How to be a Happy Housewife

Top Tips for a Happy Marriage - Number 4

2012-01-13T07:22:00.000Z

BE ALWAYS KIND AND COMPASSIONATE

It was the end of a rather decadent evening. We'd had venison in red wine, followed by something chocolatey and a lot of cheese. There were ten of us and we had all drunk our own body weight in alcoholic beverages and were in various stages of repose around the dining room table. Bathed in candlelight, it was mellow, warm, convivial - very Brideshead, very Bright Young Things, but in the Cotswolds and without the Second World War. An average Saturday night chez nous.

And then The Husband caught fire.

None of us noticed at first. Some of us were smoking, the port and madeira were circulating, we were debating some political topic (or deciding who we might add to our List of Five), and then in a big whoosh his arm was engulfed in flames. It took The Husband a moment to register what was happening. We were all staring rather blankly at him, stricken dumb with shock, while the fireball ravaged his best shirt. Finally, somebody shouted "Oh My Lord!" (or words to that effect) and The Husband, who had begun to feel a little warm, realised there were flames licking the underneath of his left earlobe. He began to batter his arm furiously with his napkin. Luckily, one of our quick-thinking guests grabbed the ice bucket and threw it at The Husband and the roaring conflagration was extinguished.

I am ashamed to admit that I collapsed. Not, you understand, with the emotional realisation that my precious other half had nearly been consumed by flames or that his only really decent shirt - the only one he is ever likely to own from Jermyn Street, courtesy of my mother last Christmas - hung in charred tatters from his shoulder. Not in any post-traumatic recognition that I could have lost my soul mate, my life partner, and also my darling children and closest friends, not to mention the Bish's house, in the most hideous blazing inferno. No, I collapsed with hysterical laughter because it was, quite simply, the funniest thing I had ever seen.

The poor old Husband was quite badly burnt. There was a huge livid blistering burn all down his forearm. Which perversely made it all the more hilarious. I was literally in convulsions, tears streaming down my face.

Dripping wet and blackened round the edges, he looked at me. "When you've quite finished, do we have anything in the medicine box for burns?"

I gestured to the kitchen. "Aloe Vera plant," I snorted, "window sill. Marvellous for ... burns..." there was a pause at this point for more uncontrolled mirth. "Just break off a leaf and smear the sap on to the...burns..."

I let him get on with it. I know I should have ministered to his wounds, lovingly dressed them myself with wifely concern, but I couldn't stand up for laughing. I will draw a veil over the rest of the evening, but it continued in this shameful vein for quite some time. The Husband had to be fortified by a bottle of finest Malt.

The next morning, I was up first. Conscious of my appallingly heartless behaviour, I left the Husband to his well-earned lie-in and went into the kitchen to clear up the previous evening's debris. There, scattered across the window sill, beside the motley collection of herbs and house plants, were the mangled remains of several leaves. "Bless him," I thought, somewhat shamefaced, "it must have really hurt." And I gathered them up to throw in the bin.

However, on closer inspection I realised that I was not holding the long pointy leaves of Aloe Vera, famed for its extraordinary ability to contain vast amounts of viscous sap endowed with magical healing properties. I glanced at the window sill and standing next to the perfect Aloe Vera was the sorry remains of a denuded, dried up old Epiphyllum Cactus.

I had to sit down.

5 Ways To Get Your Kids To Eat Vegetables

2012-01-11T17:52:00.002Z

I don't care what Annabel Karmel says, it is a universal truth that children hate vegetables. Especially green ones.

It makes sense. They have an untrained palate and limited taste experience, so when you offer them a side of broccoli, they are probably comparing it to cake. (And likely the shop-bought kind, ie: 98% sugar, 2% fat. This is what my children call 'proper' cake. As in "please can I have a proper cake for my birthday". The unsaid rest of that sentence is "not one that you've made.")

Anyway, in case you are worried that the kids might get scurvy, here are five sneaky ways to slide some veggies in under the radar.

1) Blend it. Mince meals like bolognese or shepherd's pie are a great way to sneak in some invisible veggies. After you've softened your onions, garlic and celery in a pan, throw them into the blender before adding to the meat sauce. If your kids are fussy about tomatoes, whiz the tinned variety up before using in sauces and stews - also useful if they don't go for chunky pizza or pasta sauce. Puree roast butternut squash or cooked carrots and add to their favourite soup.

2) Mash it. Cauliflower, celeriac, carrots, swede, squash and sweet potatoes are a delicious addition to mashed potatoes. Boil and mash with cooked potatoes and loads of butter in the usual way. You could try adding cooked cabbage to your mash for a bubble-and-squeak style dish, but I haven't had much luck with it. Too obviously green.

3) Hide it. Small veggies like peas and sweetcorn, as well as tiny chunks of peppers, carrots, mushrooms and courgettes are less obvious if they are muddled about on a really busy plate. So you might get away with them in jumbalaya, paella or special fried rice type dishes where there is lots going on and they are kind of hidden in the crowd.

4) Cheese it. As with so many other things in life, vegetables are always better with a bit of cheese. Isn't anything? Sprinkle with grated cheddar, top with slices and grill or drench with a cheesy sauce.

5) Sell it. Apparently, rewarding your children for eating their vegetables turns them into genuine veggie-lovers. Yes, I know it sounds fantastic (in every sense of the word) but it is true, according to new research conducted by University College London. Psycholgist Heidi Grant Halvorson has written all about this approach. If you can bear another sticker chart, then it might be worth a shot.

Otherwise, you could try doing what one clever mum did. Each night she served the family their supper sans vegetables. In front of her own place she set a huge bowl of veggies which she devoured greedily and noisily. This went on every night, with Mum making quite sure that everybody knew how much she was enjoying her bowl of vegetables. Eventually one of the children asked if he might have some too. "Sorry," said Mum, "but these deliciously gorgeous vegetables are just for me!" The story goes that before too long the kids were begging for them...

No, it wasn't me. Like Marie-Antoinette, I say let them eat cake.

One Born Every Minute

2012-01-09T10:14:00.000Z

My first son was born 18 years ago, delivered by a gentle midwife who fed me ice cream and listened uncomplainingly for 19 hours to my tape of whale song. My first husband was absent for much of the time. Tired out, he slept while I laboured.

Then life does its heartbreaking thing and unravels, but marvellously nine years later I am with The (new) Husband and ready to go again. The midwife is funny - we laugh together as The Husband sleeps. He wakes for the birth of a little boy, perfect but black and blue where I had shot him out across the bed. "You shouted," said The Husband, disapprovingly. "And the window was open." He snores for what is left of the night, while I lie beside him, stroking the bruises on his son's face.

The following morning I get up, leaving them both asleep under the warm covers, while I see to the oldest - feed him breakfast, get him ready for school. I make myself a cup of tea and wish my mother would come. When I go back to our room, the baby is crying. The Husband has rolled over and is spread-eagled, still asleep, across the bed. There is no room for me to get in. I take up the baby and go into the sitting room and sit bleeding on the sofa.

There is no commemorative piece of jewellery, no bouquet of flowers, instead The Husband invites his parents to stay for a fortnight.

My third son is born fast and furious. I do not shout and I know not to expect anything.

Number Four is late. Very late. After three weeks five days and counting, my mother and The Husband decide something must be done. They tell the midwife that something must be done - I must be made to deliver this baby immediately. They shout. The midwife is calm and gentle - the baby is healthy and happy - just late. They shout. It is no longer 'convenient' for them to wait. I do not sleep. In the morning the baby decides it is time. I wake The Husband and deliver another son on the bed. "At last," he says.

The last of our children should have been an easy birth, but the baby becomes stuck. The midwife has to manually push my anterior cervical lip over the baby's head internally with her hands. I reach down between my legs and guide the little body out. "A text-book birth!" The Husband announces. The midwife looks at him witheringly. I am past caring. I have a daughter.

This post is part of the Netmums 'One Born Every Minute/Channel 4 linky.

One Born Every Minute is on Wednesday nights from 4th Jan, 9pm, Channel 4 and available online at www.lifebegins.channel4.com

A New Year's Revolution

2012-01-06T12:52:00.000Z

I've never been a fan of New Year's Eve. So depressing. Can't quite get my head round why I'd want to snog the neighbours at midnight - might be different if they looked like Johnny Depp or the Asda delivery man, but number 14 is a balding fascist and Number 10 is a bearded communist. I can get some of that any time I like courtesy of The Husband who spectacularly combines all these qualities in one unique package.

That whole 'Woo - there's goes another year!' just reminds me of all the things I haven't got round to yet - like actually finishing the novel, hemming the sitting room curtains, losing the accumulated baby weight of 5 kids...

My great grandmother talked of being woken just before midnight by her father when she was a little girl of four. She was hoisted on to his shoulders and they went out to join the throng in Trafalgar Square to see the century turn in 1900. Probably quite exciting for her, but then so was seeing her first motor car.

For the Millennium celebrations in 2000, I was in the bohemian quarter of Oxford and drank champagne barefoot in the streets with strangers while wearing a particularly silly hat. But I would do that any night of the week if asked politely. It didn't really feel like a once-in-a-lifetime kind of experience. It was even more depressing than the bog standard run-of-the-mill New Year's Eve, because of the added weight of all the things that everyone in the world hadn't got round to over the last 1000 years - like scientists not curing cancer (so I don't have to give up smoking); like countries not being able to sort out their differences without shooting/bombing the cluck out of each other; like Britain throwing away 20 billion pounds worth of excess food when 13.6% of the world's population is undernourished; like it not being morally questionable to pay a footballer £170,000 a week (sorry John Terry but you are just a footballer and not a very nice one, at that)... I could go on, but you get my drift.

Anyway, not only is New Year's Eve depressing as hell, there's all those tiresome resolutions to make. My five year old calls them 'revolutions' which is a much better name, don't you think? Being a creature of (bad) habit, my revolutions are the same each year:
1. Give up smoking
2. Loose weight
3. Be more organised
4. Be more good at everything

They are also usually over by the second week of January. As a failed revolutionary, I get the Mark Thatcher Award for Excellence every year. Ridiculous. So, I was really excited to read that the enviably capable Mummy Whisperer advocates doing away with resolutions altogether. Yay! Instead, she suggests that we pick our top 3 Life Priorities to focus on for the coming year. I really like her thinking. Failure isn't as definitively measurable with a priority in quite the same way as it is with a resolution. Which means there's more maneuverability - ie: room to bugger it up a bit without completely buggering it up. You can also get a lot more stuff into a priority than you can in a resolution, so you also get more bang for your bucks. Bargain.

Following her eminently sensible advice, my Top 3 Priorities for 2012 are:
1. My relationships
2. My career
3. My health

Because:
1. I know I say "not tonight, Joseph" to The Husband (which can't do his self-esteem any good, especially as he's called Edward) and "let me just finish this" to the children, too often. Also, my great aunt isn't going to live forever and I love her, so I should visit.
2. The novel won't write itself.
3. As Mammywoo beautifully said yesterday, some of us don't get to choose. Recovery is hard work, but I'm starting to believe I'm worth it. *tosses hair*. Beating myself up with one of these sticks doesn't help. Industrial quantities of cheese and wine makes me fat. Smoking kills.

So bring on 2012. I'm learning to prioritise.

How To Make a Packed Lunch from Standby Ingredients

2012-01-05T20:24:00.000Z

I did not sweep the kitchen floor yesterday because I was too busy embracing my inner slut. Today, I came over all Martha Stewart and got the broom out. Just as well as we were knee-deep in detritus. This is what had accumulated under the kitchen table in the last 24 hours.

It's no wonder there is never any food in this bloody house. It's all on the floor. Two chips, a satsuma, half a flapjack and a couple of crackers. There's enough here to make a decent packed lunch.

Six Good Reasons to Embrace Your Inner Slut

2012-01-04T07:20:00.000Z

People who don't know the sorry story have asked me why I felt let down by The Bish. Without going in to all the sordid details, let's just say HE EVICTED US FROM OUR HOUSE. Well, technically it was his house and we were his tenants and he wanted it back so he could visit it himself when he wasn't doing Bishoply things in London, but even so. The chutzpah of the man.

And then just when I thought I had the measure of him, he goes and says the most beautiful thing.

On Radio 2's 'Pause for Thought' just before Christmas, he told us to Embrace Your Inner Slut. OK, he didn't actually say those words, but he recognised that we get hung up on Perfection:

We try to plan all this stuff and stay in charge, and too often (especially with advertisers singing in our ears the whole time) we think that unless we can cook the perfect dinner, plan the perfect wedding, organise the perfect Christmas, we somehow don't really count or we can't hold our heads up.

Gawd Bless the Archbisop of Canterbury! He just summed up how most women feel - and not just at Christmas.

We (that's Wimmin) have a whole lot of sticks with which we beat ourselves. There's the Fat Stick - just look at the answers to Kate's meme and how many of us want to change our weight in 2012. There's the Domestic Goddess Stick - all home-made apple pie and co-ordinated scatter cushions. There's the Pretty Stick - tweeze, wax, buff, polish; the Fashion Stick - colour blocking is so last year; the Career Stick - what glass ceiling? and the Mother Stick - selfless, patient and wise. Sometimes there's the Wife Stick - which looks a lot like all the other sticks rolled into one, but includes knowing where his car keys are at all times - and then there's the Sex Stick... its enough to give a girl a headache.

You know what? I am so tired of beating myself up. I am a Slummy Mummy, She of the Slovenly Ways, often through necessity, but I refuse to be ashamed of it any longer. My New Year's Resolution for 2012 is to Embrace My Inner Slut and here are six good reasons why good enough is good enough:

1. Spaghetti hoops are quick and never killed anyone.

2. Nobody is going to look under the bed.

3. Similarly, nobody is going to look under your clothing to see if your undies match or your lady's garden has been trimmed, unless you want them to.

4. French women don't shave their armpits and they buy their puddings from the patisserie.

5. Washing - floors, hair, children - a little less often saves water which is environmentally responsible.

6. There isn't actually a prize for being the Best at Everything.

What Are Your Highs and Lows From 2011?

2012-01-02T17:21:00.002Z

Thank you to the lovely Kate at kateonthinice for asking me the questions!!

Here are my highs and lows of 2011:

1. What was your happiest event?

The birth of my niece.

2. What was the saddest thing to happen?

The MIL told me what she really thought of me – several times very rudely - and it broke my heart. OK, so that’s an exaggeration – it didn’t actually break my heart but it did chip a bit off the corner.

3. What was the most unlikely thing to happen that actually went ahead and did?

The most unlikely thing that could ever have happened was that I discovered physical exercise is not the Devil’s Doing and actually did some. And I did. Quite a lot. And I enjoyed it. Quite a lot.

4. Who let you down?

The Archbishop of Canterbury – don’t ask.

5. Who supported you?

My family is my rock. My husband and brother are amongst my best friends. I am also blessed with a strong and close network of girlfriends. Women generate huge energy when they get together – but we have to decide whether or not to make it positive and nurturing. My real girlfriends don’t bitch or put each other down – we make each other feel fabulous about who we are – and mean it. Thank you, ladies!

6. Tell us one thing you learned.

I learnt that less is more in oh, so many ways…

7. Tell us one thing that made you laugh.

Only one? Michael McIntyre makes me howl with laughter.

8. Tell us one thing that made you cry.

Gareth Malone and the Military Wives Choir – those ladies are legendary.

9. Tell us three things your child or children did to make you feel proud.

The children moved schools mid-year and watching them handle it with such bravery was FAB. Number Two, in particular, has achieved great things on the sporting field and with his reading that has given his confidence a phenomenal boost – and all through his own hard work. On a different level, but it made me equally proud, our grown-up boy Number One admitted he needed help getting his life back on track…

10. Tell us one thing that made you proud of yourself.

Finally going it alone without medication, after years of anti-depressants…

11. Tell us one challenge you overcame.

Writing the synopsis to my novel!! Oh Lord, I’d rather chew my leg off than have to do that again.

12. Tell us three things you would like to change about your life in 2011.

My weight, my income, my husband. No, seriously... my weight, my income, my husband.

And I tag the following mammas - some old friends, some new - to answer the same questions! (The rules are simple - answer the questions in a blog post, tag some more gorgeous bloggers, then leave me a comment on this post so I know you're done. Easy Peasy.)

http://www.mummymishaps.blogspot.com/

http://marketingtomilk.wordpress.com/

http://mediocremum.com/

http://www.morethanjustamother.com/

http://www.thesardinetin.com/

http://www.hotcrossmum.blogspot.com/

http://wherethebrassbandsplay.com/

http://www.mummyslittlemonkey.blogspot.com/

http://www.amodernmother.com/

Christmas Spirit

2011-12-24T08:49:00.000Z

"Our Christmas play is not very Christmassy - it's all about Jesus!" said one of Number Four's classmates.

The Nativity Season is over in this house for another year - and I can't say I'm sorry.

Yes, I know they look cute in the whole tablecloth and dressing gown ensemble or trussed up in tinsel, but it brings out the worst in people - and not just the children. This year parents have complained to the school because their child didn't get a leading role and had to play the recorder. Others are camping out to get front row seats an hour before the doors open. What?

When he was four years old, Number One was the Shining Star of Bethlehem and spent the entire twenty-minute performance walloping the child in front of him with his star-on-a-stick before finishing him off with a poke in the eye. The following year he was a Wise Man and at the crucial moment removed the gold wrapping paper from Baby Jesus' gift before hurling the empty biscuit tin at the crib.

Number Two didn't even make it onto the stage, crumbling with stage fright on his way to the hall. He spent the entire performance sitting on the dinner lady's knee by the fire exit with my best tea towel on his head.

Number Three hit the big time when he landed Joseph, but a few days before his theatrical debut he broke his arm and had to knock on inn doors and steer the donkey with his left hand. Awkward, but not disastrous. And he and Mary made a rather pretty couple - both Celtic skinned, blond and blue-eyed. However, at the critical moment when the Son of God was actually born, Joseph had to ferret under the hay bales, bring out the baby and hand him to his proud mother. This proved a tricky manoeuvre with one arm in plaster and there was a collective gasp when Baby Jesus fell out of the swaddling clothes and fell naked to the stable floor revealing her dusky mixed race heritage and long ebony locks.

It was Number Four's turn last week. Unfortunately, we couldn't see a thing as the only seats left when we arrived - a polite fifteen minutes before curtain up - were behind a pillar in the south transept. And just to make doubly sure we weren't sneaking a peak at the action, the man in the pew in front of us took out the biggest movie camera ever seen this side of Hollywood and proceeded to stand up and record every last moment for posterity. I was feeling slightly weary from a surfeit of Christmas cheer the previous evening, so when The Husband started cursing darkly into his beard, I decided to have a little kip. I was woken some twenty minutes later by a child shouting: "I BRING FRANKENSTEIN FOR THE BABY!!" We may not have seen Number Four's kingly performance but along with the rest of the Cotswolds, we could certainly hear him.

However, for all my festive cynicism, I joined in Away in a Manger and even experienced a lump in the throat. I think it was a mince pie.

How to be Queen of the Social Scene - 6 Dos & Don'ts

2011-11-29T10:08:00.002Z

One of the things about being the only smoker left in the Cotswolds, is that one gets to observe politer society through a succession of living room windows. Its been a busy week, but under cover of three dinners, a drinks party and a 40th birthday celebration, I have been able to conduct extended anthropological research whilst loitering in various Oxfordshire gardens, and have worked out where I have been getting it wrong.

Follow these 6 Dos and Don'ts and you'll fit right in. Here's how to be Queen of the Social Scene and shine right through the Christmas party season:

1) Do put on your best social face.
This means keeping everything beneath the nose frozen in a polite rictus, whilst the eyes dart between the face of your co-conversationalist, (all the better to check whether she has had any work done) and the horizon over her shoulder, to see if anyone more influential/wealthy/entertaining has arrived.

2) Do not talk to people that you do not like or do not know.
Broadening one's social circle can be dangerous - you never know which end of the village they may inhabit, as it were. It is, however, expected that you will criticise their weight and/or their attire in semi-hushed tones with your friends.

3) Don't eat anything.
It is usual to ask whether things are organic and/or whether they were acquired at the local farmer's market, but under no circumstances should you actually chew anything, even if the hostess shops in Waitrose. Plead a wheat allergy, an intolerance to dairy, or declare you are in the South Bikini Body Atkins Cabbage Zone. If, heaven forbid, you are given a plate with something solid on it, just push it around with your fork.

4) Do be confident that your husband never flirts.
He never talks to a lady's breasts or accidentally touches her bottom. You are woman enough. Really.

5) Do talk about money (but only to tell everyone how hard-up you are).
It has become perfectly acceptable to tell everyone how much your shoes/car/holiday cost but remember, being poor is the new black. Frequent charity shops and jumble sales. The labels that currently impress are Freecycle, Ebay and Scope. Even if you have buckets of cash and keep falling over your staff/trust fund/SUV, plead poverty.

6) Do not look as if you are having a good time.
It is not cool. Keep smiling to a minimum. (Refer back to point 1.)

Coffee Morning

2011-06-15T17:50:00.003Z

I don't do Coffee Mornings.

That is to say, I drink the stuff when I wake up - several cups - but I'd rather chew my leg off than attend an organised pre-lunch percolatory event with ladies. And I live in the Cotswolds, so they kind of come with the territory.

(That's me on the far right with a doughnut on my fork)

Can't bear those kind of gatherings - lace doillies, recipe swaps... I'm always quite nervous when large groups of wimmin get together. Not being a particularly girly girl, I worry that I won't have anything to talk about. I am allergic to exercise, as you know, so can't compare the toning benefits of spinning (sounds political) with abdominal crunches (sounds edible) - I get out of breath just strolling to the fag machine in the pub from my seat at the bar. I can't get excited about handbags - I've tried, but there's something morally abhorrent about spending the equivalent of the national debt of a small third world country on something to put your lippy, keys and baby wipes in. I can't sympathise with the pressures of being a corporate wife - The Husband is currently a delivery driver - and I'm not a golf widow, although The Husband does enjoy the occasional turn on Wii Sports. I never visit the hairdresser - relying on the kitchen scissors and a bottle of chablis when my split-ends threaten to take over - and my children don't do after-school violin or Japanese lessons, so I can't moan about their extra-curricular timetable clashing with my colonic irrigation or hot stone massage.

I live in a very dilapated sixteenth-century rented farmhouse and cook on a contrary old electric horror circa 1963, so can't discuss modern kitchen design with any authority. We have no pets, no Crufts-worthy pedigree pooch - unless you count Eric the wood louse that Number Three keeps in a matchbox or the spiders as big as cats that live under the eaves - so shocking vets' bills aren't an issue over which I can bond. I loathe sushi and I suspect Feng Shui is twaddle, so I can't pretend to be culturally touched by my mid-term break in the Orient - the West Country every summer is about as exotic as our overdraft allows.

I like my coffee Turkish - that is to say rough and strong - so no fannying about with skinny lattes or decaf frappaccinos. I like good cake - dense and rich - biscuits with bite, buns with bollocks - none of these airy fairy petit fours or pretty cupcakes - unless of course there's chocolate in 'em, in which case I'll have two. Maybe three, if I'm a bit peckish. Counting calories is like counting sheep - it puts me to sleep - although I'm the first to admit that I could do with losing some. Calories, not sheep.

So, all in all, I'm probably not the best bet to host a Coffee Morning.

In hindsight, a triple-layer chocolate cake, a dozen scones with clotted cream and a basket of pain au raisin might have been a slight overcalculation on the catering front, bearing in mind that there were seven of us, and all of them except yours truly are in the South Bikini Body Atkins Cabbage Zone. Anyway, I poured coffee, munched my way through a plate of (seven) croissants and smiled and nodded in all the right places, but I struggled to offer much on the conversation front. The only interesting thing I could come up with on the spur of the moment was: "Has anyone considered the international political ramifications of the assassination of Bin Laden?" Luckily, I didn't say it out loud.

Anyway, in desperation I looked at the clock and realised that all over the land the public houses of Great Britain and the United Kingdom were open. So I opened the Pinot Grigio. And things started to look up...

The only mistake I made was suggesting a game of strip poker. I had forgotten that I was wearing my elephant pants made of reinforced steel girders in order to reduce post-elevenses wobble. Apparently, Ladies Who Do Coffee Mornings do not nip into Primark in their lunchbreaks to purchase discount girdles. No, they receive undies of the wispy and frothy variety from husbands who shop in Agent Provocateur. I am hoping they concluded that I was wearing my Sports Kit under my clothes in order to save time at the gym.

Mirror, Mirror

2011-06-04T15:17:00.002Z

This is what I see in the mirror this morning.

How is this possible?

I thought I looked like this:

OK - in my dreams. But it is a bit of a shock.

Even though I see myself every morning for ten minutes or so while I put my warpaint on, I tend to check things out in isolation. Frown lines - check. Eyebrows - check. Thread veins - check. I put my make-up on every day because other people have to look at me, but I rarely take much notice of the whole package, as it were, short of making sure that I won't frighten small children or the postman.

When did I get old? My eyes - which used to be blue - are going grey, presumably in sympathy with my hair. My cheekbones used to be chiseled - now they seem... trowelled. And whose chin is that? I seem to have acquired someone else's - in fact, several people's.

Well, at least I know what lies in store now. If I had diamonds, I would wear them.

Moving Day

2011-05-09T20:32:00.002Z

Moving house is supposed to be up there as one of the most stressful life events. We did it a few weeks ago and you know what? It was fab.

We were moving from the Cotswold village that we have lived in for the last five years, from a beautiful rambling old house, where the last of our children was born in front of the roaring fire in our bedroom. We have all made some wonderful friends and the boys have been doing brilliantly at the local school. It was going to be a difficult day - even though we were moving only three miles down the road.

There were six bedrooms to empty, five children's toys and general stuff, the attics, the cellar, the sheds, my collection of antique crockery, my shoes - (I know, I know!) - The Husband's tools and bits of wood, the exercise videos I never use and the books - all 1500 of them...

But we hadn't bargained on Alex and Angus.

House and Carriage are a small but beautifully formed removal company - actually they do much more than just removals; storage, shipping, deliveries - and because we are poor and they are lovely, we were able to borrow a couple of blokes and two big vans for a few hours at an extremely reasonable price. Alex and Angus masterminded the whole thing and the rest of us - including some of the teenagers friends and various assorted loved ones - followed their directions which were given with great patience and good humour.

The sun was shining - actually, it was blazing - and none of the boys complained once about having to hump heavy furniture down two flights of stairs and into a van and then out of a van and up two more flights of stairs (apart from the teenagers, obviously, but I guess that's in the job description). Nobody mentioned how slapdash my packing was - things hurled into bin liners and tipped into boxes. The Husband had bought a roll of giant plastic which he wrapped around anything with movable parts - like drawers which might come out in transit or baskets of toys without lids. The girls brought cake and packed up the last of the kitchen things, tactfully ignoring the compost bin under the sink which I hadn't emptied for two weeks.

So moving doesn't have to be a nightmare. It was a lovely day - completely stress-free - and we are incredibly grateful to everyone who helped us out.

(The lovely Angus, wearing Number 4's Bob the Builder hat, taking a well-earned break for his lunch.)

However, the next bit is about as bloody stressful as it gets. I didn't label the boxes. And they were borrowed from Mrs Organised who had written her own Really Useful labels on them like "Derek's work shirts" and "Large vases", and everything else is swathed in sodding cling film.

Top Tips for a Happy Marriage - Number 3

2011-03-07T12:39:00.001Z

HAVE REALISTIC EXPECTATIONS OF EACH OTHER

"Are you sorry," I said to The Husband, "that you married a hell-raiser? You could have had a wife who enoyed sudoku, crochet, origami, or baking... instead of sex and drugs and rock'n'roll."

We were lying in bed giggling, the morning after the night before - which had been one of those predictably middle-aged, middle-classed evenings that degenerates into inebriated bickering between friends, where everyone gets the wrong end of the stick, nobody will back down and it all ends in tears.

He laughed. "Don't be silly," he said. "You couldn't raise hell if you tried! You haven't had sex since 1993 and the only drugs you take are the ones the doctor gave you to stop you going mad. Its more sausage rolls than Rolling Stones with you."

He looked at my disappointed face and said, "Well, we're not as young as we were."

Bastard.

He's right of course. We're getting older and our hell-raising days are dwindling. We used to party all night and not go to sleep until the sun came up. We imbibed all manner of beverages and ingested all manner of substances*, cared little about tomorrow and lived wild and carefree in the moment. Carpe Diem was the motto etched on our souls. 'Decadent' was my favourite word. We were mad, bad and dangerous to know.

Now if we stay up past midnight I am grumpy for a week and my skin takes on the texture of old pumpkin. The truth is that I'd rather have a cup of tea and curl up with a good book than, well, anything else. I've even been tempted by those adverts for blankets with sleeves... and I enjoy a good period drama. (And by that I mean the corseted Sunday night BBC TV viewing variety, not the 'am I? aren't I?' time-of-the-month variety.) I like listening to Gardeners Question Time - particularly the bits about composting - jigsaws have a certain appeal and I no longer embarass my oldest son. Now I can't decide if my favourite word is 'microwavable' or 'elasticated'. I am bad at remembering things and bad at geography and bad at housework, rather than 'bad' in any glamourous Byronic sense, although the doctors tell me my mental health is still questionable, but what do they know? ("Quite a lot", says The Husband.) Now I am only dangerous when crossing the road.

The problem is that while The Husband knows - and loves - all this about me, I don't. I prefer the myth. He has to remind me to take my anti-delusion pills.

"You are not a rock-star, darling," he says, "Stop behaving like one."

*If any of The Husband's family are reading this, don't panic. The strongest mind-altering substance he has ever ingested was a prawn vindaloo at the Bombay Dreams Curry House in Norwich in 1987. He has only had the odd Korma since.

What's in a Name?

2011-03-06T12:12:00.004Z

Help me decide the title of my new novel.

Visit my new Facebook author page and take the poll. Show you care by hitting the 'like' button!

Orchids and Angels OR

Saint Matilda's Day?

The Soundtrack to My Life

2011-02-11T16:13:00.001Z

How Much is that Doggy in the Window? Patti Page - If I close my eyes I can hear my grandmother singing this. My mother sang it to me and I have sung it to all my babies too, adding extra "Woof Woofs" in the chorus. They liked it.

Ace of Spades, Motorhead - I was in rehab with one of the guys from Motorhead. We would sit on my bed, drink tea and play guitar after lights out. Bless him.

Nimrod, Elgar - I was introduced to this piece of music by a boyfriend, a Chief Inspector in the police force who also happened to be a naturist. We were in the library of a big country house and I just stood and cried when I heard it. He was clothed at the time. Should be on everyone's list. (The music not the naturism.)

Black, Pearl Jam - breaking up with my first husband was like having my heart forced through a garlic crusher. Every line of this song, every note, every sentiment, everything... "I know some day you'll have a beautiful life, I know you'll be a star In somebody else's sky..."

Theme to Braveheart, James Horner - I can weep just thinking about it, in fact the entire score is nothing short of musical genius. Stirs the soul, wrings the heartstrings - you could be back in Medieval Scotland when men wore their hair long and were honest and true and fought for Big Things like love and dreams and freedom... Sigh. I have lived my life to this soundtrack, in my head...

How You Remind Me, Nickelback - for my eldest son, for who we are and where we've been together.

Un Bel Di, Puccini - An artist's studio on Exmoor on a cold afternoon; eating figs under a tree in the sunshine with an elderly incontinent poet; full-volume in a suite at The Royal Crescent Hotel at two in the morning; at a deserted farmhouse in the Limousin...

Babylon, David Gray - smoky backstreet pub in Jericho (that's Oxford, not the Biblical one), walking down the aisle for the second (and last) time and drinking frozen margharitas at Cornbury Festival. Yup, this one is for The Husband.

Freebird, Lynyrd Skynyrd - do I need to explain this? It will be my funeral song and you are expected to sob through the whole nine minutes of it. "I'm as free as a bird now..."

How to Improve your Standard of Living

2011-02-10T13:03:00.001Z

My mother is Coming To Stay.

Oh, Lord. It's going to take all week to get the house ready. I'll have to wash, scrub, polish, dust and swear a lot to get things up to her standard.* I love my mother - (she of the fish knives) - and we have many things in common - (not cutlery) - but our respective attitudes to domestic cleanliness are feather dusters apart.

Mum brings her rubber gloves with her when she visits. I don't own any. I tidy up only when strictly necessary, that is when nice people are expected or The Husband is threatening divorce again, in which case I hide the dirty dishes in the oven and kick the kids' toys under the sofa. I am blessed with a husband who actually enjoys housework - yes, I know, Odd but Handy. He has never expressed any peculiar interest in wearing a pinny or, come to that, any other item of female clothing, so I think its safe to just let him get on with it. (Yes, I am instinctively defending his masculinity, because as we all know, housework is women's work and the doing of it can lead to the development of breasts, an unhealthy interest in soft furnishings and an inability to map-read.)

I feel about housework like Lucian Freud's indignant wife Kitty, who when asked by her husband to sweep the floor, "felt she was made for better things". Not because I am too good to get my hands dirty (although any excuse to avoid the housework should be given careful consideration), but because housework is repetitive and time-consuming and takes me away from my writing. The housework willl still need doing tomorrow, whether I do it today or not. I am an artist! The banality of it all might blunt the edge of my creative imagination and then where would we be? (In a much tidier house.) I live by Quentin Crisp's dictum that dust should be left undisturbed for four years, after which time it doesn't get any worse and one ceases to notice it. (Not long to go now.)

My well-thumbed copy of Among The Bohemians by Virginia Nicholson sits on my bedside table, like a Gideon Bible in a motel room, and I have drawn much comfort from her study of the unconventional lives of the artistic set at the turn of the century. "There was another way to live, a way which was labour-saving, sloppy, but also uninhibited and imaginative. There was a world where neglect of housework was positive rather than reprehensible."

Oh, take me there!

"...tidiness and cleanliness can be oppressive, while mess released one from bourgeois imperatives like tidying up. Poverty and high ideals didn't mean you had to be uncomfortable, however. The gentle settling of dust and grime on books and ornaments gave a kind of frowsy smugness to the Bohemian interior. It bespoke artistic priorities..."

Unfortunately, as much as I waft around in ankle-length petticoats and velvet frock-coats, I do not live in a Bloomsbury garret at the fin-de-siècle, more's the pity. We do actually own a hoover. I must ask The Husband where he keeps it, as my mother has her own dictum "Cleanliness is next to Godliness, and Slovenliness leads to Disinheritance and the Withdrawing of Babysitting Services..."

* Just to be clear, the swearing a lot is not a necessary part of meeting my mother's high standards. My mother does not curse when cleaning the house, or indeed at any time. It is all my own idea.

Brief Encounter

2011-02-06T10:35:00.001Z

I've always had a bit of a Thing about Trains.

Not in the sense of spotting - you know I can't do anoraks - but the whole travelling thing. The waiting at stations, the checking of the time, the being late, the being early. Baggage. Everyone going about their own business, living out their own story, hundreds of individual journeys, everyone about to embark on a different adventure. The race to get a good seat, by the window, with a view. The thrill when the doors clank shut. The Romance! The Possibilities! The Anticipation! The Cost!!!

Of course, it ought to be a steam engine for the ultimate experience and, inconveniently, there aren't any of those on our Cotswold line to London, but I did have a proper Waiting Under the Clock feeling the other day, when invited on a Blind Date.

Before you all start recommending good divorce lawyers to The Husband, I was off to meet a fellow writer for a drink, arranged by a mutual friend. Emily Carlisle is a columnist for Oxford Life magazine and writes an award-winning parenting blog. She has also finished her first novel and - get this - knows how to write a synopsis without chewing her leg off in the process. She is also young and brave, so you see I was A Bit Nervous.

Gosh, what an evening. We talked, drank, laughed, cried, and discovered lots of things that bind us together - gin, motherhood, impatience with stupid people, not to mention the Overwhelming and often Lonely Compulsion to write. She even liked my frilly umbrella. It was stimulating, warm, real and I would happily wait for Emily under the clock for hours, even if there are only diesel locomotives available and the gin has run out.

Top Tips for a Happy Marriage - Number 2

2011-02-02T11:51:00.000Z

ABSENCE MAKES THE HEART GROW FONDER

The Husband is away.

His father died suddenly at the weekend and The Husband has gone home to support his family. I want to do something to ease his grief but what can possibly offer any solace? I am here on my own with the children trying to look capable and keep the home fires burning...

There is nobody here stressing about whether the crockery has been put away properly or the laundry folded.
There's nobody moaning about the cold cups of tea I have left on my bedside table or the mountain of clothes I have discarded on the bedroom floor.
There's nobody telling me my skirts are too long or raising an eyebrow because I've bought another antique plate that won't go in the dishwasher.
There's nobody chuckling because I put my purse away in the fridge or telling me off because I stayed up late reading.
There's nobody leaving their stinky shoes by the back door or spouting off about the evils of the internet.
There's nobody huffing because the children are noisy or asking pointedly how many words I've written today.
There's nobody getting annoyed because I'm gossiping on the phone to my girlfriends and burning the dinner.
There's nobody shouting about the broken promises of the coalition government or talking through Silent Witness.
There is nobody stealing all the bed covers at night and snoring like an adenoidal warthog.

I really miss him. I am going to tidy the bowl shelf.

How to Look Like a Hollywood Star

2011-01-23T10:50:00.004Z

I have a guilty secret.

I collect exercise videos.

Not deliberately, that would be ridiculous. I didn't know I collected them until quite recently. I suppose I had been in denial. I counted them last week and found that I have 11, which, I think you'll agree, is enough to put them in the Collection category, rather than the Randomly Acquired category.

The thing is I have never actually used them for the purpose of exercising. In fact, the last two I bought are still in their wrappers. I did watch one once, sitting on the sofa with a cup of tea and a biscuit, just to see whether I felt up to it. I didn't. It was 1996 and Beverley Callard promised Rapid Results, but I was feeling a bit peaky and opted for a pizza. (Quattro Formaggio.)

The videos arrive on the doormat at periodic intervals, usually after a prolonged bout of cheese consumption. I am an exercise video maker's dream, not to mention a cheesemaker's dream, blessed as they are. Because I believe. I absolutely, completely and utterly, 100% believe that if I follow the video, I too will get to be a size 8. (Or even a size 6, if I gave up cheese at the same time.) The problem is that when faced with a choice between a Dolcelatte sandwich and Jane Fonda yelling "Feel the Burn" (her workout was the first video I ever bought...which just shows how long I have suffered from these delusions), I invariably opt for the cheesy option. Who am I kidding? I will always opt for the cheese.

It isn't just dairy products which are my girth's undoing - one needs a little something to wash it down with. I am in awe of those people who, when asked if they'd like another drink, can put their hand over their glass and say with absolute authority, "No thanks. I've had enough." How do they know when they've had enough? Do they have some sort of early-warning system? I wasn't in the queue when they handed those out. I don't seem to possess a stop button. However, I do have an arse the size of Moldavia and a collection of 11 exercise videos and how many people can say that?

I was talking to a girlfriend in the pub on Friday night and we were bemoaning that fact that the rest of our girlfriends are whip-thin. (She could not, under any circumstances, be labelled a fatty herself - she has an enviable figure and probably weighs as much as one of my buttocks.) We came to the conclusion that they obviously possess the kind of iron will that means a stick of celery is more than enough to make breakfast, lunch and supper for a week. I want to force-feed them roast potatoes cooked in goose fat and pints of Baileys Irish Cream. They are definitely hand-over-the-glass girls. I envy them the kind of self-control that means they can leave a party at a respectable time with a cheery wave, their make-up as fresh as when it was applied and all their faculties (and designer clothing) intact. I am less sophisticated. It has been necessary on occasion to issue an eviction notice to get me out, reduced as I am to dribbling incoherence with my girdle on my head and legs that have lost the power of walk.

Anyway, the latest addition to the exercise video collection - bought after the Christmas girth-expanding jollities - promises me a Hollywood Star's body in 30 days. So by March I'll be looking like Hattie Jacques.

Top Tips for a Happy Marriage - Number 1

2011-01-21T13:04:00.000Z

COMPROMISE

The Husband and I had an argument this morning. He does not like that I put the bowls away on the shelf without putting them in order of size and pattern. He thinks the blue bowls should be together, the big bowls should be together and the plastic bowls should be together. The earthenware bowls should be together and the soup bowls should be together and the antique bowls should be together and the cereal bowls should be together. Oh, and mixing bowls should be with mixing bowls.

I, on the other hand, think that we obviously have too many bowls.

Life is too bloody short to sort out bowls. As long as they make it to the bowl shelf, does it really matter whether they mingle with other types of bowl? Does it matter whether a cereal bowl sits on top of an antique bowl? Whether a plastic bowl nestles inside a blue bowl? Whether a mixing bowl holds a soup bowl? I think not.

But it matters to The Husband and therefore I will leave the bowl-putting-away to the expert, while I do other things - like put the loo seat down, replace the lid on the toothpaste and pick up the bath mat...

And the Award for Ridiculously Dressed Mum goes to ...

2011-01-20T13:58:00.005Z

Have you seen the red carpet pictures of the Golden Globes? I usually run screaming in the opposite direction when confronted with pics of those plucked and polished, smugly overstyled celebs. The improbably perfect skin and glass-glossy hair, the competetively skeletal bodies and artificial plastic breasticles cantilevered to chin-height make me want to fire water-cannon at them. If you engage a stylist you obviously enter into a faustian pact - you surrender your individual sense of self in exchange for looking like everyone else.

And then there is the glorious Helena Bonham-Carter. I wanted to take to the streets in one of those loud-speaker vans to broadcast the sound of rapturous applause when I saw her mismatched shoes and birdsnest hair. She is beautiful, funny, intelligent, talented, but most shockingly of all, she is utterly herself and she couldn't give a fig what everyone else thinks.

Seeing HBC looking unrepentantly individual made me feel a lot better about my own sartorial choices. Not that I feel remotely bad about them, but taking an aggressively anti-fashion stance can be quite a lonely vocation. We don't get much in the way of recognition, so when Mumsnet identified 11 types of parents to be found at the school gates, I nearly choked on my marmite-and-jam toast. I had my own category! I fitted in! (Ironic, as I've spent my whole life deliberately trying not to...)

So which one are you?

UNFEASIBLY GLAM MUM: She’s done up to the nines and whip-thin. Never seen in the same shoes twice.
PTA BUSYBODY MUM: Likes to send email APBs (all points bulletin) about cake sales or puppies for sale.
LATE MUM: Lives near the school but is always rushing in just as the door is shutting.
MUM OF DISRUPTIVE CHILD: Keeps her head down and others feel sorry for her (but not enough to invite Disruptive Child home to play).
COMPETITIVE MUM: Enrols child in every activity possible to give them ‘the edge’.
CORPORATE MUM: Will drop off Darling Daughter each morning but won’t be the one picking her up.
RIDICULOUSLY DRESSED MUM: Wears bizarre clothes, always has a silly looking handbag and haircut.
SERIAL MUM: Has a horde of kids, all in different schools.
MUM WITH ONE CHILD: Annoyingly lovely. Always has time for your child to come round and make fresh pasta.
TRENDY DAD: Thinks all the mothers fancy him.
PUSHY DAD: Always testing maths and spellings on the way into school.

Which one am I? I'll give you a clue. Today I am wearing a long black silk ruffled petticoat, with a purple beaded velvet overskirt with red ribbons, a black corset top, stripey tights and leather lace-up work boots.

Obviously none of my cyber-fans realise how badly dressed I am in real life, as some sweet soul has nominated me as Hottest Mommy Blogger for the 2011 Bloggers Choice Awards.

Strangely, no one has actually voted for me. Why is that exactly?

10 things I wish I could change about today

2011-01-19T14:46:00.000Z

1.   Yesterday I was 41

2.   The landlady wants my her house back

3.   I am apparently two stone overweight

4.   Chocolate is not one of the major food groups

5.   The sun is not shining and the sky is grey

6.   I have just bought a beautiful pair of shoes when I knew they were way too big for me

7.   I cannot afford the beautiful new shoes which are way too big for me

8.   I am still struggling with Chapter 6 of my novel

9.   I am still struggling with the synopsis

10. I have just eaten my body-weight in St. Agur for lunch, with a spoon

She's Back

2011-01-16T22:47:00.001Z

So what do we think about HH's new header? Isn't she glamorous?

I shall miss the old look - I was quite fond of her - but it was time to get rid of that pinny and get a facelift...

Housewives Must Shoulder Blame For Global Credit Crunch

2008-08-08T07:20:00.009Z

While we were on holiday, the annual fortnight in Devon -

(Actually, 'holiday' is NOT a word that I would use myself, more like 'same shit, different place', because contrary to popular belief there isn't an industrious horde of keen little fairies who skip blithely at the chance to load the washing machine, empty the washing machine, hang up the laundry, fold the laundry, put the laundry away, sweep the floors, mop the floors, make the beds, make the breakfast, lunch, tea and supper, and provide non-judgemental, unconditional, instantaneous affection and approval at the drop of a mob-cap... no fairies, just ME. You will notice that the list of chores is dramatically reduced because I was 'on holiday'...

Now before I get emails telling me to pull myself together and stop whinging, the lack of house fairies is not the bit I mind. Really. It is the next bit that makes me want to skewer someone's eyeball through with a blunt knitting needle.

'Whose eyeball would that be?' I hear you ask. Take a wild guess...)

- we were having dinner with a friend when the conversation turned to the credit crunch.

"Women just have to accept..." said The Husband, "that they will have to go out to work now."

Because obviously the whole damn lot of us girls have been malingering at home for the last sixty thousand years, lolling about on chaises longues while scoffing chocolate and gin by the bucketload and having a kip.

And now the world has been forced to its knees in an economic recession because of our lazy, slothful, idle ways...

How Not to Throw a Dinner Party

2008-08-07T07:13:00.010Z

The most useful piece of catering advice I have been given over the years is "Never Apologise". The idea is that if you don’t draw people’s attention to your ‘mistakes’ they will probably never notice.

The second most useful piece of catering advice, that I worked out for myself, is don’t swig too many glasses of white wine to steady your nerves before serving dinner to guests you really want to impress…

We had invited some of the other parents from school for dinner - the ones we have heard swearing at the school gate, whose children are often late and have forgotten their homework, who arrive in odd shoes (the children) or in pajamas (the parents), the ones we thought we would like because they seem just like us… Mrs Fussy Knickers was obviously not on the guest list.

Have I mentioned that our kitchen is the Smallest Kitchen in the World? Everyone arrived, and expressed the appropriate surprise that I owned a pair of high heels and that my Ugg boots are not permanently welded to my feet, and then proceeded to mill around my kitchen aimlessly. Under normal circumstances this would have been fine, however, I had not thought through the logistical nightmare of operating in a kitchen the size of a matchbox packed with sixteen ‘polite-and-middle-class-but-determined-to-get-sloshed-because-we’ve-paid-for-a-babysitter’ primary school parents. In an effort to look vaguely yummy mummy - that is slim AND gorgeous AND good at cooking, all at the same time - I had put on my favourite green leather peep-toes. I only ever wear heels at weddings and parties, and sadly there aren’t enough of either in a year to afford me much practice at actually walking in them without undue wobble. Throw in a couple of glasses of chilled vino blanco and you get the picture.

I was trying to throw together a salad of baby spinach, figs and feta in a suitably informal but inspired kind of way, when it all started to go haywire.

"Hope you like spinach!" I joked to a woman who had been watching my attempt at Nigella-like insouciance.

"Actually, I prefer it cooked," she replied. I pretended not to hear. "Are you going to make a dressing?" she asked.

I realised that I was not going to get to the fridge unobserved for the bottle of time-saving shop-bought vinaigrette. And that I had lobbed the last lemon half in the bin that afternoon because it was hard as a rock and someone was bound to inspect my fruit bowl. And everyone was watching, so I couldn’t fish it out and rinse it off. I reached for the Balsamic, only to find too late that the inner plastic cap that regulates the flow had miraculously disappeared and a huge torrent of vinegar poured into the bowl, immediately turning the sheep’s cheese an unappetising shade of sludge-brown. Trying to look as if everything was going swimmingly well, I picked up the extra-virgin olive oil and up-ended it over the salad. Nothing came out. It was completely empty.

"There!" I said definitively, plunging my hands into the careful arrangement of fruit and leaves and tossing it all about in a hopeless effort to distribute the ‘dressing’, "Balsamic-soused baby spinach!" and I swept the bowl onto the middle of the dining table with a flourish.

"Well, the beef looks lovely," said one of the Dads.

"A bit on the underdone side, perhaps?" said the woman who doesn’t eat raw spinach or anything else that hasn’t been thoroughly cremated, obviously.

"It is carpaccio of venison, actually…" I said -

"You do know that we are vegetarian?" said one of the other Mums
-"… in a pomegranate marinade."

"Oh my God, venison! That’s like deer, isn’t it?" said a woman, who was clearly on the ball.

"Yes. We have a friend who has an estate in Scotland."

"You mean he shot one of his deer?" said Mrs. On-the-Ball, horrified. "With a gun? So you could eat it?"

"Well, yes. I expect so. I don’t think he has a Light Saber," I said.

"You have a friend with an estate in Scotland?" said Mrs. Overcooked.

"Did someone say something about Star Wars?" said The Husband.

"There’s plenty of Wild Rice with toasted Pine Nuts, Almonds and Pistachios," I said to Mrs. Secret Vegetarian.

"Oh, my God, Michael has a Nut Allergy! Thank God you actually warned us in time," said Mrs. Overcooked, "or my husband might have ended up in anaphylactic shock on your kitchen floor!!"

"That would have been quite ghastly…" said Mrs. Secret Vegetarian looking straight at the collection of toast crumbs, wood lice, dried pasta and children’s crayons that I keep in case of emergencies just visible around the bottom of the fridge.

Under this kind of pressure, coupled with the effort of having to breathe in for six hours (in case I bulged in a very non-yummy mummy way over the top of my magic knickers) and the strain on my poor bunions, I think it is perfectly reasonable to have ended the evening dancing barefoot on the table with my elephant pants on my head pretending to be Obi-Wan Kenobi. Perfectly reasonable.

Anyway, now we have moved into a bigger house and I no longer have the Smallest Kitchen in the World, it seems sensible to have another party - although this time, Mrs Fussy Knickers is welcome…