The Reality Of Wonderlust

I have a confession. I am in love with a vampire. Along with the rest of the world's female population, I have fallen utterly and hopelessly in lust with Edward Cullen - he of the Twilight fame. However, being a relatively late uptaker to the whole vampish phenomenon, it wasn't until I watched the Extras on my New Swoon (sorry, Moon) DVD that I realised what extraordinary powers make up can have. On screen, Edward is a figure of beauty - that chiselled jawline, the brooding eyes, the marble chest, etc (sigh). But in real life, Robert Pattinson is ever so disappointing, with his lame stubble, blemished skin, bad teeth (even for a vampire) and over-styled hair.

But that's the reality of film and TV. And perhaps celebrity in general. You are always slightly disappointed in real-life. Yet there are exceptions and some fantasy crushes will remain for an eternity.

When I was 12, Morten Haarket took over my world, controlled my thoughts and 'made' me graffiti the walls of our family house (I was subsequently grounded by my mother, unsurprisingly). He was my first and probably most extreme crush, but oh, those moody eyes and cheekbones...never mind the fact that he sung like a girl and had a penchant for leather necklaces. Through a contact of the family, I was smuggled into the TV studios of Saturday Superstore at Television Centre and waited patiently for 6 hours in the grotty BBC canteen for A-ha to make their appearance. Dressed in my finest 80's clobber, armed with pen and paper, I hurled myself across the Norwegian hunk's path and made him stop short in his tracks. 'Morten...', I squeaked. 'Yah?' he replied, rather bemused at the neon-clad, Chinese midget with badly applied blue eyeliner, standing before him...'Er...are you giving any kisses away today?'. To this day, I don't know where I found the courage to ask him that - for a 12 year old, I wasn't particularly advanced and certainly didn't hang out with the 'cool' girls at school (the ones that later went on to be teenage mums, incidently...) so why I asked my pop idol to kiss me, in front of lots of people, is still a mystery. But they say 'if you don't ask, you don't get' and so it was rather fortuitous that Morten was in a generous mood that day and proceeded to plant a huge smacker on my left cheek. I don't really remember much after that, apart from the other fans hissing around me in disbelief that I'd (a) had the cheek to ask him, and (b) been lucky enough that he'd obliged!

My luck didn't stop there. In my twenties, I discovered rugby boys and Lawrence Dallaglio. Now HE was a hunk of a chunk. I met him too, this time at a photo-shoot. A very good friend who worked in PR was covering a story about a charity, of which Lawrence was a patron. The 'news' piece, to be published in the Daily Mirror (!) on Valentine's Day, would feature a number of women describing how they would 'dress' the rugby-god IF he was THEIR boyfriend. What my friend had forgotten to tell me was that I was supposed to bring my boyfriend to the shoot, to be photographed together. Slightly problematic in that I was most definitely single. So, upon arrival at the studios, they 'found' me one. A total stranger. Unattractive, drippy, bad breath, horrendous shoes. The sort of man you would make plans to escape from on a blind date. Not a good start.

Anyway, the 'couples' photo-shoot involved me seductively draping myself over this random person's body on a chaise longue, whilst lustfully gazing into his (beady, wonky) eyes. At that exact moment, I wasn't sure what was worse - being outed for being single in the first place OR the thought of having my face published in a trashy tabloid with a fake (ugly) boyfriend. But the reward was so worth it.

After the boyfriend shoot, the women were ushered into another (less sleazy) studio. And there he stood. Mr Woof-meister himself. He came over, shook my hand and introduced himself and... I squeaked. I opened my mouth again and nothing came out. Not a peep. It was mortifying, excruciating and cringe-worthy all rolled into one. NEVER one to be lost for words, I stood there, waiting for something, anything to come out of my mouth. Eventually, Lawrence gave up and moved onto the next adoring female. To make matters worse, once we'd all sat down on the comfy sofas, I found myself staring at his enormous thighs (so big, he couldn't put his knees together...) and found him and the rest of the room watching me watching his crotch. Awful. Then, if things weren't bad enough already, we had to give our answer regarding how we would dress Lawrence if he were OUR boyfriend. Before I knew it, I shouted out, too excitedly 'Forget clothes, I'd have him straight off the pitch, in his muddy kit, covered in dirt...phnarrgghh!'. Oh god.

BUT it wasn't a total disaster and there is an upside to this painful experience. After about an hour of hanging around, waiting for the poncy photographer to make his mind up about light levels, exposure, etc, I eventually found my voice and a little bit of courage. Persuading the photographer to take a polaroid of me with my hero was easy. Prising myself off him was another thing. I still have that photo and it makes me chuckle every time I look at it - me, brimming with happiness, smiles-a-beaming, clinging onto this huge hulk of a man, as if my life depended on it. He, looking rather nervous, as if he'd finally met the Stalker From Hell.

Roll on 20 odd years and the reality of your wonderlust hits you. Inevitably your heroes age - Morten must be knocking on for 50 now (eeuuugghh) and doesn't prance around the stage too convincingly any more - although he STILL looks divine. As for Lawrence, he doesn't have much hair on top these days. I spotted him on TV last weekend, covering the Six Nations, looking less sporting hero, more old man. However, the camera did zoom out briefly but long enough for me to catch a glimpse of those thighs and yes, ladies...he still has it. Woof woof.

Princess Susie Moments

You all know a Princess Susie. The perfect woman with the perfect life. Perhaps with perfect children, a perfect partner and/or a perfect house. She exists (mostly unintentionally) to make you feel inadequate.

By definition, a Princess Susie Moment (PSM) is an unexpected occasion when you are genuinely appreciated by someone - your family, your friends, your children or your partner - for being truly fabulous. Because the real Princess Susie (who will remain anonymous for the purpose of this blog) gets this ALL of the time. And if she wasn't so bloody perfect (and nice) I'd have kicked her hard by now.

This blog entry is dedicated to all you ladies out there who despair about your own LACK of PSM's.

It started off with a phone-call between two friends. Over the course of an hour-long conversation, the following revelations were exchanged:

'I'm really fed up with my other half.'

'I just don't feel appreciated.'

'Who am I? I don't recognise the person I see in the mirror!?'

'I want things to go back to the way they used to be, when we first got together.'

'I do everything around the house - clean, cook, iron - as well as manage a full-time job. Do you think he notices? Does he hell!'

And so it went on.

What's annoying is that you might think the above mutterings (at first glance) came from two bitter, ungrateful, moaning, whinging minnies who had nothing better to do than to berate their other halves. Or you might think these were extracts straight from an agony aunt column in a trashy magazine. Sadly, it was more serious than that. Both women had reached a point in their relationship where they were utterly fed up, exhausted and at breaking point. A sense of identity loss was looming. A hark back to their previous lives was calling. So, they escaped. Only for 48 hours. But in defiance and in need of a spa treatment plus wine. Minus partners, minus children.

It was only when discussing their life issues in more detail that they came across the phenomenon that is Princess Susie. As per the definition at the top of this blog, Princess Susie DOES exist. She is a real person, living a real (perfect) life, with her perfect prince. She is beautiful, intelligent, funny and popular but most importantly, she is treated like a real princess, by her prince. He (also remaining anonymous) buys her flowers (proper flowers from a posh florist, not limp ones from a petrol forecourt, past their sell-by-date), takes her for romantic meals, continuously thanks her for being the mother of his gorgeous children, whisks her off on regular mini-breaks in trendy boutique hotels AND notices when she's had her hair highlighted.

Now, the reality of this phenomenon is that Princess Susie's prince probably has bad breath and a small penis (one can hope) but in all seriousness, this modern fairytale existence did highlight the shortfalls in the two womens' relationships. They wanted more than what was currently on offer - not the flowers or the mini breaks as such - but just a little bit of appreciation and respect from their other halves...their own version of being adored.

And so, the Princess Susie Moment phrase was coined...a reference point to come back to when you are ranting about the things you can't/will never have or situations you can't/won't ever be able to change. Like being stuck in a bad relationship, putting up with a needy, ungrateful friend, dealing with a commitment-phobic boyfriend, living with a messy husband who leaves his dirty pants on the floor, or coping with an interfering mother-in-law.

They say life is too short and that it's not a rehearsal, blah, blah...but if you, like many women out there, need an excuse to rant about YOUR life, feel free to dump it all here. And don't forget to breathe...

So Sorry, I Didn't Mean To Kick You In The Head...

...is not a phrase I thought I would say to anyone in my entire lifetime (ever). And certainly not in my sedate Pilates class last week.

Now, I'm sure you are conjuring up images of a very flexible, sporty, athletic type - with supple bones and limbs that could take out the enemy in one foul swoop -but this is me we are talking about so at least we both know that this isn't the case. I was actually participating in an Improver's Pilates class - not sure why I am classed as an Improver when I haven't even mastered the art of breathing properly (and no, it's not a simple matter of 'breathe in, breathe out'...there is actual skill involved, honest...). But as I took to the mat, amidst a sea of toned, lithe bodies, all the while thinking that my wobbly reflection in the large mirror rather sadly (but truthfully) told me that I needed to be doing something more aerobic than trying to 'reach out' to my pelvic floor, I was not anticipating the accident about to happen...

When are you are not very good at something but have nowhere to hide/run, you have two choices - rise to the task or leave the room very quietly. NEVER one to shy away from a challenge, I decided that the smug skinny minny standing next to me was not going to show me up and that I would do everything in my physical power to keep up with her. So, I took to the floor and before I knew it, I was rocking backwards and forwards on my generous rump, legs and arms raised in the air in a V-shape (are you picturing this?) gathering momentum. What I was supposed to do was rock backwards/forwards in a 'controlled' manner, using my 'core muscles' (haha) to aid the movement. What I wasn't supposed to do was jerk in a rather erratic fashion, legs and arms flaying wildly (due to missing core muscles) and eventually kick my Pilates instructor very hard in the side of the head. 'OOOOWWWW!' she cried. 'OH MY GOD!!' I cried back, mortified, followed by silence and dumbfounded looks from my fellow athletes...

If this was an isolated incident, I would think nothing of it and put it down to sheer bad luck. But there was also the time when I managed to facially wound the Social Captain at my old tennis club (the irony in that being she wasn't particularly sociable with me afterwards). It has been said, by people who have played tennis with me, that I err towards the more aggressive side of play, that I 'hit like a bloke' and that there is nothing particularly graceful about my technique. In my defence, I would argue that grace is for wimps and that slugging a racquet around for an hour is utterly satisfying, especially when you imagine that your worst enemy's face is on the small green ball coming at you. There is also the assumption that I am able to change the pace of my strokes but this would require an element of skill which I do not yet possess. So, for the time being, I will continue to grunt, continue to whack and absolutely love every second of it. And in any case, it wasn't my fault that she got the ball square on between the eyes. She should have ducked. A bit like my Pilates instructor...

Till Death Us Do Part

Death is a strange affair. It's the inevitable finale of life and the one thing which we all have in common. But when it happens, regardless of whether it's expected or sudden, nevertheless, there is always an element of shock.

I'm still reeling from my Grandpa's death nearly 15 months ago. My beloved Grandpa, the man who once stood strong and tall, the man who always sat at the head of the table at our family gatherings, the man whose annual ritual was to put a Santa's hat on at Christmas time to remind us all that deep inside, he was still full of fun and youth. His was a slow demise and it was painful to witness. I took M to see him one morning and despite his fragility and inability to speak, he spoke with his eyes and I could see that it was the best gift I could have bought him. He passed away that evening.

After his death, I told M that he'd gone to be a star in the sky. The brightest one up there, in fact. For a 2.5 year old, this gave her no end of joy, the permission to holler up to the sky and shout 'night night Great Grandpa'. In fact, I recall many a time when we both looked up and hollered together, much to the amusement of the curtain-twitching neighbours.

Speaking of whom, a slightly embarrassing situation presented itself last week - upon checking in on my 89 year old elderly neighbour to see how she was coping with the recent snowfall, M asked her if she was going to die soon. Thankfully (in this case), with old age comes near total deafness but it didn't stop me booting my daughter into the house before my neighbour had the chance to say 'pardon?'...

I have struggled with my parental instinct and general common sense recently, in that I just don't know how much information to part with, when discussing life issues with a 3.5 year old. In my household, the comforting background noise comes from BBC News 24 (always BBC, never the darkside aka SKY News - ugh). Unfortunately, this means that M is inevitably exposed to many things outside of her little, fluffy, pink world (which is normally inhabited by princesses, tea parties and more recently, Hannah Montana). In the last few weeks, I have had to explain earthquakes (Haiti), dead soldiers' bodies being repatriated, and so on. What she chooses to absorb, I have no idea. Michael Jackson's death was an interesting one too. We spent many a moment, normally in a public place (routinely the local supermarket checkout) discussing his fate and the fact that he had probably taken a lot of 'bad medicine', which according to M, was very, very naughty. A couple of weeks ago, I was caught up in a conversation with M and her 4 year old cousin, C, who were both watching a newsflash about yet another British soldier being killed in Afghanistan. It went something like this:

M: 'Mummy, what's that they're bringing out of the plane?'

Me: 'That's a coffin, darling'

M: 'Just like Grandpa's'

Me: 'Yes, darling, just like Grandpa's'

M: 'Mummy, what's a coffin?'

Me: 'When you die, your body gets put in a coffin'

M: 'But Mummy, who died?'

Me: 'The soldier'

M: 'But what are soldiers?

Me: 'Soldiers are very, very important people, who fight against the baddies and make our country a very safe place to live'

At which point, cousin C (all 4 years of him), turned to me and said, 'don't be silly, Aunty C, they're not called baddies, they're called the Taliban'.

In Sickness & In Health

I am ill. For the past 4 days, I have taken up residence in the family bathroom. Of which there is only 1 in our house. Nothing too exciting, mind you - just the usual stomach bug doing its annual rounds but for some reason, M and Mr H have escaped it and so it's just me who's suffering. I say suffering, but actually I think I am a fairly good patient (not too demanding, occasionally wimpish but definitely leaning towards the braver side of weaner...).

My memories of being ill as a child are few and far between. Probably because of the time that I complained so much about having a tummy ache to my mother, that she actually carried out the threat of phoning the 'Night Doctor' - in my 5 year old eyes, this man was a fictitious but incredibly scary man - who then subsequently did make a real appearance at my bedside, visiting the house in the middle of the night to make me drink this disgusting, pink, chalky mixture that made me gag. The result was that I never complained again and am in Mr H's words, 'my own worst enemy'. Even if the pain really hurts and makes my eyes water, I tend not to say anything.

Now I have nothing against most medical professionals, it's just that my track record with them is not good. In fact, it's a very tarnished, blemished one. I once punched a school nurse when she came towards me armed with my rubella injection. A couple of years later, I kicked the (same) nurse who attempted to give me my BCG...she was big, black and if she wanted to, she could have sat on me to administer the needle (the revenge for taking the first punch would have justified it). I have an insane fear of needles, to the point that I avoided all dentistry during my teens - following a rather unpleasant routine check up with an evil, witch dentist who told me to sit still whilst inserting a rather large stick of metal into my gums. I was told to stop being such a baby, as the tears trickled down the sides of my face. Like I said, she was a total witch.

Apparently 'Belonephobia' (fear of needles) affects nearly 10 percent of the population. My biggest hurdle was whilst pregnant with M. No one told me about the routine blood tests during those first few months. My arm was like a pin cushion. Mr H had to come to each appointment and explain beforehand to the midwife that 'yes, she really is that scared' and 'yes, she can get quite aggressive'. However, come the labour, when I was screeching out for that 'f**king epidural', he did make the mistake of reminding me that needles weren't a part of my birth plan. You can imagine the conversation that followed...

Even after the (long, traumatic, never-wish-to-experience-another) birth, M and I were jabbed with more needles because of medication required to combat the infection we picked up during our stay. My recollection of her ear-piercing squeals as the nurse gave her the daily dose of drugs did little to quash my fear of all things sharp and prickly. More recently, the poor little mite has had to endure 6 injections over the course of just 6 weeks - MMR, Hib, 2 x swine flu and 2 x standard flu jabs. But she took it on the chin, albeit acquiring a few more unscheduled pre-Xmas presents (for services to Bravery, etc) in the process.

But going back to being ill. And I mean genuinely ill. I am lucky to have avoided during my lifetime, serious spells of health misfortune. I have never (touchwood) broken a bone. I haven't even had a nose-bleed in years and only remember getting a few as a child (unlike my sis who used to haemorrhage each time). I spent one night in a Turkish hospital last year with acute gastroenteritis and even then, that was self-inflicted (for someone who has a severe milk allergy, eating something fried beyond recognition at a buffet table is not wise. Especially when it turns out to be the local cheese from a mountain goat...). I laugh nervously about the entire affair now, but it must have been an intolerable experience for my family, who (a) don't speak Turkish and (b) didn't warm to the local hospital where the toilets were covered in excrement (not mine) and the nursing staff sat on their backsides smoking fags. Luckily, I had taken out a rather excellent health insurance policy the DAY before our flight, ticking all the boxes. So within an hour, we were being escorted away in an ambulance with flashing blue lights to a nearby private hospital which was, quite frankly, more bling than the Bellagio (plus the room service menu was divine...only I was nil by mouth...bugger).

I don't particularly care for hospitals in general. I have negative, emotional associations with them - bad experiences etched forever on the memory. Like the time my sister badly broke her arm, had a lengthy reconstructive operation and was whisked off to recover in a room next to the maternity ward (due to overcrowding in the orthopaedic ward). They literally forgot about her ('lost in the system' were the exact words from the receptionist) and left her in such acute agony, I was apoplectic with rage. Or the time spent in the labour/postnatal wards when M was born. I wouldn't wish that experience upon my worst enemy. Without going into detail on this blog (the thought of those times makes me weep still), the care - or lack of - received by those nursing staff was downright shameful. I hobbled into that hospital, a week overdue, desperate to meet my baby. I left, 5 days later, a changed person. No longer the confident, outgoing self. Instead, a scared, humiliated, vulnerable shadow of my former being. Am shuddering now at the brief recollection.

So it's not so much the idea of being in hospital that freaks me out, but more the variety in standard of care that you receive. Getting treated in hospital is a total lottery - you don't know what you're going to get, when you're going to get it, plus your fate lies in the rota of staff that's been allocated for that particular day. But on the other hand, I know plenty of nice, decent friends in the medical profession and once at work, they are all (I am confident in assuming) competent, kind, understanding, patient and professional. Which are the qualities you need to do the job. Surely. I guess I have just been unlucky in my experiences.

As for my present situation, care is being provided by my trusted Mr H and darling daughter, M - a brilliant combination - (some) sympathy and practical care from the former (who hasn't complained once at me hogging the bathroom for the past 4 days, looking like death-warmed-up and contributing NOTHING to the housework/childcare) and entertainment and total bedside devotion from the latter - have just listened to M practising Little Donkey for tomorrow's nativity play - she's finally learnt not to SHOUT the words (stemming from a fear of us not being able to hear her apparently...) and can now sweetly sing the entire verse without reaching a painful level of noise. I actually blubbed my way through the whole 60 second rehearsal. Goodness knows what I'll be like at tomorrow's play (if I actually make it). Perhaps it's the chronic tiredness creeping up on me or ravenous hunger playing tricks on my weary head. But that aside, it was the best medicine I could have asked for.

For Better Or For Worse

Hmm, it appears that I have forgotten to blog. Did I really publish my last entry over 3 months ago? I'd like to convince you that my life has been a whirlwind of exciting activity, that I've been overwhelmed by my social calendar and simply do not have enough hours in the day to switch on my laptop and pour my thoughts (via my fingertips) into this but actually, no, I have been a total slacker.

A few things have happened though, since my last entry - we holidayed abroad with friends, M went back to pre school, Mr H slipped a disc (did you know that the pain he suffered 'must have been quite similar to childbirth'? For all fellow mums out there, do not fret - I corrected him by pressing the point that unless he had passed a rugby ball from his backside, then no, the experience wasn't quite the same). More recently, we were visited by the God Squad (more on THAT later) and lastly, I had a taste of wedding fever (someone else's, not mine before you get excited..).

Firstly, the holiday re-cap: to all my child-free friends/readers, my advice to you, before you embark on the journey of Parenthood - enjoy every weekend and holiday as if it were your last. When you're lying in bed on a Sunday morning, enjoying the luxury of the morning papers (uninterrupted, without a child jumping on your head and certainly not before the sun has come up), reading the travel supplements and toying with the idea of booking a last minute wine-tasting trip in Tuscany, don't just think about it, BOOK THE DAMN THING. Because believe me, holidaying with children is enough to make you want to stay within the safety of your home forever. Don't get me wrong, there are many, many gorgeous things about watching your child run free on a beach, splashing in the surf, eating strange food that you can't pronounce and listening to them attempt foreign language in their own innocent, uninhibited way ('buona sera' from a three year olds mouth sounds very similar to 'bollock sarah', for example). But by the end of the trip, you will need another holiday to do all the things that you would have normally achieved whilst away, pre-children. I am talking about sleep and relaxation, mostly.

It starts with the flight. Forget about opening the crisp pages of your newly purchased novel. Don't even think about browsing through the Duty Free magazine (you will only refer to this when your child wants to and when you have read her books so many times that you make HER eyes glaze over). Make sure you have reserved a window seat and that you have packed the entire contents of your child's toybox. It doesn't matter if it's a short-haul or long-haul flight - I've done both with a child and 90 mins in a confined space, surrounded by strangers (who always seem not to like children) with a bored three year old is just as tricky as on a 9 hour flight. My mum once instructed me (5 years old with the attention span of a gnat) to clean all the seats of a 747 during a long haul flight to Malaysia - it worked for her - apparently, the cabin crew and fellow passengers were very accommodating - I was small, agile and thorough - 2 hours later, a packet of wetwipes down and mum got enough shut-eye to keep her going for the rest of the flight.

Another thing you have to worry about when travelling with children is being in a strange environment, whether you are staying at a hotel, apartment or family villa. We were fortunate enough to stay at a relative's house, tucked away in the Italian hills, on the Ligurian coast. The house belongs to an art-dealer uncle so naturally, the house is full of important, expensive heirlooms which have been in the family forever. Guardians of very young children will be familiar with the term 'room-sweep', ie. scan any new surroundings for things that can (a) damage your child and (b) be damaged by your child. My advice to new parents, travelling overseas for the first time, would be to hire a blank room with no windows, no furniture, no breakable items and no sharp corners. I am probably sounding like a neurotic mother but I am actually one of the calmer ones. My daughter, unfortunately, is a kamikaze loon, whose aim in life is to encourage/accelerate the growth of my grey hairs.

On day 1 of our Italian adventure, she skidded head-first along a gravel road, taking half the skin off her beautiful face and making the holiday photos look like something from a horror film. On day 2, she bit into a wine glass. On day 3, she walked straight into the corner of a sharp book shelf. On day 4, she fell up the stairs and gave herself carpet burn. By day 5, I accepted that my daughter was, and always will be, as accident-prone as her father. Lord, have mercy on me.

Which actually provides me with a handy link to my next story - God and his Squad...AKA Mad Aunty Doris, born again Christian/self confessed preacher and her travelling companion, Pastor Sue. Now, it's not that I don't have a faith. I have regularly lifted the lids of my many shoe boxes to worship the glory that is contained within AND I always pray for nice presents just before my birthday. Forgive me (Lord) for trivialising real belief and belittling those who have an honest faith in a greater being but I just don't do religion. So, when these two old ladies came to stay with my mother recently, I was never going to be an easy convert. But they do deserve full marks for trying.

Whilst trapped in the backseat of my mother's car, on a relatively long journey, sandwiched in between Preacher and Pastor, the first conversation went something like this:

Pastor: 'so, how long have you and Mr H been married for?'

Me: 'oh, er, well yes, we've been married (ahem) for 7.5 years now.'

Pastor: 'And do you take M to Church with you?'

Me: 'oh, er, well yes, actually no, well, you see, we're not really married and we don't go to Church...'

Let's just say, at this point, my conscience got the better of me and if there was someone sitting up there on his smug, holy cloud, then a huge fat bolt of lightning would have pierced through my heart at that precise moment, for lying in the first place. I'm not sure which look was worse. The one from my mother in the rear-view mirror, pleading with me to retract the last comment, or the one from the Pastor who looked like she might pass out...

Pastor: 'you...aren't...married?' (looks over at M) 'but...' (points at M, finger shaking)

(I should point out that Mad Aunty Doris had fallen asleep at this point of the car journey, but if she had overheard the conversation, then no doubt she would have hurled herself out of the car, directly into the oncoming traffic, in an attempt to sever all ties with her wayward, atheist niece).

I sighed, took a deep breath in and thought carefully about my position. Now I'm not ashamed of who I am or the choices I have made in life, so despite this total stranger recoiling in disbelief that I had borne a child out of wedlock (plus my mother's silent, urgent need for me to keep my big gob shut), I just had to argue my case and defend my position. It actually turned into a fabulous, insightful debate about religion. Not only was the Pastor extraordinarily liberal in thought, she also opened my eyes and made me look at believers and converts in a different way. So from that moment on, we found an equal footing and a mutual respect of each other. Unfortunately, you can't always rely on your children to share the sentiment. My daughter's response, when given an advent calendar by Mad Aunty Doris - one with a rather large picture of Jesus on the front, purchased directly from Westminster Abbey - turned it over, examined it with furrowed brow and said 'er, where's the chocolate, Mummy?'.

So finally, moving onto weddings. I have been asked to be a bridesmaid. Unfortunately, my one and only experience of being a bridesmaid was when I was 7 years old. The dress looked like someone had drenched me in vomit and the shoes were like Jesus sandals (sorry, I'm not deliberately including religious references in every paragraph, but they were exactly like that). This time, however, we (the 4 bridesmaids) get to choose the dress. But given that none of us have ever met before, I fear this will be quite a tricky process, seeing as we have to come up with a single style and colour which suits all. Alarm bells are already ringing loud and clear, as one of the girls has expressed an interest in something AQUA and SATIN (hellooo, you non-fashionista walking disaster???)...clearly, I'm going to have to break it to her (gently but firmly) that we are not dressing for a mermaid convention.

As much as I am thrilled and honoured to be part of the bridal party, I am already feeling waves of anxiety sweep over me, every time I think of her Big Day. Being part of the 'living in sin' camp, I have obviously not experienced my own Big Day. I imagine it is very stressful, both on the day and in the run up. I am guessing that it's very expensive and you don't always get what you want due to differences of opinions from mothers in the wedding camp. I am also thinking that it is very easy to get sucked into the wedding circus, having recently attended my first wedding fair with the bride. I was supposed to go and offer her moral support. But it was me who needed the hand-holding. Upon walking through the doors at this recent event, I was ambushed by a foray of singers, magicians, florists, dress designers, caricaturists, musicians, DJ's, eager beaver sales people (one even selling cosmetic surgery to brides), all desperate to convince you that THEY could make your dreams come true and give you a day to remember. It just seemed so manufactured, so impersonal. So not what I thought it would be like. I've been fantasising about my own wedding for years. But having seen what its actually like for a bride-to-be (scary, expensive), I think I might need to go back to the drawing board. But as I've said to Mr H before, we could scrap the wedding and spend all the money on a Big Fat Diamond Blinger instead. Now that's more up my aisle...

Happy Glamping

It's taken me approximately 4.5 days to recover from last weekend's revelries at the 80's Rewind Festival. The single most exciting thing I have experienced in my 30's (apart from Motherhood).

Now, being a virgin festival-goer, the very idea of mixing with unwashed people, standing on my feet for days on end, not being able to use my hair straighteners, etc, etc. was completely ridiculous. Until Rewind. My goodness, I am a convert.

What you do is this: secure babysitter for weekend (not easy for most but this was booked MONTHS in advance), buy festival tickets, book yourself a tent with Tangerine Fields, ticking the 'glamping' option, rally your mates to join you, throw a pre-Rewind BBQ (80's fancy dress compulsory) to get into the mood, then count down the weeks till coming face-to-face with your music idols - Rick Astley, in my case.

Then, when the exciting date finally arrives, get yourself to Henley On Thames, drive up and enter the car park (note, no queue) faced by lovely, smiling stewards, walk 30 metres to the entrance, greeted by even lovelier, friendlier security staff. Walk to the Tangerine Fields reception desk, upon which you are handed brand new sleeping bags and escorted to your ENORMOUS tent which is to be your home for the next 3 days. Delight at the comfort of the double inflatable airbeds. When you walk past the hairdryer/hair straightener tent, refrain from shrieking/jumping up and down hysterically so as not to alert other festival-goers to your virgin status.

Jump aboard the Pimms bus, lining your throat and vocal chords with well deserved alcohol (after all, it's been very tough so far?) in preparation for the hard work ahead. Enjoy.

As you can see from the photos, I made it to the very front of the crowd - this did involve running at full pelt, once they'd opened the gates. Like a neon bull in a batwing top. It wasn't until I got to the barrier, clinging on for dear life, trying to control my now rapid breathing, that I turned around and realised that everyone else was still walking at leisure across the field. So I would have looked like a total loon.

The brief encounter with cardio exercise was worth it though - a great time was had at the front of the crowds. The music was awesome, if not deafening and the atmosphere just too good, you could bottle it up and sell it as a cure for depression. I loved every second of my first festival experience and will be repeating it next year (am currently recruiting for Team Rewind 2010). Set in the lovely environs of Henley On Thames, Rewind is really something special. Where else can you wake up on a Sunday morning, after 10 hours of partying along to 80's tunes, to go for a leisurely stroll along the sun-drenched Thames and pop into town for a Starbucks and panini, to rest that weary head.

The ONLY complaint I have is with Comfy Crappers. We all bought into the idea that festival toilets were going to make us gag, so after much internet research, we paid £13 a head to use the facilities of Comfy Crappers. Note that this should be renamed Eco Crappers. I was rather expecting shiny white tiles, thick quilted loo roll and maybe some classical music to soothe my very sore ears. But oh no. Rather a hole above the ground, no flush, a wooden spoon to lock the door and the smell of a farm. But apparently it was for the good of the environment. Comfy my arse (get it?!).

PS. Rick, you were brilliant - I've fallen in love with you all over again.

Keep Calm & Carry On

Forget war-torn Britain, this quote was surely written for ME!

This week has tested me to the very limits of sanity. But it's had its rewards too (more on that later).

I have had to evict two unwelcome house guests. Actually, Mr H had to do the removing and said guests were actually rodents and not humans. Whilst away on a 'relaxing w/e' with a girlfriend, I received a phonecall from Mr H, informing me that we would be entertaining some 'visitors' for a fortnight. Now, for those who know me, my diary is organised with military precision and nothing and no-one gets past me and into the weekly plan without me knowing about it first (yes, it's a form of control freakish behaviour but I don't do surprises and am most definitely not comfortable with the idea of spontaneity).

It emerged over the course of the phonecall (luckily for Mr H, I was in another county and not face-to-face with him OR within a short driving distance of our house) that he had been bullied into looking after his niece's 2 pet mice, even though I had turned down a previous request to babysit her stick insects. My interpretation of an ideal house pet does NOT have a long, scaly tail and most certainly can't nibble any part of your body.

It took 2 days (ie. the entire length of my 'relaxing' w/e away) to drum it into Mr H that if the pesky rodents weren't removed from the house before I returned, then he would have to choose: me OR Micky/Minnie. Luckily for me, Mr H's family loyalties held strong and the day after I returned (not as relaxed as I'd hoped to be), we waved goodbye to our short-term house guests, before they were shunted off to another county (not far enough, in my opinion). The one thing that did make me smile (actually, I fell off the sofa clutching my sides) was watching Mr H clean out the cage and visibly gag at the putrid smell of mice pee. There is a God after all...

Now, onto nicer things. It turns out that I am actually slightly good at something. A while ago, a group of friends thought it would be good fun to enter a local arts/craft/horticultural show - the idea being to sweep the board with 1st prizes for efforts in every category, from home-grown giant marrows to floral arranging. So, with that in mind, I dusted off my easel and pastels and hurriedly put together a drawing of M for the Portrait category. For me, art is the Unknown - something that I want to be brilliant at and knowledgeable of, but alas, I was never given the tools or opportunity to explore. Coming from a family of scientists, I was practically laughed out of the room when I announced that I wanted to take GCSE Art as an option. 'Art?', my mother exclaimed, 'what on earth are you going to do with an Art qualification?!'. And with that, I took the Chemistry option instead (and flunked, unsurprisingly).

However, a couple of years ago, in secret defiance, I signed myself up for a Life Drawing class. With no art qualifications whatsoever, walking into that classroom and coming face to face with twenty other artists was incredibly daunting. But I knew straight away that I'd found my Nirvana. For 2 hours, every week, I would sit and draw with no interruption and no judgement. My tutor was a kind, talented and inspiring woman who took away my fears and inhibitions. I loved every second of the course.

Then, as with everything in life, things got in the way. With the course finished, I was relying on my self discipline to keep drawing. Which didn't happen, obviously. So, I was really, really happy to have an excuse to draw something again. What made it even better was winning 1st prize! I didn't get a rosette (unlike the giant marrow winner) but the satisfaction of being good at something was enough. It even took the edge off the mouse-house invasion. As my now favourite quote says, 'Keep Calm & Carry On'...I'm a great believer of Karma. Good things WILL happen to those of us who have been waiting very, very patiently, even if it's been a lifetime.

Children Should Be Seen and Not Heard

And some children should not be allowed to leave the house. Am outraged. My darling M, 3 years going on 13, has had her first experience of bullying. Actually, correct that - it should be renamed Downright Thuggery.

Parents across the universe will be familiar with the perils of the playground but when is it acceptable to step in and stick up for your little ones, without destroying their street cred? Mr H would probably argue that it's okay to do this up until M reaches 36 years of age (when she's allowed to move out, apparently...) but I've always been slightly hesitant to get involved in child scraps. Not that this particular incident was a scrap. It was a case of Big Child Who Should Know Better versus Small Child Who Didn't Stand A Chance.

M is now sporting a black eye, courtesy of being punched in the face by said Big Child AKA Little Shite. She took it well - one cold patch and a chocolate mini-milk later, she'd all but forgotten about her first proper brush with violence. But me, I was stewing on it until the early hours. What made it worse was me telling Mr H about the incident and watching him positively explode in anger. 'He did WHAT??!!'....followed by 'What did YOU do??!!'. Erm, actually, nothing. Except for administer love and cuddles and the promise of lots of ice cream for being such a brave soldier. The trouble being, that in this particular play area (indoors, about 100 children of varying ages, running around like mad, caged hyenas on ecstasy), I couldn't see the Little Shite who did it. M's description of 'horrible big boy' wasn't quite enough for me to reprimand every single lad in the joint, athough it was tempting. The other problem is that you also don't know how the parents are going to react to you telling their kids off. They might shrug their shoulders, carry on reading Take A Break OR they could give you a matching shiner. You never know.

I had another experience of this when M was about 18 months old. In an outdoor playground in a not-so-nice-area (that should have been a very big warning in the first place), she was happily playing on a pirate playship when I heard a little boy screaming, telling her to 'GET OFF MY SHIP'. When I actually made it up the tiny steps of this vessel (not easy when your bottom is wider than the entrance), the little boy was pinning her against the wall and shouting obscenities about 2cm away from her face. It's the kind of parenting moment that you dread - (1) your child is in danger of being hurt/mentally traumatised, (2) you have a split second to react and (3) you are in public and hence must take full responsibility for your following actions.

In this particular case, point (3) went out of the window as I saw red and hollered at the top of my voice, for all of Surrey to hear 'WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU ARE DOING??'. The look on the little boy's face was one of sheer terror. I didn't have time to look around to see if his mum/dad/carer were approaching/preparing for a fight. I had only one mission - get my poor child off this goddamn thing and make a dignified departure without incurring burn marks on my hips whilst trying to get through the very narrow exit. Luckily, the parent wished to remain anonymous. He/she was either too embarrassed at the son's outrageous behaviour, or unwilling to take on a very angry mum who at this point, must have looked like a wild protective animal.

I do however, have a solution for all of this. Enrol your children on a martial arts course. We are lucky to know a Tae Kwon Do instructor who teaches girls and boys from the age of 5. It sounds like desperate measures but actually it will achieve lots of things - discipline and fitness to name a couple. The added advantage of her being able to ninja kick any threatening boys will also be handy and with that, I expect to be able to sleep a lot better.

Twitter...A Step Too Far

Last week I signed up to Twitter. I twitter-twattered with Demi, Ashton, P Diddy (yes, really) and got various random updates from fellow Twits about their hourly goings ons. After day two of twittering about, it suddenly dawned on me that my attempt to fully embrace modern technology was perhaps leading me down a rather unhealthy path. Never one to do things by halves, I had fallen into that deadly trap of feeling that I had to keep up with every other Tom, Dick and Twit by signing up to another 'social network' in the effort to stay 'on trend' and 'with it'...but it didn't make me feel like, well, me.

Now I'm all for embracing change, especially change of the technologically advancing sort (see previous entry about cafe blogging - still very proud of that one). When my mum bought me an Atari for my 9th bday, I thought I'd died and gone to PacMan Heaven. When I got my first Sony Walkman in the 80's (the size of a house brick), I strutted my stuff and didn't stop till I did get enough (too much pain in the back and neck, actually). And when I got my own email account at work, I thought I'd broken the very last telecommunications barrier and that the whole world would finally hear my voice. They very nearly did - unfortunately, when I emailed my mum telling her I'd be home for tea, inadvertently cc'ing the entire BBC marketing department, I did lose some of that hard earned street cred.

These days, I find myself checking into Facebook EVERY day. The whole world and his wife is on there. I get invites to parties via Facebook (what ever happened to paper invitations?). I check the wellbeing of my little brother on Facebook (he is allergic to phoning home apparently). I arrange to meet friends on Facebook. I even found out about the sad demise of Michael Jackson on Facebook. So that is what I have become. A profile picture. With no voice. Just a status update.

I miss SPEAKING to my friends. Don't get me wrong - I love the spontaneous, instantaneous interaction you get with Facebook and it's certainly good for updating my far flung loved ones with photos and video clips of M's latest ballet show, etc. Plus, proper, grown up phone conversations don't necessarily mix well with a demanding 3 year old who always manages to sabotage my phone time by shouting something awfully embarrassing like 'MUMMY I DID A POO IN THE KITCHEN!'... But I guess it's the way we are heading. Less human contact and more clacking of the keyboard.

Unfortunately though, with Twitter, it was just one step too far. Aside from the fact that no one in their right mind would have been THAT interested in my hourly updates, it just seemed like a waste of time. And time is precious.

"Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine how it will be spent. Be careful lest you let other people spend it for you." - Carl Sandburg

25 Random Things...About Me

1. I have 2 tattoos on my back - both of which I love, both of which my mother despises.

2. English is my first and only proper language, unless you include pissed Spanish.

3. I used to have arachnophobia but got cured by hypnotherapy at London Zoo's Friendly Spider Programme and held a tarantula at the end of the session. Unfortunately it worked too well and I rescued a deadly Redback in Australia's Outback, scaring my tour guide out of his wits.

4. My dream cars are a Lotus Elan (for running around) and an Aston Martin DB9 (to be run around in).

5. My wonderlust hero has always and will always be Lawrence Dallaglio - woof woof.

6. I once made Mr H strip off and do a naked streak along Colliers Wood High Street, to prove his love to me. Unfortunately he got recognised by a neighbour.

7. I once received a kiss from Morten Haarket (aha) when I was 12.

8. I will never forgive myself for practising wax stripping on my sister's legs (she was 7).

9. I'm also sorry for cutting my cousin's ponytail off when we were 9.

10. I secretly want to start ballet all over again now that M goes to her weekly lessons.

11. Contrary to popular belief, I have never planned my wedding. I have a few vague ideas in my head but nothing concrete....honestly.

12. I could eat salmon sashimi every day for the rest of my life.

13. I would like to have one more child, one day, but definitely not now (and only on the proviso that they guarantee me the drugs).

14. I eat chocolate every day (dark, min 70%).

15. I used to be a cox for DMU's mens' IV - in the good old days when I could fit my bottom into a boat.

16. I am a brand junkie.

17. If I had another chance at A-levels and uni, I would like to have studied Art.

18. Having said that, university was a ball and I wouldn't change anything about it, except perhaps my final results.

19. I wish my little bro didn't live so far away and that he came home more often (and CALLED me).

20. One day, I will have a walk-in wardrobe and a shoe closet.

21. I come from a family of very stubborn women so it's in my genes.

22. I cannot sit on sand or grass without something in-between them and my body.

23. My favourite smells are my new Chloe perfume and M's skin.

24. My great, great, great Grandfather was third in rank to the Emperor's throne so I am a teeny weeny bit blue-blooded. I kid you not.

25. I am full of confidence, but very empty of self-esteem (apparently).

The Outside Blogger

Ooooh, I am blogging OUTSIDE, from within a CAFE, using WIFI. It doesn't get any more techo-advanced than that! I do realise that I am about 5 years behind everyone else, but one makes progress at their own pace (in my case, that of a snail).

So here I am, in the cafe, with my laptop (plus internet connection - note smug expression on face) and an iced decaff americano, feeling very clever indeed. There IS life outside my front room. Mummies talking whilst ignored children hurl sandwiches at each other, local business folk deep in concentration, looking very self-important whilst fiddling with their crackberries, the lone reader immersed in his Sci Fi novel and finally, me (hopefully passing off that I am a hardened WIFI cafe pro - no one need know that it took me 20 mins to get a connection...).

I have to admit that I didn't exactly leave the house willingly this morning - I was in fact evicted, due to the noise levels coming from the big strong boys tearing down my living room walls and ripping up my kitchen flooring (due to water damage, read previous blog entry). Have left Mr H to work at home alone and deal with the noise/burly workmen. After all, it's because of him that we're in this ruddy mess in the first place.

Hmm, am finding it hard to concentrate with coffee machines whirring, babies crying and the general background hum. There is something quite relaxing and easy about pottering around at home and loving the sound of my own silence. Not sure how long I'm going to last as an Outside Blogger. Oh feckers, some little kid has just lobbed a sandwich at me...over and out.

Freedom Of Blogs - Mrs C, I Support You

Something has got my goat today. The Freedom of Blogs. Or Lack Of. My friend, Mrs C, seems to have landed herself into a spot of bother by passing casual comment on something (a subject which I understand is of little interest to her but apparently her words were enough to offend others). It doesn't matter what the subject matter is or who might have been offended by her blog. BUT the actual point of this rant, sorry, blog, is that Mrs C should be free to write exactly what's on her mind, without judgement. That's the whole point of The Blog. As long as we keep things slur-free and reasonably legal, I don't see what the problem is.

So, in support of Mrs C, who's clever literary gifts brighten up my week, here are a few of MY chosen current rants...and I don't apologise to anyone who might be offended...

1. Sophia from the Big Brother House. In choosing this subject, I am of course admitting to being a BB fan. More on that later. I want to punch walls when I see that poisonous pixie on my television screen. She makes me want to pull my teeth out. If I passed her on the street, I'd have to stop myself from gaffer taping her mouth so we can all be free of her nasty witchiness.

2. People who judge others for watching BB and other similar TV trash. Mr H, you are guilty of this crime. It doesn't matter that I went to university and in a past life managed to hold down a fairly good job. I like watching Reality TV. It makes me laugh. Obviously, it's not Question Time (which you feel you have to point out to me on a weekly basis...yawn) but I'm not watching it to be mentally stimulated. I'm watching it to (a) pass the time in the evening when I'm so tired my eyeballs ache and (b) make me feel a little bit smug and content about my 'normal' existence, so different from the weirdos that subject themselves to 24 hour surveillance and jungle creature cuisine, purely for my entertainment.

3. My nasty road-rage neighbour. Who shouted at me in front of my daughter and made me shake in my boots. Luckily, Mr H sorted him out in a very middle class kind of way. Apparently my description of said neighbour (tall, scary, shouty etc) confused Mr H when he was confronted with a short, skinny, very gay and very scare-free little man. But he did scare me and it wasn't my fault. Bloody men drivers.

4. Chickenpox. M is currently on day 5 of quarantine and I'm climbing the walls. Apart from the 4 hourly painful ritual of trying to apply calamine lotion to a very stroppy and unwilling patient, it's made me realise that without the interaction of other life-form, my world at home is incredibly boring. There are only so many hours of a Peppa Pig DVD that one person can consume. Next time I moan about having to go out just for a pint of milk, I will kick myself. Oh to be free right now.

5. My milk allergy. Imagine a world without cheese. And no, for the last time, it's not lactose intolerance. The former makes my lips/tongue swell and brings me out in hives which last for days. The latter, at worse, gives someone the shits. Enough said.

6. Bullies at work. I've experienced a couple myself and someone I know is going through a similar experience. It's hideous. To all you bullies out there...grow some proper bollocks and be thoroughly ashamed of yourselves.

7. My neighbour's tree. Cut it down please. Despite last weeks temperatures reaching a respectable 22 degrees, we experienced near-Artic conditions whilst bbq'ing, due to being overshadowed by the overgrown sprawling mess next door.

8. 2.4 children. When you get together with someone, people ask when you're getting married. When you get married, people ask when you're having children. When you have children, people ask when you're having more. As if life wasn't hard enough without having people constantly making you feel like you're underachieving at every stage. For the record, I'm not getting married and I'm not having any more children. At the moment.

9. Fat fighters. This morning I received a leaflet direct from my Weightwatchers leader. It came to my door. The reason being that I have skipped a few weigh and shame sessions and she wanted to reassure me that she was there for me. Obviously, if someone doesn't turn up to be weighed in public, it's because they have probably chucked the diet out of the window, put on weight and therefore don't want to be shamed. I don't need her reassurance. I need a tummy tuck. Oh, and some of that gaffer tape.

And finally...to reiterate my point above about Freedom Of Blogs...

10. People who interfere. Your opinion is rarely wanted or needed. So Back Off.

Now that felt good.

Friends For Life

"Let us be grateful to people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom"

- Marcel Proust

Last night, I had supper with my school friends in a fabulous restaurant called Gilgamesh, in Camden. I knew I'd had a great night as I got that fidgety feeling on the train home and couldn't wait to get back and tell Mr H all about it.

These lovely girls have been a part of my life for the last 20 years and between us we've shared tears of laughter/joy and supported each other through life's many ups and downs. We try to get together as often as possible but realistically, we never manage more than 2-3 meet ups per year. Some of us are married, some of us are mothers, some of us are single and one lady in particular has the most enviable jet-setting lifestyle that takes her to far flung places, that we sit and stare, lapping up every word when she describes her latest adventures.

The dynamics of the group are the same as when we were 15. There's the glamorous one, the clever one, the loud one, the organised one, the quiet-takes-it-all-in one and so one. Being with them last night was like taking a trip back in time, back to the school days, back to the class room. It only takes 10 mins of all being back together before the noise levels get out of hand, the gossiping is in full flow and you forget that it was 6 months since you'd last seen them (when it feels like only yesterday).

These girls are part of me, part of my make up, part of my life story. We'll still be putting the world to rights, discussing men, careers (and more children) over glasses of plonk, well into our 50's. And I never want it or them to change.

Enough Is Enough

When is it acceptable to firmly put your foot down with a man and refuse to believe that he is capable of carrying out any DIY task, without trampling on his ego and risking an almighty strop, big enough to rival that of your 3 year old daughter? I only ask because I have had to do exactly that with Mr H. I don't enjoy telling him that I'd rather hand over our well earned cash to someone who waves a business card under my nose and tells me that he has letters after his name to prove that he's a plumbing/electricity/carpentry expert.

But after this week, I think it's going to be very easy to wave my trump card, accept professional help and say 'Enough Is Enough!'.

Picture the scene...10 months ago, a lovely, shiny, new washing machine arrived on our doorstep, accompanied by an equally lovely young gentleman who had come to install it. The warning bells should have been ringing very loudly when I overheard Mr H say rather jovially, 'oh don't worry old chap, I can look after that', at which point, the lovely, capable gentleman from Hotpoint waved goodbye, never to be seen again (whilst no doubt thinking how wonderful it was to be clocking off early).

Now picture the scene 2 months ago. We'd suspected that there was a damp problem in the house when the freshly painted white walls started bubbling and producing a texture not dissimilar to that horrid 70's wallpaper effect. 'Don't worry, darling', exclaimed Mr H in his most reassuring voice. 'It must be the flat roof!'. And so followed many a trip to our local DIY store to buy, amongst other things, tar and paintbrushes. As a very incapable female who has no desire to paint walls, mow lawn or grout bathroom tiles, I happily entrusted the 'capable' man of the house and thought nothing more.

If I still have your attention, just picture the scene 1 week ago. My very capable girlfriend, Mrs G (more on her another time, every woman should have a friend like her), spotted the now rampant and taking-over-the-house-kind-of damp and wondered why we'd done nothing about our leaking washing machine, as it was OBVIOUS TO HER that it was the source of our problem. I guess that the additional clues - split skirting boards, cracked door frames and damp kitchen floor tiles would also have been an indication that the problem had nothing to do with the roof, but as I've said before, I am in no way a house expert and therefore not qualified to comment.

Roll forward to 3 days ago, when a very lovely chap from our buildings insurance company paid a visit, only to declare that the industrial heaters would have to be installed for 3 weeks and that the kitchen tiles would have to be pulled up to allow the concrete to dry out, for a further 5 weeks.

Now I'm a great believer in giving people a second chance but I also insist that people admit when they don't know what they're doing and/or they've cocked up. Mr H has since confessed to not knowing very much at all about plumbing (??!!) and has promised to stick to his chosen field of expertise - WOODWORK! After a panicky email to the MIL to double-check her son's references, I was informed that I should not be doubting him because he did get an 'A' in GCSE Woodwork after all. Correct me if I'm wrong, but that takes motherly love to a whole new level. Hmph.

Rewind Here We Come

Amidst the excitement of starting up this blog, I forgot about the one thing that has literally been keeping me awake this week.

Bought tickets to the 80's Rewind Festival - 21st to 23rd August, Henley On Thames. It's going to be extraordinarily good. The line up so far includes Kim Wilde, Go West, Heaven 17, Belinda Carlisle and Nik Kershaw, to name a few. I'm campaigning for Bucks Fizz and Kajagoogoo to make an appearance - 2009 is after all their comeback year...

We're going to be 'glamping' with friends, ie. we've paid for someone else to lug the tent, erect it, pump up the airbeds and provide fresh, new sleeping bags. Come on, this is Henley, for Gods Sake!

With my iTunes account set up, I then managed to spend over £40 in under 30 mins downloading favourite 80's tracks. Who on earth designed a website that takes your money with just one 'click'....talk about praying on the innocent and naive...still, I have the best compilation ever and am currently in the process of downloading lyrics. Preparation is key...

Damn You, Dominos

It started off with a little nibble, then turned into a savage destruction of last nights leftover Dominos pizza, which I really promised I would throw away, and then kept on the pretence that Mr H would need it for his lunch today. Then he totally screwed up my plan by 1) not eating it and 2) going out tonight with the boys. Which could only mean one thing. Home alone with a pizza, whispering my name AKA Diet Disaster. How is it humanly possible that I could eat my entire weeks' Weightwatchers points in the course of 2 days. Oh Buggeration.

Calling all WINOS

As previously mentioned, Mrs C has started her own blog and it's utterly fabulous - a highly amusing read and full of interesting life observations. Check out the link on this blog to hers...Six Seconds of Sanity. I won't steal her thunder or plagiarise her text but I will mention a new group called WINOS - Women In Need...Of Something - which Mrs C founded and of which I am a member. The concept is simple. You get a group of like-minded women together who have something more to offer than the mother role, housewife role, dutiful wife role and general dogsbody role. You arrange regular get-togethers with these like-minded folk and you do stuff that is alien to your day-to-day existence. Eg. laugh-yoga, sketching classes and so on.

We could have all signed up to the local branch of WI but I couldn't find anything on their website about voluntary excessive alcohol consumption at meetings. Pah.

Weigh & Shame

I have been attending Weightwatchers meetings for the last couple of months in a bid to lose my baby weight. Actually, if my daughter has just turned 3 and I am still carrying around the extra said baby weight, technically it's not baby weight at all. It's a food baby. One that I have lovingly invested in over time and have grown quite attached to.

My first WW meeting was simple enough. Now I'm by no means the heaviest girl in Surrey but apparently I could do with losing at least 10% of my total body weight. I was weighed and shamed, ie. someone stands in front of you and tells you very honestly, exactly how much you weigh. All very black and white. Designed to shock you. Anyway, the lovely group leader sat me down, inspired me with her before/after photos and then sent me on my merry way to log everything that passed through my lips for the next week. Easy peasy, or so I thought.

It's taken me over 2 months to lose about 9lbs. It would have been more but I have yo-yo'd up and down the scale - 2lbs loss, 2lbs gain, 1lb loss and so on. I don't need Weightwatchers. I need someone to wire my jaw. I also need my delightful boyfriend to stop being my Feeder.

It's very annoying to watch a 6ft 1 male eat his body weight in food one evening and wake up the next morning not an ounce heavier. I only have to sniff chocolate in my sleep to put on half a stone.

Go on...treat yourself

http://www.suzannah.com/

I was recently forwarded a link to the sublime fashion website that is www.suzannah.com. The girl is a genius. We first met when she was about 18 (at the time she was my big bro's girlfriend) and I thought she was pretty cool then. Through the power of Facebook, we caught up 17 years later and now I'm pleased to hear that her dream of owning her own fashion label has come true. If you have a special occasion or simply just love clothes and want to feel like a princess, check out her site. You won't be disappointed...happy shopping x