More Than Just a Mother

Wine-tasting with the Women's Institute

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 22 May 2012 13:44:00 +0000

Last night’s wine-tasting at the WI proved to be our most popular event yet. This is perhaps no surprise when you consider that the tea-tray at our monthly meetings generally sulks forlornly in the corner. Our thirty or so members tend instead to opt for wine to lubricate the evening.

The ‘Oxford Butler’ coped admirably with the heckling from a roomful of middle-aged mothers and tactfully managed our uneducated questions about the best three for two offers at Waitrose. Just as we were swirling around the contents of our first wine, a dark-haired woman pushed open the door and asked whether she was in the right place for the church meeting.

‘Upstairs’, we chorused, well-versed now in directing people around the parish rooms.

She hesitated, her hand on the door. ‘So what meeting is this?’

‘We’re West Oxfordshire WI,’ our President announced, proudly. ‘We’re wine-tasting.’

With some reluctance, the visitor bade us farewell and headed upstairs to her meeting.

Half an hour later we were onto our third wine and happily discussing our new-found expertise, when the door creaked open again. The dark-haired woman smiled broadly, dropped her money into the pot and pulled up a chair. ‘There’s a lot to be said for getting lost,’ she said, holding out her glass. ‘I think it might be more fun here.’

I suspect (although the Vicar may disagree) that she made the right decision. By the end of the evening I had learned a great deal:

The slower the ‘legs’ running down the inside of the wine glass, the greater the alcohol content.
Almost every red wine benefits from being given time to breathe.
Holding your wine glass by the stem or the base keeps the wine at the correct temperature.
The Chequers Inn is an excellent place to continue practising ones wine-tasting skills.
Despite it being more than a decade since I last tried, I can still put my leg behind my head.
And do a cartwheel.
Going to bed three hours before the school run is inadvisable.
My hangovers last significantly longer than they did in my twenties.

All excellent reasons to join the WI, I’m sure you’d agree.

When junk-modelling goes bad

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 07 May 2012 20:25:00 +0000

My children regularly pour out of playgroups and school with all manner of junk-modelled 'art'. Most of the time I manage to seamlessly tidy these creations directly into the recycling box, but occasionally I'm forced to give them house-room for a while.

A couple of weeks ago the girls produced an extraordinary collaborative effort made out of what appeared to be the entire contents of the playgroup crafting cupboard. Yoghurt pots, loo rolls, plastic spoons and tin foil were haphazardly glued inside a large cardboard box, the outside of which was decorated with old CDs, shiny side uppermost. To say the girls were proud would be an understatement.

This monstrous sculpture sat on display until a few days ago, when Evie decided to break it up for parts. She used the yoghurt pots to house her extensive hairband collection, and proudly stacked her 'CD collection' next to mine.

This weekend, as the in-laws relaxed in the sitting room after a Bank Holiday roast, the children asked if they could listen to something. Always keen to encourage their love of audio-books I nodded my approval and smiled as my father-in-law noted their preference for stories over computer games. 'Oh,' I said, somewhat smugly, 'we don't let them play with anything like...'

I was interrupted by the children's choice of CD blasting from their Fisher Price player at a hundred decibels: 'CHANGE MY PITCH UP, SMACK MY BITCH UP, CHANGE MY PITCH UP, SMACK MY BITCH UP...'

The volume of Prodigy's finest single was such that I couldn't quite make out what my father-in-law was mouthing, but I don't think it was complimentary.

Butlins Bognor Regis: a review

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Sat, 05 May 2012 13:57:00 +0000

Last month I took the family to Butlins at Bognor Regis, on the first of two trips offered to us by Butlins in exchange for our honest feedback. We had a blast: our children are five, four and four, and they happily soaked up the holiday camp atmosphere, as you can see from our short video, below.

So what was great about Butlins, Bognor Regis?

All inclusive packages mean you can stick to your budget: the free fairground rides were a big hit with our three, and I was impressed with the range of activities available, such as fencing and circus skills.
The accommodation was excellent. We chose to stay in the Ocean hotel, which was bright, clean and comfortable, with a brilliant layout for families.
Everything is very close together, so it would be ideal for families with children in buggies, or for wheelchair users.
The hotel buffet-style breakfast was excellent, and the hotel package included a 'character breakfast' at another restaurant, which the kids loved.
The on-site shop was well stocked, not too expensive, and open late.
The disco lift. A bit gimmicky, perhaps, but guaranteed to put a smile on your face.
The spa in the Ocean hotel is very small, but nicely laid out and a relaxing place to spend a couple of hours. Unfortunately the ice-room was out of action when we went.
A really excellent indoor play area, similar in feel to a nursery or Sure Start centre, with books, home corner, dressing up and messy play.

And what wasn't so great?

The evening meal. Staying in the hotel entitled us to dine in, or to take a voucher to one of three restaurants on site. We were really disappointed with the hotel buffet: the choice was great, but the quality was decidedly average and we chose to dine out for the next three nights, supplementing our hotel voucher to enable us to eat at chef Brian Turner's place, where the food was exceptionally good.
Slot machine after slot machine after slot machine. Literally everywhere I looked there seemed to be another
The customer service. It wasn't terrible, by any means, but it wasn't consistently good. Some of the staff operating the children's rides were friendly and engaging with visitors, but many were visibly bored and talking to colleagues about their weekends.
Arrival/departures. I guess this is a problem common to all holiday camps where large numbers are arriving or leaving en masse, but it did feel particularly clumsy here. The lifts in the Ocean hotel simply couldn't cope with the numbers of people moving around the hotel at the same time, and we waited for more than half an hour before we could take our luggage upstairs. On the day of our departure the wait for the lift was so bad we had to drag the children and our cases down four flights of stairs. I mentioned this to the receptionist as we checked out, saying, 'is it always this bad?' and she said, 'yes, it's a nightmare, isn't it?' Nightmare is a bit of an overstatement, but I would suggest they at least attempt to address it, perhaps with staggered check-out times.

We had a really good week at Butlins, but for what it would have cost us (£1,200 for two adults and three children, staying dinner/bed/breakfast for four nights) I hesitate to give full marks for value for money. Perhaps Butlins has just grown so big that it's hard to maintain good standards of service across the board. If that's the case it will be interesting to see whether our next visit - to Minehead, during term-time - is any different.

We made a little film to show you what we got up to during our holiday. I'm no movie-maker, I'm afraid, and I've just realised it's missing a title on one of the clips, but I've let the children go feral for long enough today, so I'm clicking 'publish' and heading out to the park with them. Enjoy!

Chipping Norton Literary Festival

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Sat, 28 Apr 2012 20:03:00 +0000

Just one of the sensational decorations created
by our stylist Cristina Colli

It would be terribly crass of to review one's own literary festival, but as the last six months have been pretty much dedicated to organising it, I can't let Chipping Norton Literary Festival pass without a small acknowledgement.

Chipping Norton has a population of around six thousand, so to sell nearly two thousand tickets to literary events over the course of a weekend is no mean feat. Seeing our lovely market town filled with visitors clutching ChipLitFest programmes made all the hard work worthwhile, and the whole festival passed without any major hitches.

When I first thought it would be a nice idea to have a literary festival in Chippy, I had visions of all the fabulous events I'd be able to drop into; all the authors with whom I'd hob-nob. Of course, rather like being at one's own wedding, I barely had time to say more than two words to anyone, as I dashed between venues. Thank heavens for superb fellow-committee members and a whole host of volunteer stewards, who made sure the whole thing ran smoothly. The photos below give a flavour of the event, but if you missed it (shame on you) take a look at the #chiplitfest hash tag on Twitter to see what people have been saying about it.

If you'd have asked me a fortnight ago whether the literary festival would be an annual event, I'd have muttered darkly and rolled my eyes. But how could we not start planning next year, in the face of feedback like this..?

"I've been speaking at literary festivals for twenty years and this is the best one I've ever been to." Author.

"So friendly, so fantastic to see my favourite authors having coffee around town." Visitor.

"We were so busy - it was like the pre-Christmas rush!" Local business.

So watch this space for dates for 2013.

But for now... I have a book to write.

Jill Mansell outlines her plotting technique to fellow authors
Katie Fforde and Jane Wenham-Jones

Peter Guttridge chairs a lively Crime Writers' Forum with authors
S J Bolton, Dan Waddell, Sophie Hannah and Mark Billingham

Broadcaster Sue Cook interviews Joanna Trollope about
when real life crosses over into fiction

One of more than 70 volunteers who gave up their
weekend to make the festival a success

Dear Johnnie

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 17 Apr 2012 13:13:00 +0000

Dear Johnnie Boden

It all started innocently enough between us, didn't it? That forgiving wrap dress you sent me a few years ago, the vest top that just seemed to go with everything... But Johnnie (oh, darling Johnnie!) this simply can't go on.

I can't deny I've encouraged you. I could have just picked up the phone - told you firmly to stop bothering me. I could have insisted you stop the flood of expensively-bound catalogues, their covers filled with alluring photographs of mothers still in possession of their pelvic floors. What a fool I was, to think that a cashmere waterfall cardigan in mustard yellow would ever truly disguise my muffin-midriff.

Oh, I know I've been weak. I should have turned in scorn as yet another discount voucher dropped through the letter box, instead of tearing open the envelope with my teeth. I should have returned to sender that special summer collection brochure you wafted in front of me, with that half-price polka-dot bathing suit you knew would flatter me so.

Like the crack-pusher on the corner, you tempt me with your slinky wraps. Always there with your Google ads, your emails and your fat catalogues thudding onto my door mat.

Well, Johnnie (oh, darling Johnnie!) it ends today. No more crazy matching of lime green and orange: no more ruffled necklines and fun corsages: no more easy-to-wear layers. It's over between us.

I implore you, Johnnie. I beseech you, Johnnie, please don't contact me again. It would only hurt us both, in the long run.

With love,

Emily

p.s. on the Clearance section of your website, is that 60% off everything?

Guest post: Parent Porn

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 23:32:00 +0000

I had a conversation on Twitter the other day with @doyoudoanywings, otherwise known as Shane Kirk. Shane is a writer, broadcaster and musician I first encountered when he read an extract from my blog on his radio show. He made me laugh on Twitter with his 140-character examples of how seduction has changed since we became parents. I challenged him to write more 'parent porn', and he duly emailed it to me. It cheered me up so much I thought I'd share it with you.

Emily turned with a start as she heard the door to the utility room open.

“Mr. Hicks!” she exclaimed, the flickering light of the baby monitor reflecting his stern visage in the half bottle of Chardonnay on the worktop.

A thin, cruel smile played upon his rugged features. “Call me Braxton”, he murmured, taking the toast from her white-knuckled fist and gently wiping a Marmite smear from her cheek.

She shuddered in anticipation as his hand brushed lightly across the nape of her neck, intertwining briefly with the wisps of hair that fell in abandoned ringlets from the tight grip of the scrunchie, his fingers gently divesting themselves of the cornflake gathered therein.

“We shouldn’t be doing this!” she murmured, instinctively smoothing the soft material of her pyjamas with one spare hand, slipping one foot coquettishly from her carpet slipper, and dabbing at the corner of her sensuous full lips with a wet wipe as she spoke.

“The invitations were due out last Thursday”, he snarled. An implied threat hung in the air like the sweet scent from a dozen untied nappy bags. “You said you’d deal with the situation but it would appear…” his eyes scanned the room, alighting on a pile of casually discarded and crumpled underwear – she blushed as she remembered their hasty discard the previous evening - before returning to hold her gaze “that you have been…” another pause as he considered his words, rolling them around in his mind like so many raisins in a car footwell “…remiss”.

He regarded her levelly. “Have you anything to say, Miss Carlisle?”

“I need more time…” she began, the words tumbling from her like fruit smoothie multipacks from an overloaded Bag for Life.

“There is none”. The finality in his tone brooked no further discussion. He moved closer, his brooding presence threatening to overpower her senses, until she could almost reach out and touch the very phantom of pasta bake which his collar betrayed. “I’ve booked us a room”.

She shivered involuntarily, the mixture of anticipation and fear concocting a heady cocktail that made her stomach turn somersaults and the blood throb in her veins until she believed she would faint from the lightheadedness his simple phrase had engendered. These were the bittersweet words that she had for so long both longed to hear and which she knew would change everything between them.

He reached across her and grasped her glass firmly before draining it in one long draught. She looked up into his brooding countenance in helpless supplication as he delivered his coup de grace with the insouciant charm of the born rake.

“Wacky Warehouse, deposit’s a fifty quid, they’ve promised to throw in party bags and cake. Josh is really looking forward to it”.

She sobbed. Her gingham corselet dropped to the floor, wrenched forcefully from her by his exploratory digits as his rough tongue sought the warm sanctuary of her Ella’s Kitchen. She arched her back as he expertly reached manly arms around and plucked the die cast Thomas the Tank Engine from beneath her, ignoring her recriminatory imprecations and forcing her to submit to his lustful designs.

“By the time I’ve finished with you,” he rasped, "you won’t know one end of a Philips Avent Express II Microwave Steam Steriliser from the other”.

She gasped at his adventurousness, and at his stamina.

“Come on, one more for Daddy” he muttered, his warm breath tantalizing, as he nibbled at her neck and made aeroplane noises.

If you've got an amusing piece languishing in your bottom drawer, do send it in and I'll post the best ones here for everyone to enjoy.

Five Go To Butlins

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 02 Apr 2012 21:09:00 +0000

So it seems that 2012 is the year of the holiday camp. As part of the Butlins Mums' Ambassador programme we've been asked to visit Butlins resorts and report back to you. I'll give you the full low-down when we get back at the weekend, but in the meantime consider this a quick postcard from Butlins, Bognor Regis.

Wish you were here, and all that.

Win a family holiday at Mill Rythe Holiday Village

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Fri, 16 Mar 2012 19:40:00 +0000

Reading the press release for our half-term trip to the Mill Rythe Holiday Village, my heart sank just a little bit. 'Hi-de-Hi!' it proclaimed, gleefully. Oh no-de-no, I thought, picturing cheerful reps in polyester blazers and enforced itineraries including outdoor aerobics and interminable Monopoly tournaments.

To compound my concerns, my husband was due to work all week, so I would be taking the three children away on my own. I packed a mountain of snacks in case they wouldn't eat the food, and rammed the car with books, toys and a portable DVD player.

Needless to say, the snacks remained untouched; the box of toys unplayed with. Mill Rythe Holiday Village was a triumph.

If this review becomes a little gushing - evangelical, even - I apologise, but within an hour of arriving at Mill Rythe I had fallen hook, line and sinker in love with the place. The resort has the feel of a college campus, with basic post-war chalets dotted around a central hub in which is situated an enormous dining hall, the ballroom, arcade and swimming pool. The outdoor pool was closed, and my children have already extracted a firm promise from me to return in high season.

Despite being very dated, accommodation is clean and comfortable. We stayed in a two bedroom chalet with a bathroom and small kitchen area which had a fridge and a kettle. The fridge came in handy for my wine, but I had no need for the food I'd brought; the catering was excellent. The holiday package includes breakfast and the evening meal (a mixture of table-service and self-service buffet) and although it wasn't haute cuisine, we ate well and there was plenty of variety for even the fussiest of child.

Two of my children engrossed in a badge-making activity

My concerns over solo parenting dissipated on the first day, when it became clear that I would have no issues entertaining bored children. We swam every day after breakfast then headed to the cafe for a bite to eat. I would settle down in the ballroom with a book, while the children raced around the empty dance-floor with new friends or joined in with one of the many activities taking place there. Four-year-old Georgie was delighted to beat off much adult opposition to come fourth in the Hoop La competition, and all three tried their hand at line-dancing. No, I didn't join in. But I was tempted. After lunch the kids went to activity sessions (pottery-painting, fossil-finding and mask-making, the week we were there) while I did some work or read the papers. We tended to play outside for a while, then it would be time for the evening meal. We learned to eat early so we could be on time for the kids' entertainment, which had my three enthralled for a full hour. Fancy dress parades, theatre shows, games... there was something different each evening and it was great to watch my rather shy brood edging closer to the stage. By the final night they raced forward to enrol themselves in the talent show, singing a slightly flat version of Doe, a Deer in front of 200 people.

But it wasn't the activities which made Mill Rythe a fantastic place to visit. It wasn't even the fact that I could let the kids go feral in soft-play till 9pm while I drank wine (although that was a bonus, I confess). What made Mill Rythe one of my all-time top holiday destinations was the atmosphere. I spoke to dozens of families during our four-night stay, and not a single person had a bad word to say about the resort. First-time families were already planning their next visit, and I lost count of the number of people who proudly told me this was their 15th visit, their 12th, their 20th... Much of this repeat business has got to be down to Mill Rythe's customer service, which was impeccable. Wherever we went we were greeted with a smile and a feeling that nothing was too much trouble. From our ever-helpful waitress Vilma (guests are allocated a dining table they then keep for the week, so the children knew exactly where to sit and who was looking after them) to the excellent barman, James ('another Sauvignon Blanc, Mrs Carlisle?' 'Well, why not...') staff were professional and friendly. Operations Manager Lorna Howlett never seemed to sleep; wherever I looked she was greeting guests and smoothly sorting out any difficulties. She even managed to produce a birthday cake for me with no notice at all, which was pretty impressive

There is far too much I liked about Mill Rythe to tell you about here, and I don't want this to sound like nothing more than PR spin. Those of you who have read my blog for a while, and certainly those of you who know me personally, will have deduced that holiday camps are not my sort of thing. At least they weren't. Despite flying solo with three small children for four days, I had the most relaxing time I have had on a holiday in years, and the children were blissfully happy from start to finish. So no, it's not the Maldives. It's not a luxury treehouse in a blossom-filled meadow where dancing virgins play the harp and plump your goose-down pillows. But it's fun, and it's happy and it's fabulously affordable, and we can't wait to go back.

Mill Rythe is one of three holiday villages run by UK holiday parks operator Away Resorts. A four-night break starting on 2 April (including dinner, bed and breakfast) will cost £139 per adult, £56 per 8-15 year old and £28 per 2-7 year old. Under twos go free.

I have a four-night break to give away to one reader who leaves a comment below this post. The break is for a family of four in value or standard accommodation, to be taken at any of Away Resorts' three holiday parks (excludes Christmas and New Year) in the next 12 months.

For an extra entry, tweet 'I've entered @MTJAM 's competition to win a family holiday http://tinyurl.com/75etoob '.

I'll pick a winner at random after midnight on Saturday 24 March. Good luck!

Swimming Pool Etiquette

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 07:00:00 +0000

I like swimming. Despite being incapable of putting my head under water without a panic-attack, I find the repetitive nature of swimming deeply relaxing and excellent for thinking. It is also the only time I am ever separated from my iPhone, which is in itself a positive thing.

The only downside to swimming in a busy municipal pool, is the frequency with which one bumps into acquaintances. For some reason it is far more comfortable to don a bathing suit before complete strangers, than it is to wear one in front of people you see socially. Pool-side showering feels uncomfortably intimate when sandwiched between Councillor Williams and the man who sweeps my chimney (that's not a euphemism, he really is my chimney sweep).

I recently took the children to a swimming party which, although very jolly, caused a ripple of anxiety across some of the guests, who wondered if wearing a maternity costume was still acceptable two years after the last baby had arrived (it isn't). Dismissing my habitual floral monstrosity as too mumsy, and my black Speedo as too functional, I threw my credit-card at the problem and bought a fifties-style suit with support in all the right places.

My local leisure centre raises the floor of the pool for toddlers, which means the only way to ensure one's wobbly bits are safely hidden beneath the water is to lie on the bottom like a halibut. I lay like this for some time, returning to a vertical position only to catch up with all those parents I hadn't seen since the last party. And therein lay my etiquette conundrum. I have blogged previously about my predilection for cheek-kissing; it is something I instinctively do when meeting a friend or acquaintance. Thus I abandoned my flat-fish impression to say hello to a friend's husband, automatically leaning forward to kiss him. It was only then that I realised how wildly inappropriate such contact feels when you're both sopping wet and wearing bathing costumes. I wondered briefly if I may be contravening the 'no petting' rule. Too late to change tactics I made the kiss as swift as possible, sticking out my bottom like a duck in case our damp groins should inadvertently touch.

I have consigned social kissing to dry land with immediate effect, so if you catch me in the pool and I greet you with nothing more than a cheery wave and a swift back-stroke in the opposite direction, please don't be offended. I'll pucker up once you've got your clothes on.

Chipping Norton Literary Festival

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 13 Mar 2012 07:00:00 +0000

Yesterday I mentioned I was involved in organising a literary festival, and I thought I'd tell you a little bit more about it. This is my baby. The biggest event I've ever run, and by far the most exciting.

For someone who loves books or enjoys writing, literary festivals are a joy to attend. Meeting authors, publishers, agents and other like-minded people is huge fun and can provide useful networking opportunities for anyone seeking a publisher. Organising a literary festival provides all those things, plus the buzz of watching an event grow before your eyes. I'm fortunate to have a superb committee working tirelessly to put the festival together, as well as a growing number of volunteers who have thrown their hats in the ring to make it a success.

The Chipping Norton Literary Festival takes place between 20 and 22 April 2012 and comprises three days of literary events. We've got some amazing authors on board, including Joanna Trollope, Sir Andrew Motion, Prue Leith, Colin Dexter, Mark Billingham, Sophie Hannah, Graeme Garden, Jill Mansell and so many more. The full line up is on the festival website, www.chiplitfest.com, where you'll find details of more than 40 separate events.

If you enjoy hands-on events, we've put together a programme of workshops on writing comedy, crime, memoirs, even sex scenes, so you're bound to come away with new skills to put into practice. We've kept ticket prices as low as we possibly can, to make the event accessible to everyone, and almost all our children's events are totally free. We're also packing the Town Hall with free community events, local authors and exhibitors.

Chipping Norton is in West Oxfordshire, on the edge of the beautiful Cotswolds and about 20 miles from Oxford. Please do take a look at the website, 'like' our Facebook page, follow us on Twitter, and share it with your friends. Chipping Norton Literary Festival promises to be a fantastic weekend, and I'd love to see some of you there.

Making Time

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 11:20:00 +0000

Last September I gave up my full-time job in favour of part-time freelancing from home. Life had become too frenetic, too stressful, too full, so the plan was to put the family first and take a break for a while. Sure, I'd have to work - that gin won't buy itself, you know - but the idea was to do the bare minimum, just to keep things ticking over.

Those of you who know me won't be at all surprised to learn that things didn't quite work out that way. A tentative paddle in the shallow end of freelancing soon became front crawl in the deep end with the wave machine turned on. And because all work and no play makes Jill a dull girl, at the same time I've launched a new WI and organised a literary festival.

So despite my good intentions I am once again working flat-out and desperately seeking ways of adding hours to the day. Before you leap in with your 'making lists' and 'getting up half an hour earlier', let me make one thing clear: I am a long way past conventional time-saving tips. In fact, having exhausted all the methods I have found of 'doing things quicker' I have now moved on to 'things I can give up':

Sleeping. Terribly time-consuming, it's also extremely unproductive. I have managed to get night-times down to about four hours and am working on doing away with it altogether.

Food requiring a knife and fork. If I can eat it with a fork, I can open post with my free hand. If I can eat it standing up, and therefore walk to school/load the dishwasher/clean out the chickens, so much the better.

Showering. In favour of baths. You might think showers are quicker than baths, and therefore a better option for a time-deprived mother, but you can't send emails from the shower, can you?

Going to the loo. Oh, I know, it's impossible to give this one up altogether, but really there's no time in the day for endless wees. If someone could turn my office chair into a commode that would be awfully handy.

What else could I give up? There must be something. Tempting to give up getting dressed and simply live in pyjamas, but they're awfully old and not fit for display. I'd buy some more, but I just don't have the time.

Emma Bridgewater Mother's Day giveaway

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 09:15:00 +0000

I'm sure I don't need to remind you that it's Mother's Day on March 18. If you're still looking for a suitable present (or need to drop a few hints yourself) then take a look at these Mother's Day gifts from the Handpicked Collection. The range is eclectic, beautiful and well-priced, and you'd be hard pushed not to find something you like.

The people at Handpicked have sent me these beautiful Emma Bridgewater items as examples of their products. The Big Love cake tin is heart-shaped, so whilst you won't be able to cram in a Victoria sponge it's perfect for cupcakes or biscuits, and it currently resides next to my kettle, for quick access to the Jaffa cakes. I've been using the matching Big Love tea tray too, which I love.

If you'd like to sample the goods yourself, I've got one Big Love cake tin to give away to a reader who leaves a comment under this post. I've had to turn moderation on to deal with some spam problems, but don't worry - I'll be making sure everyone is entered. I'll pick a winner at random when the giveaway closes at midnight on Monday 12 March so do check your emails or Twitter accounts if you want your prize quickly.

For an extra entry you can tweet 'I've entered the Emma Bridgewater giveaway with @MTJAM and @HandpickedC http://tinyurl.com/7wu4zqt '.

Good luck!

Happy Leap Day - Happy Birthday!

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 28 Feb 2012 12:24:00 +0000

Photo by Martin Godwin

It's leap day tomorrow and my girls will be four years old. We'll be celebrating their special birthday on the BBC Breakfast sofa, which should make for a suitably interesting anecdote for them to tell at dinner parties when they're older. They were in The Guardian on Saturday and seem to be taking this unprecedented media attention in their stride, although I did overhear them discussing "the next time we're on television", which may result in some degree of disappointment.

Do tune into BBC Breakfast at 8.20am tomorrow, Wednesday 29 February, and see two four-year-old leaplings on their first ever birthday. Georgie is insistent she's going to wear her brother's jeans for the occasion. I say, we'll see about that.

I want to be a man

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 20 Feb 2012 11:53:00 +0000

I'm thinking about having a sex change. It's a big decision, I know, and I understand from the pamphlet I picked up at the doctor's surgery that I can't leap straight into surgery. I have to live as a man for at least a year first. Well that suits me. In fact I plan to start today.

Firstly, I'm going to sit and watch the rugby all day in blissful ignorance of the fact that the breakfast things are still on the table, the washing machine has finished its cycle and the beds aren't made.

Then I'm going to pop into town for a coffee. I'll walk past the pile of letters which need posting, and I won't check the fridge to see if we need milk. In fact, I won't combine my jaunt into town with anything remotely useful, such as collecting that prescription or taking the library books back.

When I get home the post will have arrived. I'll pick it up and shuffle through it, opening the bills and placing them neatly on the kitchen worktop along with their now-redundant envelopes. At some stage, I'm sure, they will mysteriously make their way upstairs to the office to be filed.

While I'm in the kitchen I'll notice that the pan in which I cooked my eggs this morning is still on the hob. I'm conscientious so I move it to the sink. I could clean it, but instead I will leave it to soak. It doesn't need soaking, but by filling it with hot soapy water nobody can accuse me of not doing the washing up.

The children will doubtless have returned from school now and be demanding snacks and television. They will be presenting arguments of such epic proportion that my wife will have her hands full trying to contain them without the use of tear gas. I will decide that now is the time I need to retire to the downstairs loo with a book for a period of at least 40 minutes, occasionally shouting helpful comments such as, 'can't you stop them fighting? I've read the same paragraph three times now.'

Live as a man for a year? Pass me the trousers.

Happy Valentine's Day

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 14 Feb 2012 08:07:00 +0000

I may be a hundred miles away from my husband this week, but that's no reason not to acknowledge Valentine's Day, so I've lined up a super-saucy prize for any of you who still have the energy for seduction. Frankly my own ardour gave up the ghost a few children ago, so it's all yours. This giveaway is for all you women who woke up this morning hoping for a surprise gift of foxy knickers, and instead got a creased Clinton's card and a bunch of half-dead carnations. Good job it's the thought that counts.

When I was in my early twenties lingerie from Ann Summers was the height of naughty erotica. They've kept all those naughty nurse outfits, but their range also contains a surprising number of stylish little numbers which certainly wouldn't be out of place in a Cotswold Mother's wardrobe. So what would I choose? Well, as I said, nowadays in the bedroom I boast plaid pyjamas and a pair of furry slippers, but if I were to throw caution to the winds and attempt a little seduction, I'd do so in the Gabrielle Cami Suspender set. I don't know who Gabrielle is, but I envy her that look of gay abandon, plus I reckon the outfit would do wonders for my baby-ravaged stomach.

If you fancy winning a Gabrielle Cami Suspender set, worth £55, just leave a comment below to enter. I'll pick a winner at random after midnight on Monday 20 February 2012.

For an extra entry, tweet the following;
'I want to win a Gabrielle Cami with @ann_summers and @MTJAM http://tinyurl.com/8xrtsez '

Good luck - and happy Valentine's Day.

p.s. I'm being rather unfair on the men here - I'm sure lots of women have woken up this morning to fantastically well thought-out gifts and cards. So if it's the man in your life who has been forgotten, here are Sarah McGiven's thoughts on Valentine's Day shopping ideas for men: the gifts we should have bought our husbands today.

Flying solo at half-term

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 13 Feb 2012 23:42:00 +0000

I'm on my own with the children this half-term. The thought of kicking about the house for a week fills me with horror, so when a press trip to a UK holiday resort was dangled before me, I grabbed it with both hands.

I compiled my packing list which, summarised, looked something like this:

several bottles of wine
a case of gin-in-a-tin
DVD player and numerous Disney DVDs
Calpol
Medised
Some clothes

Loading the 19 suitcases into the boot of the car, I repeated the mantra I had been muttering for the last three days: it will be fun, it will be fun, it will be fun, and ignored the suggestions on Twitter and Facebook that I'd be climbing the walls by day three. It will be fun.

Suspiciously keen to see the back of us all for a week, and ever cautious in matters relating to the cars, my husband began a diligent check of the Scenic before we set off.

'Your windscreen wipers aren't working.'

'Are you sure? They were working on Saturday, when I...' I stopped as I recalled racing out to the frozen car, late for ballet yet again. An inch of ice glazing the windscreen, I'd fruitlessly switched on the wipers, ignoring the protesting whine and eventually resorting to chipping off the ice with a Paddington Bear CD.

'The bolt's just sheared right off,'

I headed off his investigations with a lingering farewell kiss. 'I'll stop off at the garage on our way out of town. See you next weekend!' I sang gaily, leaping into the driver's seat and peering through the smeared windscreen. It will be fun, it will be fun.

The garage was marvellously helpful, agreeing to keep quiet about my tiny faux pas, and suggesting they might tell my husband there had been a whole batch of faulty parts back in 2006. It was a well-known fact.

An hour after my intended departure time, my maternal supply of both snacks and patience running low, we finally left town. I had to stop in Oxford to buy a dongle (the thought of being incarcerated in a hotel room with no wifi too much to bear) and as we arrived on the outskirts of the city it began to rain heavily. Thank heavens the wipers work, I thought to myself, bundling the children into their coats and reaching for my own... which was still at home. Bugger. In my efforts to ensure I had packed sufficient alcohol to help me through the week, I had neglected to bring anything warmer than a thin sweater. It will be fun.

Happily, a few doors down from the mobile phone store was a charity shop, where I was able to purchase the only women's coat in stock: a rather fetching old-lady overcoat in black and white dog-check, which smelt of vegetables. I tried not to think about whether someone had died in it. It will be fun.

Back in the car, barely 20 miles into our 100-mile-trip, the children were trying my patience. 'Are we there, yet?' 'Can I get the Lego out? 'Why is your bottom so much bigger than ours?' I began tweaking the heating upwards, knowing that a sure-fire way to get my three snoozing is to crank up the heat till they're serenely soporific.

A few minutes later, with the heating on full-blast, a gentle trio of snuffles wafted forwards to mingle with the strains of Heart FM. I was regretting leaving on my new old-lady coat, which was gently filling the car with the smell of warm cabbage and indescribable bodily substances.

By the time we reached the south coast I was pouring with sweat and itching like mad beneath the scratchy wool collar of my coat. I fell out of the driver's door in front of reception, a menopausal flush across my face and the smell of wet dog emanating from my clothes. It will be fun.

Day one of flying solo at half-term. Things can only get better, right?

Valentine's Giveaway

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Wed, 01 Feb 2012 11:18:00 +0000

I can't bear Valentine's Day. Not because of the 'oh it's so commercial, why do we have to wait till February 14th to express our love for each other' argument, but because the last time I received a Valentine's card which wasn't from someone who was already shackled to me and therefore has to send me a card, was 1994. And even that was a mistake, according to the post-man, who wrestled it back from my clammy fingers to re-deliver it next door.

However, if you're a fan of all things Valentine, and don't have my odd compulsion to be stalked by anonymous strangers, you'll be wanting to celebrate it. And what better way than by sending these Valentine roses? Serenata Flowers is an independent online florist offering free standard delivery on a wide range of flowers. So if you'd like to send the Fairytale Love bouquet (it's Valentine's Day, I think they're allowed to be a cheesy) to a loved one, or better still have them send it to you, now's your chance.

Enter simply by ~~sending me a Valentine's card~~ leaving a comment below, making sure you've left an email address or Twitter ID when prompted to do so.

For an additional entry, tweet "I want to win Valentine Flowers with @serenataflowers and @MTJAM http://tinyurl.com/87fl4ps"

The draw will end at midnight on Monday 6th February, after which time I'll pick a winner at random. In order to get your prize out in time for Valentine's Day I'll need to get the winner's details to Serenata pretty quickly, so please check your emails on the 7th as if I haven't heard from you within 24 hours I'll need to re-draw.

Good luck! Oh, and happy Valentine's Day.

Best friends

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 16 Jan 2012 10:40:00 +0000

My five-year-old son has a best friend. Forged in the very first week of his first term at school, their friendship has remained steadfast over the last few months, despite the ups and downs of classroom life. Towards the end of last year my son was ill for a full week, staying home from school to recover. By lunchtime on the first day he was missing his best friend.

"What do you think R is doing right now?" I asked, trying to jolly him out of his gloom.

He sighed and thought for a while. "Probably just sitting in the corner looking sad," he said sorrowfully. "That's what I'd be doing if I was at school and he wasn't there."

On day three, round about six in the evening, he suddenly and unaccountably burst into tears. "I miss him so much!" he wailed, great wracking sobs causing his little chest to heave. We reached for the telephone and called R, catching him just as he was being put to bed. I withdrew to a tactful distance to listen to J's half of the conversation, which went something like this;

"I miss you R [pause]. I can't come to school tomorrow [pause]. I really miss you too [pause]. I love you."

He put down the phone with a great sigh, but with his tears dried up and his brow unfurrowed.

The next day we ignored all risks of contagion and brought the boys together to play, where they happily slipped into silliness.

I'm awed by the intensity of their relationship at such a young age, and intrigued to watch it develop. I wonder if they'll still be the best of friends in five years' time, or whether they'll have moved onto other friendships. For the time being I'm simply glad my son has found someone whose company he loves, who is kind and gentle and whose parents I like. Long may it last.

A Misunderstanding at the Pharmacy

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 15:54:00 +0000

Over the last few years I have accumulated quite a cache of drugs. Nothing wildly out of the ordinary, just an array of prescription painkillers with a sprinkling of sleeping tablets thrown in for good measure. Most of the packets were out of date and several were untouched so I thought it wise to get them out of the house before the children found them. Aware that Boots the Chemist will take unwanted drugs I bundled them up into a carrier bag and headed for the High Street.

I spoke to a cashier and explained that I had some drugs to dispose of.

"Are there any controlled drugs in there?" she asked.

And that is where the misunderstanding arose. Perhaps I wasn't listening properly, perhaps I'm simply rather dense, but for whatever reason I thought she meant prescription drugs.

"Oh yes," I confirmed, "lots. In fact almost all of them are."

Her expression changed. "Are they all yours?" she asked, head cocked and one eyebrow raised.

I wondered if this was on a par with airport staff verifying that you've packed your bags yourself, so I nodded firmly. "Absolutely. All mine. Every last one."

"I see," she said, looking me up and down. "Would you just wait here a moment?"

She retreated to the other side of the store to consult with a man in a white coat I took to be the pharmacist. They eyed me with quizzical expressions and whispered furtively to each other, while I waited politely with my carrier bag of drugs.

It was then that I realised I'd made a bit of a mistake. My bag was full of prescription drugs, generously dished out by GPs to anyone presenting with a bit of an ache. Controlled drugs are something else entirely. Controlled drugs are those designated as such under the Misuse of Drugs act. The heroin substitute Methadone, for example.How foolish of me to have misunderstood. No wonder they were looking at me with interest. I was quite sure I didn't look like a smack-head, but head-to-toe Boden is fitting camouflage for a barbiturates habit.

No big problem, of course. A minor misunderstanding which, whilst demonstrating my lack of intelligence, would be easily rectified. A few strides over to where the pharmacist and cashier were talking, a swift smile and a "gosh how silly of me - of course I meant these are merely prescription drugs. See?"

So of course that's what I did, isn't it?

No.

I ran away.

Even as I write this I'm at a loss to explain what on earth was going through my head, as I legged it down the personal hygiene aisle, sashayed past the nappy section and burst out through the automatic doors, my carrier bag of perfectly legal drugs banging against my legs. I can only tell you that what I felt standing there in the store with my bag of drugs was akin to the way I feel when I spot a police car in my rear-view mirror. Instantly and irrationally guilty.

I have no idea what the pharmacist thought and I am unlikely to find out, as my chances of ever setting foot in Boots again without a heavy disguise are extremely slim.

I sloped home with my heart pounding, in need of a Valium. Fortunately, I had several at hand.

The Annual Round Robin Letter

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 21:07:00 +0000

The people we bought our house from were rather slapdash in their change of address cards. Every now and then a letter drops through the door addressed to the previous occupants and I love nothing more than to settle down with a cup of tea to read their latest correspondence. I know it's faintly illegal, but I like to live on the edge. Anyway, nobody writes to me nowadays except the Inland Revenue so I live vicariously through my house's previous occupants.

Yesterday I opened a satisfyingly fat card from America, quivering in anticipation (me, not the card) of the annual round robin letter from Bill and Jenny, and their exceptionally talented children Ned, Ashley and Brianna. The Spackmans have been writing to us - sorry, I mean to the previous owners of our house - for five years and there's no question about it, they're going from strength to strength. What with Bill's promotion ("it's a shame he's on the road so much, but we sure love that paycheck!") and Jenny's graduation as a Naturopath ("the energy passing through my hands is just awesome" blimey, lucky old Bill...) it's as though nothing can go wrong for them. Granted, poor Ned missed out on his grades last year, but he's made the soccer team this year and certainly seems happy in the obligatory cheesy photo, which shows poor Ashley (or it might be Brianna) with an unfortunate eighties-inspired hairdo she'd do well to move on from. Still, bad hair or not, the Spackman daughters are finding their way in the world ("both girls have the guys running around after them..." really, with that hair? "...and of course come home each weekend to see Mom. We're truly blessed with perfect kids" Vomit).

Tempted though I am to take the Spackman's up on their apparently unqualified offer to "drop in if you're ever in Texas," I'm not sure I could compete with such paragons of perfection. My own round robin newsletter - were I to produce one - would look something like this. Happy New Year.

Dear person I met once and regret exchanging addresses with,

2011 was a blast.

The Husband is well, I think. Married for nearly eight years and never a cross word - in fact, we hardly talk to each other at all nowadays.

J is now five, can you believe it?! He played a shepherd in the school nativity and he was absolutely shit.

The twins will be four next month and are still as badly behaved as ever. G has decided she wants to be a boy and keeps asking me to shave her head. She wears J's clothes and wants to grow a willy by planting a seed in her vagina. I knew I'd regret giving the sex talk so early. E's tantrums have reached epic proportions. The local police have an ASBO in draft form; the neighbours have only got to give the nod, especially since that incident with the cat.

I left work in the summer of 2011 to work from home and take on the childcare full-time. It's been hugely rewarding and really just one long party. At least, that's how I justify the litre of gin I get through each week. Obviously the three months of stress-related cystitis and the temporary alopecia was a challenge, but the doctors say the accompanying amnesia is really a blessing. I live for the holidays, when I get to be with the children every second of every single day. Such fun. Next week I'm being committed to a lunatic asylum for assessment. I'll miss the family but I'm looking forward to the break.

Yours till next year,

Emily

School's out: end of term report

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Sun, 18 Dec 2011 10:26:00 +0000

Ah, the end of the school term. Traditionally a time to reflect on one's performance and consider areas for improvement.

So how did I do?

Let's compare my performance at the start of the term, a mere ten or so weeks ago, with the final week of term.

Then: packed lunches made the night before school, containing a variety of home-made delicacies such as pesto pinwheels and scotch eggs, two pieces of fruit and a pot of natural yoghurt, lovingly decanted into a miniature Tupperware and drizzled with honey.

Now: packed lunches hurled into boxes at 8.15 each morning whilst I scream randomly about who's eaten all the fruit, eventually defaulting to hyperactive fromage frais, a packet of crisps and a jam sandwich made with the end slices no-one wants to eat.

Then: a leisurely walk to the bus stop, pausing every now and then to comment on a snail-shell, the view or to greet elderly neighbours.

Now: a frantic race up the hill, bellowing at the children to KEEP MOVING!, inadvertently stepping on said snails and glaring at elderly neighbours who attempt conversation.

Then: clean white polo shirt every day, knife-creases ironed into shirt and trousers and school sweatshirt carefully pressed. Uniform laid out before bed each night, ready for the next day.

Now: shirts in varying shades of grey, nothing ironed and sweatshirt mishapen thanks to a run-in with the hottest setting of the tumble dryer. Uniform balled up and thrown on the floor each night, ready for the next day.

Then: no television until after all homework has been finished, supper has been eaten and children are ready for bed.

Now: CBeebies timed to switch on approximately thirty seconds after arrival home from school.

Have you done any better?

Naked Beans Night - the reprise

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Mon, 12 Dec 2011 13:23:00 +0000

A while ago I wrote about Naked Beans Night - the family tradition I started by accident when my children were babies. Recently I was invited to share my tale with the listeners of CBC Radio, Canada's national public broadcaster, as a guest on a programme about the lessons children learn by accident.

I duly ensconced myself in a sound-proofed broom cupboard at BBC Oxford to record the segment, only slightly put off my stride by the BBC van which had reversed into my car just minutes earlier.

All DNTO episodes are available as podcasts on the station website, or as free podcast downloads from iTunes. The Accidental Parenting episode is packed with stories from parents and children, interspersed with a great play list. To hear my segment of the show, press play below.

Naked Beans Night: Emily Carlisle discusses accidental parenting on CBC Radio by EmilyCarlisle

Review and Giveaway: Samsung Eco Bubble - the mother of all washing machines.

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 19:21:00 +0000

It never ceases to amaze me just how much laundry is created by three small children and a husband with a cleanliness obsession. No sooner have I washed, ironed, folded and put away the Pisa-like pile of clothes, than they're back in the washing basket, taunting me with their newly acquired stains.

Samsung sent me a brand new Eco Bubble to review and naturally I asked if I could have a second one for one of my readers. I know, it's somewhat less sexy than the last product I offered you, but I promise you it'll still press your buttons. The selling point of the Eco Bubble is that it uses 30% of the energy of some other washing machines, and I'm really impressed by the effectiveness of the 'super eco' programme, which washes in cold water. There are tons of different cycles, including a handy 15 minute wash, and the dial selection is intuitive - handy for someone like me who never reads a manual if she can help it.

A family of five produces a lot of washing, and in the past I've been guilty of cramming as much as possible into the machine, just to get through it all. It's a false economy, of course - over-filling the drum just means the clothes won't wash properly and you're liable to damage the washing machine. My new Samsung Eco Bubble has a staggering 12kg capacity and will happily take a double duvet without groaning under the strain.

The 12 kg Samsung Eco Bubble retails at £899 but leave a comment on the blog to be in with a chance of winning one for yourself. Each comment gives you one entry - tweet the following for an additional entry;

"I want to win a 12kg Samsung Eco Bubble washing machine with @MTJAM http://tinyurl.com/ckf6xed #EcoBubbleMTJAM"

Closing date: Friday 9th December 2011

Terms and conditions:

One winner will be chosen from all comments and tweets left, using a random number generator, after midnight on Friday 9th December 2011. There is no cash alternative. I will contact the winner by Saturday 10th December 2011 to request a delivery address. If I don't receive a reply by Saturday 17th December 2011 I will select a new winner. The winner must provide a UK delivery address.

A Maths Question

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Tue, 29 Nov 2011 10:08:00 +0000

Mother has three children. Two thirds of her children have bad coughs. One child with a cough wakes three times each night, the remaining child with a cough wakes twice as much. The third child has no cough but has eight tantrums between 7am and 7pm - twice as many as the other two children put together.

How much gin does Mother drink?

Overheard on Oxford Street

noreply@blogger.com (Emily Carlisle (MTJAM)) — Wed, 23 Nov 2011 14:01:00 +0000

"Do you want to marry me?"

I caught the question, uttered in an accent I couldn't place, as I picked my way through Oxford Street last week. I turned my head but couldn't identify who had spoken - or to whom - and reluctantly I allowed myself to be carried along in the throng of people leaving the Underground.

Who was he asking? And why was it phrased in that way? Not will you marry me? but do you want to? More like a business proposal than a romantic declaration. Had she just broken the news of an unplanned pregnancy, and he was doing the honourable thing? Maybe she needed a visa, and his offer provided a practical solution to her dilemma. Was it the hundredth time of asking? Had she changed her mind more times than the wind? Was he despairing of yet another row? Do you want to marry me, or not?

I could write a dozen stories based on a single overheard conversation, and I love to eavesdrop. Snatches of arguments drifting from an open window, or the tail-end of bar chat. Hairdresser laughter, bus-stop banter, or the window-cleaners' hollered hecklings. All grist for the creative mill. Hearing accents, local expressions, vocal tics and curses adds so much colour, inspires so many ideas my fingers start to twitch, searching out a keyboard, a pen, a pencil.

When I lived in Paris I spent a lot of time alone. I'd go to the cinema and listen to the couple behind me make whispered plans. I'd sit in cafes stirring my espresso and smiling at the women discussing their husbands' sexual prowess. I'd listen to the English girls on their French exchange and the furious waiter slamming his tray down with an ever-varied range of expletives. Colour so rich and varied you could never be bored.

"Do you want to marry me?"

I hope she does. And I hope it's for all the right reasons.