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

Shoes Glorious Shoes

I am known for my love of good shoes. Flats, mid-heels and sky-scraper 'oh god i can't live without them' towering dangerously-heels.

My first pair of really incredible shoes was bought back in 2005 - a pair of Gina Silver Mist Campari stilettos - I blew my entire summer bonus on them and bought them for a friend's wedding in Prague. No one told me about the cobbles though. I lasted 5 mins teetering around precariously before I had to resort to my back up diamante flats from Matches (which shredded my feet to pieces like a cheese grater, incidently). Suffering aside though, I still have the Ginas and occassionally get them out of the box, stare at them, admire the sparkles and pray for the day that Mr H finally takes (drives) me somewhere worthy of those glamorous feet candy.

Unfortunately, Motherhood and heels do not go well together. I have spent the last 3 years in very boring flats, namely Birkenstocks and Converse. However, I recently turned 35, had an early mid-life crisis and blew my lighting budget for the house on 3 pairs of amazing Kurt Geiger evening shoes. It may still be dimly lit in my front room but hell, do my feet look good.

The Virgin Blog

Inspired by my good friend Mrs C, this is my first entry into the world of Blogging. It's only taken me 5 months to get off my bottom and write it. There...easy peasy. I don't know what all the fuss was about.

I have nothing in particular that I want to write about but being blogged up is seemingly moving myself into the new technology times. The fact that I only discovered iTunes last week perhaps speaks volumes....