a breakthrough and I thought all was going well.

We have, shall I say, regressed since this was written. The boy now knows he wants to go but demands a nappy on before he will. I've tried brazening it out and being strong but he's now holding it in and has made himself constipated on occasions, which I've read can be quite common if a child just isn't ready to use the potty of their own accord.

I fear we will just have to wait until he is ready!

All the experts, health visitors, friends and family have said the same. It's loads easier when they want to do it themselves. As long as he's done by the time he goes to school who cares.

But I'm feeling the pressure. I was told recently by my chum Vintage Songstress that some Pre-Schools won't take children that aren't potty trained! Luckily ours will, but how much pressure does that put on a parent and child if that's the case? It completely takes away the "do it when they are ready" option.

The other problem, I feel I have, is the boy is unusually tall for his age. He's 3, but looks 5 and is still in nappies so therefore, in the eyes of some, behaving like he's 2.

I know, I know I shouldn't care what people think and basically I don't. So why am I feeling so stressed about it all?

I've never been the sort of Mum for charts and plans and timetables. I like things to go more organically than that. Maybe this time though I'd like a little more uniformity, a bit more normality and conformity. I'd like him to just DO IT.

However I think I just need to suck it up and except that it will happen. One day.

He will run to me one morning and say

"Mummy I want big boy pants on today."

(Or something equally endearing and cute probably punctuated with the words Whaleshark or can I have Finding Nemo on again for the 8 millionth time please).

I just hope that day comes soon that's all.

The One With By George!

2013-04-20T19:19:00.001+01:00

Right, I can't dress this up as anything other than shameless self promotion.

I've launched a new website for my business, so here it is

By George!

It's been a long time in the planning and preparation but now it's out there.

I feel like I do when I've written anything and I show it to someone for the first time; nervous, excited, apprehensive and like I'm giving a part of myself away.

This is how I am every time I write a blog on here. You hope people will like it, whether they agree with the views or points I'm making or not, I just want them to respect what I've said and how I've said it. Maybe that's why bloggers check their stats so much? We're searching for approval and what do numbers make? Approval!

Either that or spam!

But with the website I feel I've given a whole massive part of me out to the world. The world wide web no less. I'm on the net. You can Google me. Blimey I suppose I'd better think about Google rankings now too.

Because this is a serious website. It's not like on here, where occasionally I talk about something in the news, but mostly I witter on about toddler tantrums, being locked out of my house by my son or random people called Alan phoning me up, trying to make me claim PPI back I never bought in the first place.

This is work. I've got to get clients from this. I've got to keep clients from this. I've got to impress people and sound like I know what I'm doing!

You know me. I like to bugger about. This is going to be a tall order!

I know I'm a writer and apparently the pen is mightier than the sword but, lets face it, it can't perform miracles...

So I hope you enjoy the website and thanks in advance for visiting.

The One With Thatcher and the Top 40

2013-04-14T14:22:00.000+01:00

On Monday lunchtime, as soon as the news broke of Mrs Thatcher's death, I text my husband and I simply put...

"Ding Dong the Witch is Dead"

He knew exactly who and what I meant.

I don't intend for this to be offensive, it was after all a private conversation between myself and my husband, but I transcribe it here, not to force our political views on you, the nature of which from the text I'm sure you can guess, but more to highlight the use of the phrase.

A phrase which has dominated the news this week.

I would venture to say that the only thing I think we would all agree with, whatever side of the political fence you sit on, is that Mrs Thatcher was divisive. After the week of news and social media I've seen it would seem she is as divisive in death as she was in life!

Which brings me to "Ding Dong the Witch is Dead".

The 51 second track from The Wizard of Oz has been downloaded all week since Mrs Thatcher's death and is set to be number 3 this afternoon in the charts. In reaction to this, pro Thatcher supports have been downloading an early 80's punk song called "I'm In Love with Margaret Thatcher" which is also due to chart.

I have listened to the Top 40 countdown on a Sunday night since before Mrs Thatcher came to power and I will continue to listen long after she's dead.

Apart from tonight!

Because tonight the BBC have been put in an impossible position and have decided to play a 5 second clip of Dong Dong the Witch is Dead within a news item to explain why the track has been downloaded. A compromise certainly, and in the circumstances all they could probably do to maintain freedom of speech whilst balancing issues of decency and taste, but do we really want....

"And now in at number three it's a new entry for ... the news".

Ding Dong the Witch is Dead contains no swearing, racial, homophobic or sexual references. It's from a feel good musical that is over 70 years old. Banning it couldn't be justified because the song itself isn't offensive. However the reason why it has been downloaded has been deemed offensive. Offence is as subjective as politics, it all depends on your point of view.

And herein lies my problem. Mass downloading of a song, any song, to cause offence is manipulation of the charts. It corrupts the very core of what the charts are intended to reflect.

So to not put to fine a point on it I wish people would stop buggering about with the Top 40 to score political points off each other. The Top 40 is part of radio history and heritage. It's supposed to reflect what people are listening to in their homes and cars and what they are dancing to in pubs and clubs. It is not there for people to download a track they'll probably never listen to just to make a political point.

As a kid I remember listening to the Top 40 in the bath, excited by each track as we got ever closer to the number 1 song. Back then I knew all the bands and all the words to all the songs. I still listen now while I'm cooking dinner. I barely know any of the groups and I often moan I can't hear the words but that's just my age and grumpiness. I still love the nature of the countdown, and hearing new music and what's number 1, whether I like it or not, is still as vital to me now as it was to the little girl, having her hair washed before another school week started, over 30 years ago.

The charts have always contained protest and political songs written specifically for that purpose and using music to spread a message is nothing new but this download has nothing to do with music. This is just about publicity.

Neither song, for the reasons they are being downloaded, have any place in the charts if that's the only reason they are there.

A friend of mine on Twitter said to me "But it's only music it doesn't matter". But to me it does matter. It matters because it's part of my childhood, my youth and my culture being highjacked for a "cause", and I use the term loosely, that has no business being in the Top 40. And where will it end? Does including downloads now give rise to using the charts as a way of pushing social and political propaganda? After all we can find hidden meanings in any song title or lyrics if we look hard enough and have a social media campaign to strengthen and back it up.

Perhaps we should settle the next general election by download and whoever's song comes the highest wins. If this weeks antics are anything to go by it would be more popular that actually voting and more young people would probably do it. The irony is it's free to vote whereas downloading these tracks has cost each person 79p a time!

I want music in the charts, good music, loud music, terrible music, rock music, rap music, indie bands, girl groups, boy bands and punk, I want ballads, soul, R&B, grungy guitars and yes I want protests song but not random songs picked just to protest.

So tonight I won't be listening because I want the glory hunters and the opportunists to leave the Top 40 alone please, before its very nature and purpose gets ruined forever.

The One With The Hospital, The Hot Doctor and the Swift Kick

2013-03-25T12:12:00.003Z

As I mentioned in my previous blog about my Grandad's funeral, the boy has been in hospital.

In fact the boy has been in hospital twice. Once for 7 days while they tried to control the swelling in the lymph gland in his neck with antibiotics then, after a week at home, back for 5 more days while they did a short operation to drain the fluid from the gland, after it became clear that the drugs weren't going to be enough.

Hospitals aren't a natural environment for me. I'm scared stiff of people being sick, as I've mentioned before, so I am in turns baffled, grateful and admiring of people who choose to spend their working lives caring for the poorly. I couldn't do it, but thank goodness for those who do.

You hear horror stories about the NHS. I heard one only the other day about a good friend that frightened the life out of me, but the staff on the paediatric ward were amazing and the ear, nose and throat doctor who treated the case was... well... how shall I put it... easy on the eye. Well he was easy on my eyes anyway.And those of Nanny P who also confessed that he was "very nice indeed".

Don't judge us. We're only flesh and blood.

So on the day the boy was released from hospital after his operation, said Hot Doc (for that shall be his blog name- I'm shallow I know) had to exam the boys neck and throat area where the swelling had been.

"Hold him tight up against you" he advised me "With his back towards you, and put your hand on his forehead so you are holding his head back."

I duly obliged. Now as many of you know I'm a rather well endowed lady in the bosom department and I was wearing a wrap around top. I wouldn't say the boys were out of the barracks but they may have been just peeking over the top a bit!

I was sitting down and in order to check the boys throat Hot Doc had to look downwards as he stood over us. Not only did he get an eyeful but he had no option, with the boy jammed up against me jubblies,but to get a hand full as well. OK, more of a brush past the bad boys but it didn't stop me blushing like a schoolgirl on a first date.

To his credit he was extremely professional. When he left Nanny P turned to me and said

"You're embarrassed. You never get embarrassed."

She was right. I was. I must be losing it.

Then last Friday we had to return to the hospital for the boy to have a check up and make sure everything was healing nicely two weeks on from the op. Who should we get for our appointment but the Hot Doc.

He recognised us straight away. At this point I will say that was more to do with the boy and his reputation for screaming the moment a doctor or nurse came within 3 feet of him and not because of my charms.

The results of the swab were back and nothing nasty was found in the pus drained from the abscess. It was completely sterile and nothing to worry about, just a result of severe tonsillitis and nothing more sinister. What a relief. So Hot Doc just needed to have a feel of the neck, make sure the wound was healing OK and look down the boys throat to check the tonsils were now clear.

"You hold him again Mum, right up against you. Hold his arms down with one hand and his head back with the other."

I knew the drill. I was more modestly dressed that day with a high neck jumper on.. well it was a cold day... and I didn't know we were seeing Hot Doc again did I!

The boy struggled. Having one of those lollipop stick things down your throat is never popular, with anyone, but let alone the boy. Hot Doc leaned in to try and look into his mouth. Suddenly I realised that while I had the boys arms and head no one was covering the legs....

Too late!

The boy lashed out with alarming speed and accuracy. Hot Doc got a swift kick in the nadgers for his trouble.

If you thought I was embarrassed last time I was mortified now. For a brief second I considered offering to rub it better but even I thought better of it.

"Got his own back there for the scar on his neck didn't he" Hot Doc winced through a professional smile.

Either that or revenge for you feeling up his Mum's boobs....

It's a tough call.

And it's tougher in the NHS than we ever imagined.... especially when they have to treat the boy!

The One With The Poem For My Grandad

2013-03-17T16:00:00.000Z

Sorry for the lack of blogs after my new year pledge to post more often.

It has, as we say in Suffolk, been a 'rum old time'!

For anyone who followers me on Facebook and Twitter who'll know that the boy has been in hospital with complications with tonsillitis causing an enlarged lymph gland and had to have an operation to drain the fluid from the nodes. He was in for 7 days, then home for a week, then back for a further 5 days. He is much better now and that saga is a blog for another time, but it was while he was at home, in between hospital stays, he celebrated his 3rd birthday.

And on the morning of the boys 3rd birthday my grandad died.

Grandad was my Mum's dad and my last surviving grandparent. He was 86 and had been in poor health for the last few years. But it was still very sudden, unexpected and bitter sweet on the boys birthday. He died peacefully in his sleep and that is all any of us can really ever ask for isn't it? I know it's the end he would've liked.

During his national service he was a chef in the Royal Marines and was posted down in Kent where he met my Nana. In tribute, at the funeral, we walked out to 'A Life On the Ocean Wave' as it's the official anthem of that regiment. Without the Royal Marines my Mum, Uncle, myself and the boy wouldn't be here. It was a rousing, jolly chorus. It made me smile.

I got to thinking about what I'd like to be played at my funeral, which I know is morbid but you can't help it can you. Something jolly. Something funny. Something a bit showbiz. Cabaret? Make 'Em Laugh? Bring Me Sunshine? The Theme from The Good Life? I want something that will have people tittering rather than crying.

I also got to thinking about how lucky I have been to have had 3 out of my 4 grandparents alive for a good proportion of my life so far, and how my boy had a Great Grandfather for the first 3 years of his. I also thought about how I love watching the boy with Nanny P & Grandad Atu. Their relationship is so precious and loving. The joy they all get out of spending time together, playing and laughing, is beyond measure.

So for Grandad's funeral I thought back to my childhood and the Saturday afternoons and Sunday teatimes we'd all spend together. Then I wrote the poem below and read it at the funeral. I didn't even get to mention the games of snooker on my Uncles snooker table he bought from my Mum's club book, or battenburg cake and Bullseye, or how much Grandad loved my wedding day, which he generously helped to pay for, and for ages afterwards said to me "That was a good day out girl. I haven't had a day out like that for years!"

So here are the things I remember about my Grandad. His garden, his veggies, darts, cards and homemade Suffolk rusks.

Rest in Peace Grandad. I'll raise a glass of malt to you every year the boy gets older.

Remembering

I remember as a little girl, in the garden picking peas,

Both of us together crouched down upon our knees

I'd eat more than I picked and you always used to say,

" Save some for our dinner" but I knew it was ok.

You grew radishes and onions and runners on a vine.

In the greenhouse were tomatoes . Your new potatoes were divine.

How everyone called you Charlie, but Oscar was your name

And how you laughed when I got a cat, and his name was just the same.

On Saturday, in the scullery, standing on a chair,

You taught me darts and round the clock and why you must play fair.

You liked a drop of whisky, and I used to sneak a nip.

You'd say it was our secret, but now I've let it slip.

And you liked a litle flutter on the horses, just for fun.

You'd put 10p on, just for me, and sometimes I even won.

We'd get a cake from the Newstead van, but you prefered home made.

So for Sunday tea you'd make rusks with the table neatly laid.

And after tea, a game of cards, Nine Card Brag was your choice.

We'd play for pennies and laugh so loud you'd almost lose your voice.

You tried to make me eat Pheasant, but I used to wince and say,

"I don't like it Grandad, it's too strong, please take it away".

And when I had your great grandson, you were proud and all a glow,

But you teased and said "You know you should have done that ten years ago"

A Dad, a Grandad and a Great Grandad, your love was strong and true,

These are the things I remember from the time I spent with you.

The One with the Whaleshark

2013-01-13T10:52:00.002Z

Happy New Year!

Is your house choc full of plastic? Or is it just me?

The tree is down, the wrapping has been recycled and Oscar has jumped in and out of every box so now we're just left with all the toys!

Don't get me wrong I love a toy and I have no objection to great chunks of brightly coloured plastic, but I do rather seem to be swimming in them. Swimming being the operative word as the boy has developed a under sea creature obsession fuelled by the Octonauts.

For those of you uninitiated in the Octonauts they are a band of creatures who "Explore! Rescue! and Protect!| under the sea in a giant octopus shaped craft the Octopod!

The Octopod

This is commanded by their estimable leader Captain Barnacles, who rumour has it, is based on the suave actor David Niven, and possesses incredible polar bear strength.

The dashing Captain Barnacles

What the hell a polar bear is doing 20,000 leagues under the sea with a rabbit, dog, cat, octopus, penguin, sea otter and a half vegetable half tuna looking thing that trills and makes fish biscuits all day long, is anyone's guess.

But hey the boy seems to love it. And more to the point so do I!

Captain Barnacles is a bit of a dish and I'm learning loads about the sea.

Enter.. The Whaleshark.

It's a Whaleshark Mummy!

The whaleshark has caused an obsession in the boy the like of which we haven't seen since his fire engine "Nanu" stage! It's just another episode of the Octonauts like any other but something about Dashi the Australian photographer dog thinking a Whaleshark's mouth is a cave and then getting swallowed by the beast has fired his little imagination (seriously I know it sounds made up but check it out on You-Tube).

Since he watched it all we've heard about is the whaleshark!

"It's a whaleshark!" goes up the cry as anything vaguely resembling a whale or a shark is thrust at you with alarming speed including his purple dolphin bath toy and for a long time the fake fish from his basket of play food. There's only so many times you can say "Yes darling it is" before you lose the will to live.

Then his godmother Clementine thankfully bought him the item pictured above for Christmas. Now he really does have a whaleshark. A proper one. A whaleshark isn't actually a whale, it's the biggest fish in the sea, as big as a school bus and it doesn't use it's teeth for biting, oh no, it's a filter feeder, that's why Dashi, Captain Barnacles and his right had cat Kwazi (the former pirate) all survived being in his stomach.

Kwazi in the mini Gup A - shiver me whiskers!

Can you tell I've read the book and seen this episode a hundred million times?

I'm sure it's just another phase but I quite like this one. Apart from nearly having my eye poked out from a half chewed fin several times a day, as the boy rushes at my with unbounded enthusiasm pretending to be the aforementioned whaleshark, it's very educational and fun.

I can't however decide if I like how he's embraced learning about the sea and the Octonauts ethos to help any sea creature who is sick or in trouble, or to be worried that he's basically obsessed with one creature essentially swallowing another three up!

I'll try and focus on the former but hey, he's a boy, I fear it's the later!

But in the meantime - all together now - Sound the Octo - Alert!

The Octo- Alert flanked by turtle and crab - yet more plastic.

The One With the Good Food Show

2012-12-20T12:02:00.000Z

With less than a week to go before Christmas day I don't know about you but my mind turns to food.

To be fair it doesn't take much for my mind to turn to food, so when I had a day out with Lemon Cake Lady at The Good Food Show I was in heaven.

The Good Food Show at Olympia is an annual event and as it's in November it falls quite close to Lemon Cake Lady's birthday so we treated ourselves to a day out. We'd not been for a couple of years as we'd both been busy having babies so this year was a real bonus before Lemon Cake Boy 2 arrives in the new year.

It's a sheer riot of foodie delights. You can't move for cheese, meat, pickles, biscuits, beautiful cakes including wedding cakes, ideas where to go for afternoon tea in London and the most amazing meringues I've ever seen.

Of course this year was the first year we'd been since we've both embraced social media and fancy, all singing, all dancing phones so it was picture taking, tweeting and Facebooking a go-go!

The other thing that attracted us to this particular day of the Good Food Show was the live demonstration of The Great British Bake Off. Now we both love a bit of cake but, being ladies of a certain age, we both love a bit of Paul Hollywood more and we were more than a little excited at seeing him and the lovely Mary Berry in the flesh.

I am ashamed to say I was sitting on my hands for fear of rushing the stage and plunging them straight into him enriched dough and when Mary started to make something I turned to LCL and whispered

"I'm not taking this recipe in at all. She could be making a shit sandwich for I care I'm just watching him".

Sometimes I even shock myself but cake and piercing blue eyes are a heady mix!

After watching the live demo on the stage we rushed clutching our How To Bake books by Mr Hollywood over to where they were being signed by the man himself.

However, loads of other people, and by people I mean middle aged women, had the same idea and the queue snaked back and forth for quite some way. The security guards kept telling us that " From this point on you will not get your book signed. You're wasting your time" but we had a great view of Paul and Mary, as you can see from the photo, so we stayed and chanced our collective arms.

We were just about to play the LCL pregnancy card but as the consummative professionals they are, Paul and Mary smiled, chatted and signed the books with such efficiency that the security guards, dressed like the bouncers from Hale and Pace, had to eat their words and open the barrier for the rest of us to come through.

You could literally smell the hormones in the room as a bunch of rampant women rushed towards the Hollywood brandishing books about buns, baps and crumpets!

When the time came for us to get to the front of the queue, Lemon Cake Lady blushed like a school girl, couldn't look the "flirty flan maker" as she likes to call him directly in the eye and ended up chatting to Mary. I, usually never without a word or two, was suddenly lost for them as he signed my book apart from saying,

"I really like The Great British Bake Off. It's really good."

Inspired! If Oscar Wilde were alive today he'd be quaking in his boots.

Books inscribed we rushed off like two giggling teenagers, red of cheek and flushed all over. As LCL remarked she'd never queued up for an autograph for a boy band when she was a kid. What on earth was wrong with us? I even tweeted the picture of the actual inscription I was so overcome!

Get a grip woman!

After all that excitement I needed a drink. As LCL is in her current condition I was drinking for two, so I hit the speciality gin stands where I chatted to a very pleasant lady from Brockmans gin who knew her stuff and explained the different intricacies of the blend of herbs and berries. This was the first time I've had gin and ginger ale but this gin really leans itself to that particular mixer more than tonic. They also had the most gothic stand of the whole exhibition and after behaving like a teenager earlier I was transported to my black eyeliner and tassel skirt sixth form days.

Finally we visited Mr Huda's spice paste stand. I adore Indian food but getting take away can be expensive, not great for my weight nor my IBS! If I make it at home I can cut out the ghee, cream and control the spice.

I'd first met Mr Huda a month before at the Lincolnshire sausage festival where I bought a jar of Balti curry paste from him. Amazingly he recognised me and remembered some of pictures of my curries I'd tweeted.

I was so touched when he saw me and said hello and he's so passionate about his spice blends that you can't help but get enthused about Indian food when you chat to him.

His pastes are amazing, by far the best ones I've ever bought, and I got a Tikka Masala one at the show which I can't wait to try.

After the show we headed a short walk to the Pizza Express on the corner for dinner. Yes amazingly after all those bites and samples we were hungry for a proper meal and we were also in need of a sit down.

We'd both brought little individual cakes as presents for hubbies and boys, plus ourselves for the journey home.

They were packaged in cute little boxes and as we got all our parcels out on the train home, we checked them over.

Here's what we found on the base of the box

After the amount I'd eaten that day and all the weight I must have put on my ever expanding backside and hips I couldn't have said it better myself.......

The One with All The Phone Calls From Alan

2012-12-11T15:04:00.000Z

Since having the boy and working for myself, I'm at home in the daytime a whole lot more than I ever used to be, and I seem to be constantly called by someone calling himself "Alan".

I don't personally believe "Alan" is actually called "Alan". I don't know what his name is but he sure as hell doesn't sound like an "Alan" to me!

In fact whenever he calls, and it's often several times a day, he never seems to have the same voice twice yet he's always called "Alan". So the other day when he called I thought I'd just ask him, you know friendly like, are you really, really, hand on heart actually called Alan.

Alan "Hello, my name is Alan"

Me "No it's not"

Alan " Just a quick call to ask who your gas and electricity suppliers are?"

Me "You don't sound like an Alan to me"

Alan "British Gas? EON? Southern" Which one is it please?"

Me "You're not really called Alan are you?"

Alan "Could you just tell me who supplies your gas and electricity?"

Me " Gladly"

Alan "Good"

Me "If you tell me what your real name is?"

Alan "My name is Alan"

Me " No it's not"

Alan "Please can you tell me who supplies your gas and electricity?"

Me " Look Alan. May I call you Alan? You're not really called Alan are you? Not really. And until the people you work for stop insulting my intelligence and yours by making you pretend to be in England and pretend that you watch Eastenders and pretend that your name is Alan then I'm going to pretend that no one supplies my gas and electricity. I'm going to pretend that I'm self sufficient and have a generator in my basement that coverts my animal dung into electricity for me, just like Tom and Barbara Good from "The Good Life". Do you watch "The Good Life" Alan or is it just wall to wall Eastenders in your house?

Alan "We can give you a better deal on your gas and electricity if you just tell me who your supplier is?"

Me "What if it's you Alan?"

Alan " I don't know. I'm so confused."

Me " I'm not surprised you're confused going round pretending to be Alan all day when you're not. That must be very confusing for you. Goodbye"

Click brrrr. I hung up.

That's the way to get rid of the uninvited "Alan's" in your life.

Next I can't wait for Alan's mate Alan to phone and ask if I've been mis-sold PPI.

That'll be interesting.....

The One With Remembrance Sunday

2012-11-13T21:16:00.000Z

25 years ago this week I went on a sixth form excursion to the battlefields in France and Belgium. It was an A level history field trip and it changed my life.

That may sound rather an over dramatic, sweeping statement but it did.

We were studying World War 1, which has left me with a devotion and passion for the war poets to this day. As we walked along the actual trenches of the Somme and visited the endless fields of graves, we were all struck by the waste of all those young lives.

Of course back then, as a bunch of idealistic 17 year olds, we were going to change the world. Some of our number wore white poppies for peace along with the blood red poppies of remembrance. After two Gulf wars, the conflict in Afghanistan, 9/11 and the London Tube bombings I doubt they do now.

Now peace seems like a luxury. Remembrance is a necessity. In my eyes anyway.

On Sunday, when I chatted to a friend on Twitter who was actually there on that field trip I suddenly remembered a poem I wrote some years later about the experience.

Yes you heard correctly. A poem.

I haven't written much poetry over the years but occasionally the mood takes me. I have never shared any of it with anyone before. Ever. But somehow this feels right and sums up how I felt then and now.

And yes we really did have Kate Bush The Whole Story playing on the tape deck of the coach and Army Dreamers came on just as we first saw the fields of graves. I also did fall arse over tit in a trench and get covered in mud!

So here it is. Wear your poppy with pride.

ARMY DREAMERS

Have you been there?

Have you seen it?

Did you trip up in a trench?

Did you laugh your teenage socks off?

Cos you couldn’t smell the stench.

Playing Kate Bush “Army Dreamers’

As the coach went passing by

Then we saw the fields of endless graves

And we all began to cry.

Now I’ll always buy a Poppy

To commentate their fate

And remind me how we stood there

Sobbing tears at Menin Gate.

Just a bunch of idealistic kids

But when the truth was told

The facts are bigger than ideals

And make your blood run cold.

The boys who died at just 16

The husbands, fathers, sons

Sent out to meet their slaughter

Ready with their guns.

The endless names on massive tombs,

The endless lines of graves.

Babies ripped from mother’s wombs,

And not one we could save.

Buried where they’ve fallen

It’s more than just a shame

The hopeless sense of heartbreak

For graves without a name.

And when we crossed the channel

We’d still hear their battle call

We’d all returned much altered

But they’d not come back at all.

So I always buy a poppy

To commemorate the dead

And say thank you to the living

With “Army Dreamer’s in my head.

The One With Hillsborough - Part 2

2012-09-16T23:46:00.001+01:00

Since writing my original post on the Hillsborough tragedy

http://thoughtsfromrandomwoman.blogspot.com/2011/10/one-with-hillsborough.html

I have had the honour of chatting with several people from Liverpool on Twitter and my post has been read by them along with the official Liverpool FC Twitter account, the JFT96 account and two people who were there that awful day. All now follow me and I follow them.

All have thanked and even praised me for my words.

The day after the startling, and frankly disturbing, revelations about the cover up and lies told after Hillsborough came out I was asked onto local radio to discuss my blog and my thoughts on the tragedy.

Here's the listen again link for the interview. You need to go 35 minutes in.

http://www.bbc.co.uk/programmes/p00xmvn0

I was honoured that they asked me to talk about this subject. It's now a cause very close to my heart and for anyone who follows me on Twitter they'll see me often hashtag #JFT96 (Justice for the 96) - referring to the 96 people who died that day - as a mark of respect.

The world was a very different place in 1989.

We now all have mobile phones that have cameras, video and internet access. We are now all effectively journalists. Pictures, video and comments on social media sites can be posted in seconds as soon as a big news story breaks.

I hope that now there is no way something so terrible could occur let alone be covered up and take 23 years to come to light.

The families never gave up and now they have the beginning of the justice they so richly deserved.

The government has apologised.

You'll Never Walk Alone is back in the charts.

Fans and players have paid tribute this weekend by wearing black arm bands, flying flags at half mast, singing songs of solidarity on the terraces. That aren't terraces now, they're seats.

Match of the Day 2 has just run a beautiful tribute to the 96 by listing the names from youngest to oldest.

The youngest was 10 years old.

He was tested for alcohol in his blood.

The true "Justice for the 96" has only just begun....

The One With Nursery

2012-08-14T20:23:00.000+01:00

I've been concerned lately that I don't do enough with the boy. You know, activity wise.

When I was on maternity leave life was a whir of swimming lessons, Jo Jingles, NCT meetings and Baby Bounce. I had classes, clubs and community coming out of my ears.

After a while it all sort of settles down. Now, after 2 and a half years, finding things to entertain the boy is a real struggle and I'm relying too heavily on the TV and DD's which is his charming and affectionate name for DVD's.

For a lot of children nursery or child care provides all the stimulus they need.

The boy hasn't gone to nursery yet. I've been putting it off. I know it will do him good but then being at home with his Mum can't be damaging him for life can it? Children are such a long time at school it seemed a shame to pack him off to someone else if I didn't have to.

But is he missing out?

Lemon Cake Lady mentioned the other day that her boy had started phonics at nursery. For those uninitiated in phonics it it now the standard method for teaching primary school children how to read by sounding out the letters.

Surely this means that children who's mum's don't work, or have childcare kindly provided for them by grandparents or other family members, will be at a disadvantage when they start school?

It's contentious subject. Mums I speak to who send their children to nursery and have done for a while extol its virtues, while some stay at home mums say the best place is with family.

Then of course there's the cost. Hippy Chick was telling me recently that it costs £500 a month for Mini Hippy Chick to go to nursery for 3 days a week. That's a lot of money! But then of course you're paying someone to do a job for you, to provide a service, to look after and entertain your child. So therefore they need paying a wage but this has to be a wage that's less than the wage you're earning otherwise it's robbing Peter to pay Paul as the old saying goes.

Unless of course you qualify for working tax credits or child tax credits. Don't even get me started on the minefield of those! Those forms are a whole other blog.

I've been lucky as Nanny P has had the boy while I worked since just before his first birthday. She currently has him a day and a half but I need to work more hours so the time has come for the boy to venture into the big wide world.

You can debate the whys and wherefore's forever but eventually nursery's gonna get you in the end. You can't avoid it. There are times when I feel like its a social plague that he doesn't go.

"Is he at nursery yet?

"What that boy needs is nursery!"

"Nursery will do him good you know!"

So he's going. Not because I feel he has too, although I'm rapidly realising that in the modern world of childcare yes he has to, to keep up, but because I want him to and I need him to. It'll give me better structure to separate work and time at home and be more "boundaried" as Hippy Chick would say. My focus won't be split between the boy and things on my "to do list". I'll work when he's in childcare and when he's not I'll be a focused mum instead of flitting between crayon and computer.

It also means Nanny P can go down to just one day of the boy a week instead of helping out with a half day for me too.

Much more structured. For me and her as well as for him.

So this afternoon I phoned the nursery and they have a place for Tuesday and Thursday mornings. The form is filled in and the boy and I are going up there in the morning to drop it off and sort out a trial date.

I'm partly sad that this little era has ended where I spent pretty much everyday with him. I'm partly relieved that the decision is made and sorted but mostly I'm nervous. For both of us.

I can feel tears and tantrums coming on. And that's just me!

Expect blogs about the boys adventures at nursery very soon....

Knowing the boy, as I do, it's bound to be eventful......

The One Where We Go To The Olympics

2012-08-11T13:20:00.001+01:00

On Sunday hubby and I went to the Olympics!

Yes the Olympics!

The London 2012 Olympics in our country, in our lifetime, in my husbands home city.

Can you tell we were a bit excited?

So excited in fact that we kept saying "We're at the Olympics" to each other every five minutes until we even annoyed ourselves!

We travelled over to London early on Sunday and got into town (as hubby calls it because he's allowed to being a genuine Londoner) in good time to line the route for the Ladies Marathon.

The boy , by the way, was with Nanny P and Granddad Atu and when informed by my Mum that "Mummy and Daddy had gone to the Olympics| and she was going to put the TV on incase they could spot us on the telly, the boy seemed briefly impressed by this,

"Lympics. Oh." but after about 20 seconds of watching people run in the pouring rain added "Spencer and Gordon next DD put on please" and Thomas the Tank Engine stories reigned supreme once more.

We positioned ourselves at the front of the barrier with a great view of the runners coming around the corner, where they were to be greeted with the stunning sight of St Paul's Cathedral bathed in mid morning summer sunlight.

Well that was the plan of the organisers I'm sure. What actually greeted them was a dirty great black cloud hanging heavy over the majesty of that fine building. With a lot of people in cagoules looking like someone had just tipped a bucket of water over a rambling club!

Welcome to London! Here have a towel.

We were soaked! But it didn't matter. We cheered the ladies on including our own personal favourite, a very plucky girl from East TiMor, who must have been a good 20 minutes behind everyone else and was possibly just running for a bus she was so off the pace.

Amazingly when we checked the result of the race later she didn't come last so she either got a spurt on or someone gave her a piggy back!

Having watched the runners go round a couple of times at various points on the route, after finding some powerful hand driers in the toilets of a very posh shopping centre in the city to dry face, hands, arms, my top and my supposedly waterproof coat, we were on our way across London to Earl's Court for the ladies volleyball.

As advised we got there two hours before to get through security and because we cleared this so quickly we had time to kill before the matches. So we looked at vastly overpriced merchandise and bought vastly overpriced food and we sat in front of a big screen with everyone else and watched Ben Ainslie win his sailing gold medal cheering like idiots.

Fantastic!

Then it was time for the main event. The first match was GB ladies versus Japan. A whitewash unfortunately to Japan but then we discovered that they are ranked 5 in the world and GB ladies have never entered a team before.

The second match was a masterclass in how to play the game. Italy (ranked 4) versus Russia (ranked 9). This went to all five sets and was very close with Russia, who have team members that are 6-ft 4 and two who are 6-ft 8, eventually winning.

Now all through the two matches we had the family from hell behind us. Actually it was more like the Dad and one teenage son from hell because the Mum and the other lad where fine. They had with them an official concertina device that you whacked against your hand, arm, each other, the seat in front of you, anything really to make a noise. Think of the noise and annoyance of an old fashioned football rattle and multiply it by 12 and you've got it.

They thumped the damn thing throughout the whole of the GB v Japan match and then mercifully left in the break and for the first set of the Italy v Russia game.

We thought they'd gone. We were home and dry. Hooray. We'd got rid of them. Our withering looks had forced them to move to some of the empty seats over the other side.

No such luck!

They returned and unfurled a flag then proceeded to cheer enthusiastically for Italy.

There was something wrong with the flag though. It didn't seem quite right. I turned to hubby

"The Italian flag is red, white and green, right?" I asked

"Yes" he said "It's up there with all the flags of the competing countries in this event" and he pointed up to where all the flags were displayed.

I scanned them. No I couldn't see the flag they were waving. There's was similar but the colours were a bit wrong and it had a dark pattern in the middle. What on earth were they doing? They kept on shouting "Italia, Italia" but what were they waving?

Hubby looked round "They've got the Indian flag" hubby laughed "It's green, white and orange look, with the wheel emblem in the centre"

That was it then. I was gone. I'd got the giggles. It didn't matter how annoying they were after that, all I had to do was turn around look at the flag and see them waving it as they cheered for Italy and I lost it again.

It's a shame they only take Visa at the London 2012 games because this was a Mastercard moment. Just like the whole experience of the day, it was priceless!

The One Where We're In The Papers Again

2012-08-06T12:20:00.000+01:00

A year on from my theatre group, Two Rivers Theatre Company, featuring in The Independent on Sunday talking about Calendar Girls, the darling paper has done a follow up piece.

Oh! The bare-faced cheek of it: Release of amateur rights to stage 'Calendar Girls' sparks record - News - Theatre & Dance - The Independent

This time they have spoken to lots of groups all over the country asking why they want to bare all on stage and do this play.

We feature!

Journalist Kate Youde did a lovely interview with cast member Val King who has very personal reasons for being in the show.

I still can't believe we're going to do this but I'm so proud that we are. Despite all my body confidence fears at being overweight with saggy boobs, cellulite and stretch marks I'll be proud to stand there with teapot and cup in hand covering me vitals!

I'm a middle aged woman who's had a child and I can't shy away from that anymore. I am what I am as the song goes. I could be slimmer, I could be fitter but I'll always be me. As long as I'm healthy I have to except my body for what it is and what time has made it become.

So yes I'll be proud to stand there naked.

I'm not doing it without a drink inside me mind you... but I'll be proud to do it!

Oh and just to clarify the drink won't be tea....

The One, One Year On

2012-07-29T23:58:00.003+01:00

This is the last time I'll bang on about this. Promise!

Today is the one year anniversary of my last day at Fred Olsen Cruise Lines - the company I worked for, for 13 and a half years.

The day was one of the worst of my life. I put on a brave face. I made jokes. I played the fool and the clown as I always do because that's how I cope.

For Christ sake I even had a "closing down sale" and gave away my stapler and hole punch.

Inside I was scared and frightened and someone had ripped my guts out.

When I left I sat in my car for the best part of an hour crying my eyes out with Ken - who was crying too and we hugged and laughed and cried some more and couldn't believe we wouldn't be working together after all these years.

But now one year on I'm sitting here writing this with a bottle of something fizzy and dry to toast the last year and the amazing changes in my life.

It was one of the best things that ever happened to me. Just not done in the best way.

To this day I don't think they ever understood why I contested my redundancy when it was noted that I quite obviously had aspirations and talents elsewhere.

But I felt that was my decision to make - no one else's.

I resented the assumption that I'm good old sport and would go quietly. Without one last hurrah. A send off. A thank you. But with a boot up the arse out the door. Off you go love and do your writing because we know you're hearts not in it and you've had this baby we didn't expect you to have and we don't really know what to do with you so slink off without a word there's a good girl and we'll forget this ever happened shall we!

Well that was never going to be me now was it.

Maybe I got it wrong. Maybe now with reflection I was rash, hasty, angry, hurt, humiliated.

It was the speed, the sweeping assumptions, the feeling of being brushed under the carpet.

I have since been told that I was a "situation" which has now been dealt with. I was too loud. Too noisy. There'd been whispers. Complaints.

Well I moved floors when our department changed I didn't fundamentally alter my personality so what the hell did they expect.

It leaves yet another bitter taste in my mouth about my years working for "the man" as a friends husband calls it and it serves to confirm that I would now, even after only a year, struggle to work for someone else.

So tonight I raise a glass not to those years but to the last year and the years to come.

Cheers and remember the words of the always eloquent and articulate Fletch from Porridge

"Don't let the bastards grind you down!"

The One With the Nude Photos

2012-07-23T09:23:00.000+01:00

Yes actually nudie photos!

Of me!

I know!

Some say I was brave. Others, stupid!

But never the less I found myself posing nude for a charity calendar in aid of the local hospice and in association with our production of Calendar Girls this September.

In the spirit of the original story the cast and director all posed nude in the calendar, only in ours we were in the theatre where we perform. Our poses all centred around putting on a show, lighting, sound, costumes you know the kind of thing.

Having the pictures taken was liberating, exciting, scary and empowering all at once. But to quote a line from the play

" It's just when you start something that's only a few photos that a few people are going to see..."

Since the calendar was launched we have been in the local press and on the local radio. The national press awaits and then who knows what may happen. At the time I just stripped off and got on with it but now people are actually looking at the pictures, as beautiful as they are, I can't help wanting to crawl under a rock and hide my rather over exposed body.

I am extremely proud of us all and if you would like to buy one then they are just a minimum donation of £3 each for St Elizabeth Hospice in Ipswich and available from our Facebook page

www.facebook.com/tworiverstheatrecompany

So here I am with the rest of the cast doing our bit for charity. If you want to see some of us come out from behind the piano then you'll have to buy one!

Enjoy!

The One with the Ice Cream Cornet

2012-06-19T09:23:00.001+01:00

Sunday saw us all go out for a meal for Father's day. Myself, hubby, the boy, Nanny P and Granddad Atu.

We chose a very nice pub near to where my parents live which is now run by twin brothers and the chef I know as I'm friends with his other half and they all in turn know Ken, Barbie and Earthquake (the pub is The Plough and Sail in Snape if anyone is local and wants to go along, the food is fantastic).

The boy seemed on good form and had slept in until 8am so a 12 o'clock reservation seemed perfect timing and the last thing I thought he'd be was tired.

But there he was sat at the table, eventually, arsey as hell and rubbing his eyes!

We ordered starters and asked for his pasta to come with those, which it duly did. It was very tasty. The boy wasn't having any of it!

As Granddad Atu didn't have a starter he took the boy outside for a run around and a walk. A long walk. So long in fact that Hubby had to go and find out where they were.

No matter. The boy likes his food stone cold. Really he does.

Our main course arrived. Still he refused the pasta.

My Mum chipped in

"Can he have a sandwich?"

"Mum they don't do sandwiches. If he's hungry he'll eat this pasta. I'm not ordering him anything else"

"No I mean I've got some sandwiches here. In my bag. I've done him some just in case."

Now I carry snacks. Rations. Emergency supplies. I'd got breadsticks on me and even one of those squeezy fruit pouches - which by the way he had devoured so he wasn't adverse to all food that day - but Mum had a full pack up about her person.

"Mum! He eats this or nothing at all. I am not giving him a pack up in a restaurant. He's 2 now, he can eat what we eat."

"Don't make a scene dear. What will people think?"

And that has always been the trouble - what will people think? It used to worry the life out of me too but not anymore. He's my son and if I say no, I mean no and I'm not giving in just because we're out in public and to spare other people the short lived inconvenience of hearing the boy go off on one!

It will be dealt with my way.

Or so I thought.

I had promised the boy ice cream if he was good. He clearly wasn't being good as the screaming and physical pushing away of my hand every time I tried to force tomato pasta down his throat was testament too. However he had become fixated with the ice cream.

"Ice cream cornet. Ice cream cornet" he kept repeating.

He had clearly forgotten, blocked out or just used his selective hearing and missed the first bit about being a good boy and all that would calm him was ice cream.

The pressure to appease the situation was pretty intense at this point.

I ordered ice cream.

Two scoops, one strawberry and one chocolate swiftly came. (god bless those lovely waitresses)

They were in a bowl with a spoon. The boy still mentioned a cornet.

"It's ice cream honey. In a bowl. With a spoon. Like a big boy."

"Does he want it in a cornet?" asked my Mum routing around in her handbag like Mary Poppins. "Because I've got one here!"

And then it happened.

My mum produced from her bag an ice cream cone perfectly preserved in a polythene food bag secured at the top with a twisty tie.

"Oh my god" was all that I could muster from my already open mouth.

"Well I thought he might like one and they often don't have them in restaurants. They just have ice cream in bowls. Don't look at me like that. I know you think I'm silly"

But that's just it. I don't think she's silly at all. I think the woman's a genius. Or bonkers. Or both.

I can't decide how I felt. If I was in awe of Nanny P's organisational skills or if I was a bad mother for not packing one myself.

My Mum has always been prepared like the most ultra efficient boy scout there ever was. She has paracetamol,ibuprofen, tissues, wipes, plasters, nail files and needle and thread for ever conceivable emergency. But...

A BLOODY ICE CREAM CONE!

The boy sat happily with a scoop of strawberry ice cream wedged into the top of the cornet, licking away.

Peace at last...

But at what price?

I mean, whatever would people think.....?

The One with the Emotions

2012-06-16T22:03:00.001+01:00

The boy has started to express himself!

And I don't just mean by screaming, although he is still doing an awful lot of that, but actually by communicating needs, wants, desires, emotions - call them what you will.

He's always been very good with his language and single or maybe two or three words together but recently, when he's been stressed and in the middle of a tantrum, Hubby and I have both taken to saying

"Tell us what the problem is. What do you need? Use your words."

This is a combination of a few things. The Baby and Toddler Calm course we went on to learn how to deal with tantrums (which isn't surprisingly chuck jam tarts at them until they shut up which is what I was always led to believe), the middle expression which is something Lemon Cake Lady uses and the last one which is something Vixen uses on her little boy, who can now say whole sentences and has been for ages.

And you know what? It works!

Don't get me wrong, it doesn't work straight away. This is the boy we're talking about here. He still cries, screams and bangs his head on stuff (really wish he wouldn't do that, he bruises easily like I do - hello social services).

However when he does eventually calm down he can now "use his words' and express "what he needs".

Evidence of which became apparent the other night when we put him to bed.

A combination of a solid bedtime routine and sheer beginners luck has meant that 9 times out of 10 bedtime with the boy is pretty hassle free.

On this occasion we said all the usual night time stuff. Sweet dreams, we love you, settle down, see you in the morning, don't wake up until at least 7 o'clock or we will be forced to ignore you & shut our bedroom door to drown out the incessant screaming for a Thomas DD (DVD). You know the drill. When, just as I was leaving the room a little voice said

"No Mama"

No! No, no, no. What is this no you speak of?

"Not tired."

Oh god. He understands the concept of not being something. Before it was always expressing a need for something, like food, juice, milk or Fireman Sam on continuously but never that he was "not" something.

We offered a compromise. We left the landing light on and his door open and said he could look at his books until he was feeling tired then he could go to sleep.

A bright and positive "Ok" was the response so we sneaked out while our luck was still holding!

When we came downstairs Hubby and I couldn't decide if we were proud or terrified.

"Ahhh he can understand and tell us when he's not tired" we said dreamily, very proud of another milestone in the boys life.

"Arggghhhhh he can understand and tell us when he's not tired" we screamed at each other!

Bedtime may never be as calm again.

Let battle commence.....

The One With the Cake and the Celebrity Crush

2012-06-09T22:55:00.000+01:00

It's been a little while since I did a foodie blog and as today I've been somewhat of a domestic goddess I thought I'd put that right.

Today I made a cake. Not just any old cake but a cake from the new book by "The Great British Bake Off" winner Jo Wheatley "A Passion for Baking". I'd treated myself to the book last week but hadn't got round to looking at it properly yet. As I had three over ripe bananas in my fruit bowl goading me into doing something with them, other than throwing them away, I went in search of a recipe for Banana loaf.

And here it is

Me being me I mucked about with the recipe a bit as my cupboards dictated. I used golden caster sugar instead of demerara and dark soft brown sugar instead of light. I didn't have any pecans so I just left them out and I put the cinnamon in the mixture rather than sprinkle it on top.

But the results were great. The boy devoured a whole piece at tea time and has been hyper on the slow release energy of bananas and a tonne of sugar ever since. He's been bouncing off the walls like Tigger and is currently in bed and, from what I can gather, is narrating to bear, bunny and monkey entire episodes of Thomas the Tank Engine.

Ahh at least he's happy!

I tweeted about my success and the lovely Jo re-tweeted it and then sent me a message back.

I got a bit star struck as I do in these matters. Well she's off the telly from a programme I really like and her book is great.

I know I'm lame! What can you do?

Jo Wheatley tweeting me back also meant I was only one degree of separation away from one of the hosts of "The Great British Bake Off", Mr Paul Hollywood.

Lemon Cake Lady and I have complete and utter teenage style crushes on "the Silver Fox"!

All you have to do is mention whipping up icing with your hand to LCL and she melts into a puddle on the floor.

Clementine has suggested I apply for The Great British Bake Off as a contestant. I'd be hopeless. Yes I can bake. A bit. But not to the standard they require and also I'd be a gibbering wreck. All it would take would be for Paul Hollywood to announce that the technical bake was iced fingers and I'd be a goner!

Although it might be worth it to go on and say my signature bake was chocolate rice crispy cakes and just see how Paul and Mary Berry coped without laughing or chucking me out the tent?

Instead I am taking Lemon Cake Lady to the Good Food show in November for her birthday present. I have booked the tickets with Gold seats for the food theatre on Friday to see Mary Berry and the afore mentioned Silver Fox Mr Paul Hollywood doing The Great British Bake Off LIVE!

Yes LIVE!

We'll be within touching distance!

Well row D, which is certainly within icing flicking distance should his hands get too over enthusiastic whilst whipping up a batch.

To say we're excited is an understatement. We are grown women. With husbands. And children! Yet we are giggling wrecks. Like teenagers with a crush on the teacher.

Lets just hope we don't muck about so much we get detention.....

The One With the Bunting

2012-06-06T20:49:00.000+01:00

I'm a bit in love with my bunting!

I think bunting everywhere has been the best bit of this Jubilee weekend. It's just so... cheery.

We've had rain, wind, sun, more rain, choirs and orchestras in the rain, people floating down the Thames in the rain and the Duke of Edinburgh giving himself a bladder infection by not going for a wee in the rain!

Amazingly we've had a massive open air concert in the glow of the evening sunlight so no singing in the rain (or the sound of someone scratching their nails down a blackboard in the case of Cheryl - I used to be Cole but now I'm not) but pretty much everything else was in the rain.

We're very good at it in Britain. We've got used to it. Picnics in the rain, BBQ's in the rain, street parties in the rain - you name it and we've done it... in the rain.

So for your outdoor activities you need a study water proof bunting. Plastic and tied on tight to withstand the gale force winds so associated with June and the height of our British Summer.

Flaming June! Yeah flaming rain in June.

But the bunting I bought was cardboard that I'd picked up in Sainsburys which I thought was pretty. Which indeed it is.

So because I'm British and we are not to be defeated in such matters as mere inclement weather, I've hung it up inside!

And do you know what?

I'm keeping it up all summer long. For the Euro championships and the Olympics. So I can keep this feeling of national pride and cheery optimism going whatever the weather.

So keep your bunting up good people of Britain and lets keep this lovely atmosphere of national pride going for a bit longer.

We don't care that the country is broke we're British and we've got our bunting up!

And keeping your bunting up doesn't cost anything does it!

Until the bastards decide to tax it that is.....

The One Where I Realise How Far I've Come

2012-05-31T08:36:00.001+01:00

On Saturday I went on a course. It was called "How to Feel Good from the Inside Out" and Hippy Chick was running it.

I had done the course before as a half day, but after feedback Hippy Chick decided to extend it to a full day so it wasn't so rushed and people had more time to share and soak in all the information.

I always knew this was powerful stuff and I agreed it takes a whole day, at least, to really grasp the whole concept of increased self confidence and self esteem.

What I hadn't realised, until the day got going, was how far I'd come with it all.

I've had some one to one sessions with Hippy Chick. Some of them really intense. The ones after my redundancy were particularly painful. I sobbed and sobbed and let it all out then collected it all up in a big ball of frustration, resentment and anger and chucked the whole lot into the past. Where it belongs.

So on Saturday, I watched the the brave and incredible ladies who had the courage to come on the course, some of them crying, some so broken and bewildered with life they felt on the verge of a breakdown. When I saw them and recognised myself from this time last year I knew I had come such a long way.

One particular visualisation we did really brought it home to me. Without going into the whole thing it's about facets of your personality that you may have closed down over the years after negative comments. You visualise these as doors to rooms. My doors were open. Not all of them yet, but many more than ever before. I felt free to roam from room to room. I felt open. I felt honest. I didn't cry this time.

I smiled.

I told the others on the course. I was where you are a year ago. You've made the first step. This stuff works. Keep going. It's an on going process.

But then so is life.

We should never stop growing. Learning. Challenging ourselves.

I'm not "fixed"! But then who is? I'm not sure anyone ever is and I've learnt that maybe that's ok.

A little while ago Ken's Mum asked in astonishment why I was having confidence coaching.

"You are one of the most confident people I know" she laughed.

I couldn't answer her. I didn't know. I just knew I wasn't right. I was still on the "happy pills". I had dark days. Days when I just couldn't cope. When I didn't want to get out of bed.

"But you get on stage." she said.

True. I lark about. I make everyone laugh. Except some days myself.

That was the key. It's not confidence I lacked but "Self Confidence".

The ability to be comfortable in my own skin. To open my doors and not hide behind a players mask.

So now I like that's there's still a long way to go because when you feel you are on the right path the journey can only be fun, can't it!

The One With The Wedding

2012-05-13T17:26:00.000+01:00

We've had the build up.

We've had the hen do! (apologies for having only written part 1 of that - other parts to follow I promise)

So last Friday week we had the wedding.

The wedding being that of Ken and Mr Ken.

Ken is my dear friend who sat next to me for nearly the entire time I worked with her and put up with my old jokes, larking about and general lack of enthusiasm for doing any actual work for the best part of 13 years!

The woman deserves a medal.

On more than one occasion she has remarked that her now husband is like a male version of me!

A medal? She needs her head reading!

So along came the big day and Ken was very calm and collected bless her.

I on the other hand was a nervous wreck.

First of all I had convinced myself that the boy was going to scream all the way through the ceremony, meal, speeches, first dance and any other major moment of a person's wedding day.

Secondly I had also convinced myself the boy would poo just as we reached the registrar and a horrible aroma would pervade the entire proceedings. .

Thirdly I had visions of sticky little hands all over the brides beautiful white dress.

Fourthly I assumed he would do all of the above plus just as the bride and groom were about to exchange vows in a moment of tender devotion to each other, a little voice would pipe up from the back and say

"Spencer and Gordon next. DD please Mama" in his usual Thomas the Tank engine obsessed way. DD being boy speak for a DVD and Spencer and Gordon being his favourite story.

In fact he did none of these things. What he did do was got over excited after I'd left home to go to the wedding venue, launched himself off the sofa and banged his head and nose resulting in bloody red marks on his face.

All week I had been carefully applying calendula cream to his cheeks to calm the redness of his teething rash so he looked lovely for the pictures and he goes and does that!

I heard the news of this calamity via Nanny P when I phoned her to ask Hubby to bring a needle and cotton with him so we could sew the brooch back onto Earthquakes's bridesmaid dress. Nanny P made it sound like his face was that of a boy who'd done 10 rounds with Mike Tyson and then added helpfully

"He's ever so grumpy too"

Great! An arsey two year old page boy with a cut on his nose!

You too can have your wedding ruined by my son. I'm thinking of hiring him out!

I fessed up to the bride. Many a bride would've freaked out that their cherub of a page boy had smacked his face on the morning of the wedding but not Ken.

Ken is a star.

"He's two mate. And a boy. What do you expect? Little boys look like that. He's gorgeous"

After that I felt much calmer.

In reality, when hubby arrived with the boy (and the needle and thread - which we never got round to using) his face wasn't that bad and due to a sleep in the car on the way over his mood had vastly improved. His suit went on swiftly and with only a little wobble before we went down the aisle and one Hubs had to deal with at the end of the ceremony all was good.

I needn't have worried about the official photos as we never got one of the boy. He was too busy bombing about on the grass with the other children and running his poor father ragged to stand still long enough but at least he was happy. And thanks to bubbles and colouring books on the table at dinner he was as good as gold during the meal.

He also waited until the end of the meal to have a poo so he missed a good deal of the speeches by being back in our room with his dad having his bum changed so all in all it went off fine.

So relaxed was I at this point and so happy was the boy running about on the stage area with the other children that he stayed up long after his bedtime. He even started to do the Peter Kay thing where little boys pretend to be aeroplanes at wedding receptions - he came just short of skidding about on his knees.

My parents were invited to the evening and the plan was for them to stay until the boy could take no more then they would bundle him in the car and take him back for a sleep over at their house for the night.

The disco started. All was good. The boy was dancing, running about and generally being a two year old on reserve energy and excitement at being up an a hour and half later than his usual bedtime.

The guy doing the disco set off the smoke machine. Clouds of white mist flooded the dance floor.

"Fire. Fire" the boy screamed.

"No baby, it's just the smoke machine. Not a fire"

In hindsight how a 2 year old who's never seen a disco before is supposed to know what a smoke machine is I have no idea so of course it was a fire! Where there's smoke there's a fire. Usually started by Naughty Norman or that idiot Mike Flood and expertly put out by Fireman Sam.

"Fire. Fire!" he was really screaming now. And not only screaming but due to the many, many episodes of Fireman Sam we have watched in his short life so far, screaming "Fire" in a Welsh accent.

Come in Nanny and Granddad your time is up!

The boy was unceremoniously scooped up and taken to our room for milk and pyjamas all the time screaming "Fire" as if he hailed from the valley's themselves buyo.

Once safely and sleepily handed over to his doting grandparents, we waved him good bye as the car drove away, him still mustering up the energy to shout "Fire" at regular intervals.

"I thought your husband was half Irish not Welsh" someone said to me later.

"He is" I replied. I didn't bother to explain. I was too busy strutting my stuff on the dance floor with a gin and tonic in my hand to go into it.

I was just relived for everyone that the day had gone so well.

Like a house on fire in fact!

The One With the Brewery Tour and the Wrong Door

2012-04-16T11:40:00.000+01:00

So last Tuesday was my 42nd birthday and Hubby and I went on a brewery tour of Adnams in Southwold.

Nanny P had the boy for the afternoon and we ate fish and chips out of the paper, then went along for a look at how they brew our favourite beer.

As far as I am concerned Adnams is one of Suffolk's great treasures and finest success stories, exporting their real ales, stouts and now spirits all over the world and importing unusual wines into the country to sell in their Cellar and Kitchen stores.

Me and Hubby do love a brewery tour! On several trips to Derbyshire we've been to the Bass museum and tour and then again since it has changed hands to Coors.

I do however tend to get the giggles in these places. Once, on the Bass tour, I'd had a lot of coffee at breakfast in the B&B. Never a good move as me and caffeine don't mix well. I'm like a hyper kid after a bucket full of Smarties and a vat of orange squash. I was bouncing off the walls and completely losing it. There was a working model in a glass cabinet showing how, back in the day, the canals and trains brought the ingredients for the beer into Burton on Trent and took the finished beer away again. There were buttons to press to make the miniature vehicles move, blow steam, whistle and generally do stuff. So I, like a demented 4 year old, ran round and round the glass case pressing them all, giggling and laughing as the little trains and barges zoomed up and down their pretend rails and canals.

Little things....

But on this tour, I was very well behaved. I'd had no alcohol or caffeine prior, only fish and chips , which sometimes aggravate my IBS, but other than that we were good to go.

The tour was excellent, with a really knowledgeable guide to talk us through the history and the process of how Adnams came to Southwold and how they brewed the beers before and right up to the present day.

After about an hour we went for a tutored tasting!

God love them, they were not stingy on the measures. We tasted four beers and I must have had a good half pint of each. Then the guide asked if anyone would like a wine tasting session too?

By this time two of the ladies on the tour I'd been chatting to knew it was my birthday

"Yes, we all do. It's her birthday. We've got to celebrate!"

So another very lovely lady who was extremely well versed in wine knowledge, took us through a white, red, limoncello and a dessert wine called Rubis, which tastes like chocolate but has the texture of port. Amazing stuff. We bought a bottle!

I was feeling mellow at this point and, as a friend of mine describes it, "lightly refreshed"!

Hubby and I walked along the front, towards the pier for an ice cream.

"I just need the loo" I said

"It's that door there" said Hubby "You'll need 20p for the barrier"

By the time I'd fudged about for 20p I was a bit desperate. the fish and chips mixed with all that beer and wine had kicked in!

The door was open so you couldn't see the sign on it and the barrier was up which immediately confused me, and in my "refreshed" and desperate state I didn't notice what I should've noticed!

I sat down quickly and did what I needed to do.

I coughed.

Then I heard a voice.

"Is that you?"

It was Hubby!

"What are you doing in the ladies?" I said "Get out!"

"What are you doing in the men's?" came the reply

"Oh Christ you told me the wrong door!" I complained back at hubby

"Well hurry up" he said urgently

"I can't!" I moaned frantically "I'm having a poo!"

Hubby kept guard and luckily no one else came in but it was touch and go in there I can tell you.

In Hubby's defence the men's and the ladies used to be the other way round and there did used to be barriers that charged you to go in so you can see why we got confused.

"Why didn't you notice the urinals?" asked Hubby as we walked back to the car with our ice creams.

"They looked like the sinks" I said "They have those all in one soap dispensers, sink and hand dryer things and they looked the same" I explained.

"No they don't" Hubby exclaimed.

"Well they did to me"

Must have been the beer.

Beware beer goggles! They don't just make unattractive people look attractive, they can make the Gents look like the Ladies!

The One With Easter

2012-04-09T16:45:00.002+01:00

Keep Easter special I say.

And by that I don't just mean, the shops should shut on Easter Sunday.

By special I mean keep it simple.

What I love about Easter time, apart from the beginning of spring and it is often my birthday, is that it doesn't hold any of the pressures and work of Christmas. You get four days off to spend with friends and family but without having to send cards, buy presents or decorate your house up within an inch of it's life.

And so it should remain.

Adverts on TV may be telling you that the Easter bunny is chain-sawing a hole in all his baskets to cram a board game in and shops may be trying desperately to get us to send each other cards and trim up with chicks, lambs and bunnies, but I prefer a much more traditional Easter.

And that means chocolate!

So on a rainy Easter Sunday with Nanny P and on an even rainier Easter Monday with me, the boy has been helping us make a craft challenge from Tesco Online Magazine.

And it's due to the very simplicity of Easter that we have lots of lovely time to do things like this.

So with card, glue, glitter, bunny and chick sprinkles, crayons and coloured paper, not to mention chocolate eggs, buttons and a Thomas the Tank Engine cupcake we set to work.

Here's our efforts to cheer a couple of grey but not so miserable days.

Long may Easter be simple and special.

Happy Easter everyone!

The One with the T and A

2012-04-08T21:54:00.000+01:00

Last Saturday I went shopping with Lemon Cake Lady in what turned out to be a "tits and arse" day!

We had escaped for a whole day and got to be us again instead of Mum.

Don't get me wrong, we love being Mum's but sometimes you just need a damn good day out.

So off we ventured to Norwich letting the train take the strain. Unfortunately part of the journey meant letting the coach take the strain but that did give us the following gem from the driver, who said, in a thick Suffolk accent;

"Put your seat belts on to comply with the law"

No please, thank you or kiss my replacement bus service. It takes on it's full effect if you say it making "comply" the longest word in the sentence, if not the whole world, then you get the picture.

Once we arrived in Norwich we headed straight for Bravissimo.

It's like a Mecca to us both. I have, to not put too fine a point on it, enormous boobs. I hate them. I hate them with a passion. They get in the way, they make my back hurt, they are the butt of many a joke and they cost me a fortune to "house".

No picking up a £2.99 bra from Primark cos it's pretty and trendy and I can float around the bedroom in it tantalising the window cleaner. Oh no. I'm talking re-mortgaging the house just to buy something plain and functional to go under a t-shirt.

But still Bravissimo have excellent service and loads of choice in my size so I do have pretty stuff as well as the obligatory "over the shoulder boulder holders"!

And more importantly they always make me feel better about myself. The assistant I saw was very flattering about my shape and how I'd dressed. We were both wearing one of their dresses and she complimented mine and I hers. It was that moment of slight frisson when two woman appreciate each others form. After all as Ken always says, "There's a little bit of lezza in all of us!". Mind you the assistant had just felt up my bangers on a professional basis and she may well have been on commission but frankly I'll take my pleasure where I can find it! I got two bras with matching knickers.

My bank balance may have taken a serious hit but I came away feeling uplifted.

In more ways than one!

Which brings me to our second appointment of the morning.

Lemon Cake Lady had booked us into an event called Jean Genie at the Chapelfield shopping centre. This was a Gok Wan style pod where advisors would fit you for jeans and had various pairs from all over the centre for you to try on. Big, small, tall, short, small waisted, long legged, of child bearing hip or as petite as a pin, it didn't matter. They were there to help and make the best fit make the best of what you've got.

If Bravissimo was the booby lady then this I had affectionately nicknamed the "arse doctor"!

The ladies were funny, charming, helpful and positive. Lemon Cake Lady and I are the polar opposite of each other. LCL has a great figure but whereas she is slim on top with a tiny waist she's conscience of her hips and bottom. I quite like my lower half and indeed Hippy Chick has remarked on more than one occasion that I have "cracking pins, but I carry all my weight on my top and middle, especially after having the boy.

LCL was delighted to find jeans that actually fitted her after all these years. She is, according to Levi's, a supreme curve. I could've told them that years ago. And I'm a slim leg, slight curve. Apart from the obvious help and information this was so much more than that.

With the help of Hippy Chick I'm on self confidence kick about my body image. For years, when shopping, I've done this awful squinty face into the changing room mirror which annoys the hell out of LCL.

"Don't do the face" she'd yell at me as I screwed my face up and narrowed my eyes in an attempt to not really look at myself properly. It's like the hall of mirrors at the fairground. If I distorted the image maybe I would look thinner. Or disappear altogether! In fact all it achieved in doing was giving me the look of someone who had smelt something nasty and couldn't work out where it was coming from.

What Hippy Chick is helping me do is accept what I have and learn to love it. If I want to work on slimming it down or toning it up later on then so be it, but for now I want to love myself, wobbly bits and all and say this is me, without screwing my face up like old man Steptoe every time I pass a mirror.

So what Bravissimo and Jean Genie did was to help me love my best bits and control and compensate for the bits I don't like.

One of the ladies who helped us at Jean Genie had , as far as I was concerned, a perfect figure, yet she declared that she didn't like her thighs and they only looked ok because she was wearing the right jeans. How could she not like her thighs I asked? How could I not like my boobs and my curves she asked? I was womanly and "lush" she told me. I had my second little lezza moment of the day. I was starting to like this!

Then I realised that there is no perfection. We all of us don't like something about ourselves, even those who seem to be perfect. When I told LCL that I found this very comforting she said,

"What, that no one is happy?"

"Yes" I declared. "That no one, however perfect we think they are, is so smug and self satisfied that they don't have flaws and things they don't like about themselves too."

Then of course Samantha Brick wrote "that" article but hey you can't be right all the time can you?

That would just make you perfect.....