Tuesday, 8 August 2017

The Curious incident of the dog in Padstow.

The Curious incident of the Dog in Padstow.

I'm back. After a 3 weeks leave of absence I'm back in the blogosphere, coming at ya with average to middling tales of parenting wins and losses. Cornwall was ruddy awesome. By jingo, by crikey we needed that holiday. A week by the sea, fresh air, good food and the happiest toddler you ever did see. Pure bliss.
Then you have to come home. A car full of sand, shed loads of washing and life. We came back to my Grandad's funeral. My Mum did an amazing job and gave him the dignified send off he deserved. 
 We also had to put up a shed (still married after that), go to the tip and I had to go back to work. I love my job but I have an unwritten rule that, ‘Thou shalt never work he day after a holiday.’ But, being self employed and a little cash strapped after holiday I took the work. I worked most of that week with los of travel thrown in too. By the time the weekend came round I was comatosed. 

 Now, we three had actually slept on holibobs. A heady mixture of a buggered routine, the odd late night, she's loads of exercise and lung fulls of Cornish sea air meant our little girl slept. All frickin night, almost every night. It was SHamazing!! Then we came home, she got constipation and she had to go back into a routine. Mummy also went back to work. The sleep went out the window for a week. It was the shittest week of sleep we've had in a while. However, now she's had a poo and she's back in the swing of things he sleeping has started up again. It's really good isn’t it? 
The holiday was rally fab but it threw up some new challenges. My gal is a year older. She's bigger, bolder, with new opinions. Strong ones. With this new found voice come tantrums. Big ones. Let me set the scene: 
The sun is shining in a cloudless blue sky over Padstow. There is enough blue sky to make a sailor a pair of trousers. Seagulls are calling to each other across the harbour. We'd managed to get a parking space and Mummy had found a place to get a flat white. All was calm. We'd also got a table at Rick Stein’s cafe . This was the idyllic scene suddenly shattered because……
SHE DIDN’T WANT TO GO IN THE PRAM. All
Hell broke lose. It took two parents with some smooth WWF moves (wrestling not the organisation with the panda) to get our beloved strapped in whilst she was screaming and frothing at the mouth. This was the Paddy in Padstow. 
I did the honourable thing and ran away shouting” You're not mine. You're not mine.”, whilst my husband (sporting a pink short. Strong look) pushed our daughter through the bustling streets of Padstow. One man said, “I’d be screaming if my Dad was wearing pink shorts”. Then we were stopped by two well- meaning ladies win two well-meaning small dogs. I cheated to the older one (the lady not the dog). She did lots of sympathetic nodding and said “it's difficult isn't it when they can't express themselves.”

I think she’d expressed herself quite clearly to the good people do Padstow, leaving them under no illusions that she had been placed in her stroller against her will. The other lady chatted to my pink beshorted husband. Next thing I know, my little one has a a small dog on her lap. The shock of it made her stop howling because the dogs claws were digging into her leg. The well-meaning lady looked at her and said, “My son has autism too and he finds the dog a very calming influence.” 
I didn't know where to look. I didn't know whether to be grateful, horrified or offended. Instead we both got the giggles moved away apace. I mean she has a penchant for citrus fruit and likes to wrap them up in a flannel and pretend their a baby but…
Hey, I'll keep an eye. (Wink wink emoji). 



 So, now we're back I am on operation “Remove Mum bum and tum”. Seen the photographic evidence of me in shorts and the evidence is conclusive, filter or no. I need to start exercising again. The Weight Watchers subscription has been paid for, the Couch to 5k app installed and the scales dusted off. I'm ready to go. Well, I was suppose to start last night but small had constipation again so was up most of the night but tonight is the night. Lycra and a shall be donned. I will keep you abreast of my journey. I'm going to need a lot encouragement and rocket up my arse but I am determined. FIRM BUMS NOT CREAM BUNS!

Wednesday, 12 July 2017

Adieu

When you have children your world changes. For the better, I might add. They enrich your life and fill it with moments and adventures that you never imagined. Your days are full. There is a routine and, especially when they are very small, their needs are great. It is all consuming but I personally, wouldn’t change it for the world.
 Then suddenly, something happens in your life. A house sale, a house sale falling through or in my case, sickness and a death in the family. Suddenly, you have to fit this routine into an alien situation. I first experienced it when my dear Dad became terminally ill. We were told that there was nothing more that could be done. He was gone within 3 weeks. We dropped everything: the viewings of our flat had to go on hold, work cancelled, all of the baby stuff we had hidden in our car for viewings was dumped in our hallway. With our 8 month old baby in tow, we literally filled bags with stuff and ran out of the door. I, in the end moved up to my Dad’s in Derbyshire for 3 weeks. My husband had to go back to work during this time so I was left to look after my girl and be there for my Dad on my own. I found it very difficult to spend enough time with him as my baby needed me. I was still breastfeeding at the time. She was amazing. I couldn’t have got through it without her. That smile and that giggle got us through and was a comfort to us all.

 We were all with my Dad when he died. It was lovely having such new life in a room full of sadness and grief. Dad passed away at 6:30pm. I realised that I had to get on and do bath and bed. So, life started up again. When she was asleep, I rang the funeral directors and had a good cry. Needless to say, my daughter didn’t stay asleep so she was there when Dad was taken away. I bid him adieu with my little girl in my arms.

Fast forward nearly 18 months and we are going through a similar situation but with my Grandad. At 97, he is dying of Prostate Cancer and a piece of Shrapnel from the 2nd World War, has shifted and ulcerated his leg. It really is very cruel. We have watched him deteriorate and it all came to a head last week. Only this time, my daughter is 2. She walks, talks, needs proper meals and one decent sleep during the day. She is also becoming increasingly emotionally aware so one is a little more hesitant about taking her into certain situations. Luckily, Grandad was placed in a hospice. A wonderful place of peace and tranquility, with truly amazing nursing staff who not only care for him but the family around him. I only wish that we had had this for my Dad. Mum rang me on Monday and said that I should see Grandad sooner rather than later as his condition had deteriorated somewhat. We decided to go yesterday, and take our daughter. All three of us went. We got to say goodbye even though he was semi conscious, and spent precious time with him. We set up camp in the family room and spent the day there going in and out of his ward and looking out for Spike the cat who sleeps on the patient’s beds. My daughter was very taken with Spike.

 I didn’t really think about where I was taking her. It seemed wholly appropriate. And she was brilliant. As my husband said, “She made a lot of people smile today.” In a place of sadness, a place where people go for respite, where people go to die, a little girl in a navy party dress and party shoes (her choice), collecting snail’s shells and pebbles brought a little bit of sunshine to many. I can not thank the staff at St. Catherine’s Hospice, Crawley enough for the care that they have provided for my Grandad. Somehow he is still battling but he should be at peace either tonight or if there is someone looking down on him, even as I write this I hope he has been released from his anguish. Cancer is a long, drawn out and painful death even with the best palliative care. The nursing staff carry out their duties with such professionalism and dignity. I honestly don’t know how they do it.

 I have said my goodbyes. I shall not see my Grandad again. It was terribly sad. I sat there holding his hand thinking, ’What a life.’ This is a man that fought in the second world war, survived two injuries and the two year journey to get back to the UK. He survived three nights lying on the slopes of Monte Casino, having been shot in the leg. He lay there, able to hear the German line. He shouted out “Hilfe”, “Help!” in German, which he had learnt at school and this saved his life. They took him into their medical tent, patched him up and took him to an Italian hospital. The theatre of war is a very different place and I very much doubt that such humanity would prevail amongst enemies nowadays.
I know that my Grandfather will leave this world having lived life. He has seen it at its worst but he has also experienced some wonderful things and seen its beauty. Wherever he ends up in the next chapter, I know that he will truly be at peace. The world will have lost a true gentleman. I was privileged to have known him and my daughter was so lucky to have had a Great Grandad. In the words of Mr. Shakespeare,

‘He was a man, take him for all in all. I shall not look upon his like again.’

Tuesday, 4 July 2017

Never be too smug.



  
 You know, it was the only the other day that I was thinking how nice it was that the summer has now arrived and we have walked out of the fog of winter bugs. We have moved away from constant runny noses, pockets filled with old tissues that have dabbed a small pair of nostrils so many times that it has started to disintegrate and make tissue snow. We have moved away from hacking coughs that keep small people up all night and the consumption of Calpol has gone down. I was thinking, when my small one is well she sleeps, eats and is happy and joy to look after. Stupid cow. Ofcourse, reflecting on all of this and being slightly smug about it has really bitten me on the arse. I think about 24 hours later my daughter woke up in the middle of the night with a raging temperature. Myself and my husband thought nothing of it and gave her some Nurofen which seemed to work and packed her off to her lovely childminder the following day. Luckily, she was only doing a half day and it happened to be during that ruddy heatwave. I picked her up, popped her down for a nap and put a wash on. Nearly two hours later she woke up and was panting, hot as the frickin sun and very distressed.
 We had workmen in and I had an electrician asking me questions at the time, as I watched my daughter’s temperature rocket above 39 and checking her mottled skin. I have the guidelines for Sepsis on my phone and I glanced down the list of symptoms. You don’t mess around with something like that so I texted my lovely doctor friend and she said get her checked out, go with your instinct. Great advice. Let’s go to A&E. I went into coping, mum mode. Clear head, pack a bag, leave keys for the electrician, take nappies, change of clothes, water, a blanket just in case we have to stay in and some snacks. I called my husband’s school and off we went. Me trying to stay calm with a very unhappy little lady in the car seat holding a shopping basket with a thermometer in it. That’s what she wanted to take.( Atleast, it wasn’t a piece of citrus fruit. Her latest obsession. Hold a piece of citrus fruit, wrap it in a flannel and pretend it’s a baby. I’m not concerned. Not worried in the slightest..) Got small one, paraphernalia and stroller out of the car, checked in and were sent straight through to the Paediatric A&E. Now, this happens to be air conditioned and on the hottest day of the year it was actually a damn good place to be.

 We set up in a corner and my little girl pottered around in a nappy and her sandals. I laid it on a bit thick about the breathing and temperature so we were seen pretty quickly. About 30 mins later a nurse came up to us and told me that they were worried about my daughter’s heart rate. Just what you want to hear. I felt even sicker than when I took her in. They then presented me with a sample pot for my daughter to wee in as they needed a urine sample. Ha bloody ha. Trying to get a urine sample from a two year old that isn’t potty trained is nigh impossible. Eventually they gave me a bowl and I followed my nappyless daughter around like Zayn Malek’s PA for about two hours trying to catch a wee. I won’t bore you with anymore but she basically had a throat infection and it made her rather unwell. She also got a post-fever rash. My husband lifted her top one morning to be faced with a measles type rash all over her torso. Initially you lose your shit and then you calm down and realise that she always gets one after being ill.  I was really worried about her. She didn’t want to eat, play or sadly, sleep.  Oh, sleep. You cruel mistress. I was getting used to you but now you have fluttered away into the ether like my bank balance after a good old session on the ASOS sale. Paw patrol was back on (5th bar, right hand) and my sleep went down to about 3/4 broken hours for an entire week. The consumption of biscuits and cheese went up three-fold and that grey looking skin with wrinkles and flecks of grey sticking out of my hair came back. Good look, lady. Good look. I’ve also been donning a lot of “casual” wear ie. a jersey separate or two to cover up my sagging legs and arse as jogging on such little sleep was out of the question. It’s quite astonishing at how quickly one’s standards can go downhill. I think if I ever had anymore children I’d be a onesie Mum and turn up at the school gates in a pair of Faux Uggs from Primark and my pyjamas.

 Anyway, two weeks has past and I think, so has the sickness storm. It has taught me to not even think about how well my child is and how lucky we are that we haven’t had chicken pox yet (it’s in our area so she’s bound to get it next week). Never be a smug Mum. Just take everyday as it comes and be very thankful for it. I’m thankful if I now get small one into bed without being kicked in the chest at nappy time. With illness has come a new phase of behaviour. This new model of my daughter comes with added tantrums, 15% more fury and 100 more decibels of screaming. She’s definitely been “upgraded”. My smugness, however, is going to stay in the basics range. I’ll go own brand I think. Don’t want to jinx anything now do I?

Friday, 30 June 2017

You know you're a parent when...

Your once pristine car now looks like the bottom of a packet of Organix Carrot Stix.
You feel tired when you wake up.
You feel tired even after two strong flat whites.
You notice on your way to work that the black top you are wearing has two snail trail marks down the front.
Your friend at work notices that on the same top you have toothpaste and yogurt ingrained on your right shoulder.
You turn your car on and the first thing to play is Wheels on the bus from the Cbeebies CD.
You know the running order of the Cbeebies CD.
You can retrieve a half eaten rice cake and pass back a beaker of water to the car seat, all whilst driving.
You know all of the words to the Frozen soundtrack.
You wear a lot of flat shoes because of all of the running you have to do, to stop your child falling to certain death.
Your back aches if you wear high heels. Even a Cuban is problematic for the old sciatica.
You use more concealer than you have done in your entire life.
You are pissed after two glasses of wine.
You are asleep after three glasses of wine.
Getting into bed after 11pm is torture.
You watch a lot of Love Island and actually have a conversation with your husband about what’s going on like it’s really important.
You rush to get the washing up done because Love Island is about to start.
You pause Love Island to go to the loo just in case you miss something important.
You have lost the ability to read a book.
You now listen to audiobooks instead of having sex.
When you get on the train, tube or bus you always look for a seat.
When you go to restaurants and they have baby changing facilities and high chairs you think, “Gosh, that’s good,” and make a mental note.
You’ve started looking at the clothes in Cos as you can’t be bothered to lose weight anymore.
You will never wear a bikini again and purchased a Mumsie cossie from Sainsbury’s with tummy panel, in black.
You will never wear shorts again as your once show stopping legs have varicose veins and look like an old stilton.
The bottom of your handbag has more shit in it than it would normally have. Shit may include plasters, hair clips retrieved from the floor of the car, a stray nappy and half a cereal bar.
You use wet wipes for everything.
You wet the corner of a napkin and wipe your child’s face even though you swore you would never do this.
Your Tivo box is filled with daily recordings of ‘Something Special’.
You see the appeal of Justin Fletcher (even though we’re all questioning it.)
You have the super hero power of being able to hold a hundred things in one hand whilst holding a child in the other. Items might include your handbag, their day bag, a half drunk juice carton, a used wet wipe, house keys and a shoe plus the mid week top-up shop.
Thinking that a child that has eaten breakfast is a breakthrough and you silently congratulate yourself.
You can’t watch anything on TV about kids being upset, hurt, lost, born without balling your eyes out and looking like Kung Fu panda at the end of it. (Mascara round your eyes, not fat from all of the crisps you’ve eaten.)
You make an ‘Ah’, sound when you sit down in a comfy seat and have a cup of tea.
You buy a pair of silver Superga trainers as they are comfortable, flat, waterproof but the same time, silver so a little bit smart and sexy.
You’ll eat regurgitated food that your child has rejected without batting an eyelid.
You will actually remove a poo from their nappy with your bare hand (wrapped in a wet wipe) to save a nappy and time.
You find the melody of Ewan the dream sheep rather relaxing.
You have lost the ability to sleep in the day no matter how frickin knackered you are.
You are secretly quite competitive and proud when your child constructs a sentence of more than four words infront of your friends.
You spend a lot of time watching your child sleep because they are beautiful.
Your decking is covered in stones and pebbles as your daughter is Makka Pakka’s biggest fan.
You know all of the words to the intro of In The Night Garden.
You use the television as a bargaining tool and a vehicle with which to get some things done but feel guilty about it at the same time.
You get a feeling into the pit of your stomach when they fall over and you hold them so tightly.
You can’t eat when they’re ill.
You have rekindled your love of Play Doh.
You have rekindled your love of Duplo.
You save train tickets because they love a train.
You will willingly go to the station and watch the trains.
You order something called a babycinno.
You won’t go into the pub unless they have a kid’s menu.
You go out to the pub with friends and peruse the kids menu whilst ordering Prosecco at the bar and think “Gosh, that’s good,” and make a mental note…
You don’t drink as much Prosecco.



Wednesday, 21 June 2017

HMS Tena Lady.

 She’s back! Well, a slightly rotund sweaty version but the mojo has returned. The ruddy molar isn’t quite through yet but sleep has been had. I might even have got more than 6 hours in a row. Yeah! Boom. Back of the net! I’ve even been jogging. I know? Jogging. That’s what yummy Mummy’s from South West London do, wearing really nice gear from Sweaty Betty and with very pert yoga bums. I am a very different type of jogger. Pair of old black leggings. Preferably ones without small one’s toothpaste all over them and a complete crutch sans holes. My Lionel Richie t-shirt and a pair of very comfortable M&S trainers and I have more of a ‘Yoda’ bum. I look quite the Mum about town. I finish off this look with a crimson visage and an air of “get out of my way, I’m about to die” about me. But hey, I went for a run last night and that was hot. I mean I was moist and not in a good way. I had to pass our neighbour and had that awkward moment of pausing my music and making some out of breath pleasantry as he watched my flabby arse bouncing around into the distance. I have to have my music up pretty loud to cancel out the sounds of my laboured breathing. I’m sure running used to be easier. I’m about 5 runs in now but in my twenties, I’d have been back up to fitness. Now, each run is tough. I’m carrying extra saddle bags, bigger boobs, fatigue and a very dodgy pelvic floor. It feels like when you walk over the trap door outside a pub. You know; unsafe. Could let you down at any moment. Rattly.



 Yes, the pelvic floor. I was very good about the old Kegel exercises before and after the bubs. I would do them anywhere and anytime. On the train, on the bus, watching Netflix and my eyebrows always seemed to rise as I did them. All seemed ship shape and dandy until I had the cough from hell at the beginning of the year. It went on for five months and that pretty much blew out my hull, so to speak. It’s got worse and any ideas of grandeur of jumpy jumpy on a trampoline are but a pipe dream. If I need a wee I have to go straight away, otherwise there’s potential gusset failure. That’ll teach me for taking the piss out of the Tena Lady ads (no pun intended). I have actually considered investing in them. There are certain exercises on my ‘Davina- Fit in 15’ DVD that are now out of the question. What has become of me. I’m trying to do the Kegel’s now, without my eyebrows rising. Try it. It’s really difficult.


 Anyway, enough talk of pissing oneself. Let’s move onto the average to middling parenting that you haven’t read about for a week. Well, it’s going ok. She’s just at a gorgeous age. Last week work was pretty quiet, hence lack of post as I hardly had any free time. She’s just awesome. What can I say? I miss her more and more when I do have to go to work. We have great fun when we’re together. We go swimming and she does her Kung Fu Panda kick in the water and she’s started baby ballet. Sweet mother of pearl. It’s the cutest darn thing you’ve ever seen. After the taster session she was hooked. Granny has now bought her a tutu and leotard so she looks the part. Good toes, naughty toes are practiced in the car and I am constantly followed by a little girl doing pointy toes around the sofa. The older she gets, the more fun we have. She actually makes me laugh. I’m not going to lie. When parents used to say that to me I thought it was pretty wanky. Peep Show makes me laugh. Victoria Wood makes me laugh. How the hell could a toddler be funny? But they are. I think I’ve mentioned it before but my daughter can be an utter prat and genuinely funny. Recently, she’s got into carrying a piece of fruit. Normally an orange around with her. It goes everywhere. She’s currently having a nap and it’s in the cot with her. The other day she’d wrapped it up in a flannel and was cradling it like a baby. I walked into the living room yesterday and she was trying to give it milk. Should I be worried? When asked at her 27 month review, “Do you have any concerns?” I shall keep quiet. Maybe somewhere deep in our lineage there is a long line of green grocers. Who knows? Maybe she’ll change her surname to DelMonte by deed poll one day and have a penchant for a linen suit. Whatever she becomes, I shall love her just the same. Except maybe a butcher. Being a vegetarian I would struggle with that. I’d better start hiding my husbands fillet steak, just in case it gets wrapped in a tea towel a popped in the pram. Anyway, I’m off to do my Kegel’s. This HMS Mutha doesn’t want a leaky hull. 

Monday, 5 June 2017

London is the place for me.

I’ve lost my mojo. It went about 3 weeks ago. My funny seems to have gone and everything seems to have been a bit more difficult than it usually is. I wake up tired and go to bed tired. I’m back to zero battery life and a bad attitude. Might have a little something to do with the fact that the last tooth is coming through and my small person has become rather Mummy orientated. She tries everything to keep me in the room at night. “Mummy lie down. Mummy blanket. Mummy hug. Mummy pink water bottle. Mummy Calpol.” It means that bedtime is drawn out and I’m not sitting down sometimes until gone 8:30. The evening just goes. Then after you factor in an episode of Versailles and a House of Cards, it’s pretty sodding late for someone that has a small, furry alarm clock that can go off anytime between 5:45 and 6:15.



 This dip in normal service has also coincided with some horrendous atrocities in my beloved city, the place I call home: London. I work in the centre of London a lot. I travel by train, go to busy stations, travel on the underground, walk through places like Trafalgar Square, go drinking by the river. I have never given it a second thought. But my experience of late has been very different. Instead of marching through my city without a care, tutting and sucking my teeth at Tourists that walk 5 abreast across the cocking pavement (5 across. Come on people!!), and elbowing TEFL students and their orange rucksacks out of the way, I am walking down back streets to avoid crowded areas, I am getting out of mainline stations quickly so I’m not caught up in the throng. I’m also having terrible thoughts. What if something happened to me? What if I didn’t come home one night? I had a dreadful realisation the other day that I need to do my will to make sure my daughter is taken care off. That’s not the sort of thing I want to be thinking about on my morning commute. I am a born worrier and all of this has just exacerbated my worrying tendencies. I am still going about my business and I won’t stop enjoying my city but I am seeing it in a different way. The London Bridge attack really rattled me. It’s where myself and my husband used to live, down the road in fact. We used to go out in Borough Market and the whole area was part of our lives for over 10 years. It was an absolutely amazing place to live. Friendly, vibrant, eclectic, fascinating. I know those streets so well, the bars and pubs, restaurants, places of historical interest, the cobbled back streets and the beautiful walks along the river. I feel sick to my stomach that so many innocent people, enjoying a care free evening out in such a great place were murdered, injured or witness to some horrific acts. My heart goes out to them.





 If I was not a parent I would be worried. Now, I have a two year old, with her whole life ahead of her I am really worried. I took her into Soho last week for a private showing of the new Fireman Sam Movie that I happen to be in. My husband came too as it was half term. We had such a magical day. She went on a train. She met Fireman Sam; both the voice and some poor sod stuck in a body suit. She got a phallic looking balloon flower which was bitten into on the journey home and burst in her face. And then to top it all off she got a Fireman Sam tote bag with Mummy’s character on the front and a toy and stickers inside. What more could a toddler want. Initially I was really scared of taking her into town but once we were there it was fine. I relaxed. We walked back to the station over Waterloo Bridge and looked at my favourite view. Then Saturday night happened. Would I walk across that bridge with her now? I’d do it but probably walking very quickly and constantly looking around me. It feels utterly ridiculous me thinking like this and I know that by doing that I am playing into the perpetrators hands but from now on, when I take my daughter into town I will be on full alert.






 But my daughter already loves her city. Her favourite book is ‘Hello London!’. She loves Tower Bridge and the Queen and her palace and thinks the river is well exciting. When a double decker bus drives past there is incessant waving and trains are the best thing ever. When we came home from our trip last week she started singing one of the songs from the Paddington Bear film: London is the place for me. That’s my girl! Yes, it ruddy well is. It’s an amazing place to live. It’s been my home for over 20 years. It’s where I started my career, I met my husband, met most of my friends, bought my first house and had my daughter. Yes, I’m scared and I would urge anyone to be more careful when out on their daily business and by God, I certainly will be. But this is where I work and where I live and I ain’t going anywhere. If it’s good enough for Paddington, it’s good enough for me.


Monday, 29 May 2017

Nice day for a lolly.

Summer has landed! For one week only. Get yer lallies out and reach for the flip flops and the fake tan. I have not got me lallies out (my legs) but I have applied a coating of Dove (gone for dark this year) and the Haviana’s have been taken out of moth balls. Hot weather always worries me. I enjoy it if I’m on holiday and I can lie on a beach in a bikini and not worry about what I’m going to wear for my commute. I have done a quick pit stop to H&M to purchase yet another baggy t-shirt to cover up my Malbec gut and my bingo wings. I have had to cancel my gym membership as I’m just not getting the time to get in there and sweat my squidgey arse off. My husband actually said, “I told you so, “ last night but luckily for him he left the room before I could throw a saucepan at his head. However, I am committed to getting fit again so I am donning the lycra and jogging. Yes, jogging. It sounds so simple but…then you have to actually jog. I decided to walk to the park and start in the park under the cover of trees and deer. Unfortunately, I started a bit late so it was hot as hell. I thought I was going to die the first 2 minutes and then I re-routed and found a concrete path that went downhill. Result. I did ok. It was fine until I had to go across grass and I gave myself a target of 22 minutes. I tried to “sprint” (ie jog faster) to a log and then I stopped my stop watch and sat on the log and tried not to vomit. I have to say, I thought that I was fitter than that. 25 mins on treadmill two weeks ago was doable. My heavy breathing and laboured running style was a disappointment, I ain’t gonna lie.

 Hot weather with small children is also a worry, especially when your child is on the ginger spectrum and a pale Janet to boot. The first day of the heat wave I had a day off so we decided to get out of the flat and go for a walk to get Dishwasher tablets and ice lollies cos that’s how we roll. Off we went. I stupidly allowed the toy buggy to come with us. School girl error. You just know that as you set off that you will end up carrying it, plus child, plus other paraphernalia that comes with child. Also chuck in 25 degrees of heat and you have your workout right there. We went to our lovely local Supermarket and bought Dishwasher tablets (been meaning to get them for about a week and keep forgetting) and we also bought a four pack of lollies. Mission accomplished. We slowly made our way to the terraced gardens (get us) and sat down on a bench. Bliss.  




 Sun, my beautiful little girl and an ice lolly that contains a sprinkling of E numbers. There we sat looking at the view and spotting Jackdaws, Pigeons and Parakeets (she’s a budding young ornithologist). A mother and her daughter sat on the bench next to us. My daughter waved and I thought, “Well, we’ve got a pack of four. Let’s share our wares with our neighbours.” So, I offered a lolly to the little girl, via the Mum obvs. I was told, “No thankyou. I am trying to promote healthy eating in my daughter.” Well, that’s me told then. I was so proud of my little one. A little bit of sugar in the system and she was off: waving, talking at these lovely folk and showing them her lolly with pride, shouting out ,”Lolly” like only a person with a bloodstream filled with E numbers can. Go kid. I love you. You’re frickin awesome. You know where it’s at. Sometimes we have treats but most of the time you have fruit, veg and homemade goodness. But when it’s nearly 30 feckin degrees you can have a sodding lolly. The kid of this Mum looked seriously pissed off as she sat there watching my cool little dude cooling down with a lolly as she had to tackle her tangerine. So off we trotted home for a KFC mega bucket whilst I got shit faced on white lightning. (Only joking. Don’t you know I’m trying to instill healthy eating and a feeling of superiority into my daughter. Wink emoji)




 So, during this wonderful heat wave, I had a glorious day off organised. Small person was going to her brilliant childminder and I had planned a day of open air jogging, cleaning, cooking and sorting out kiddos clothes as we are running out of space. She has such a vast wardrobe we could totes go walk-in on it. Off we drove. I dropped off small one. No probs and then popped to the garage to fill up. With Diesel. Or that’s what I thought. I had to fill up from the wrong side which meant doing that embarrassing tug of the pump round to the other side of ones motoring car. About £4.75 had gone in when I suddenly looked at the colour of the pump. Green. Cocking green. Unleaded was flooding into my Hyundai Diesel. I shouted out a loud expletive beginning with ‘F’ and put my head in my hands saying, “shit it” on repeat. It was such a long, tedious morning after that, that I won’t bore you with the deets but it cost me over £200, three hours of my life and some pretty embarrassed looks as I hunkered on down at the petrol station in the heat and wait for the AA fuel technician to come and rescue me. So the moral of this tale is: Check before you pump. Just do it. Use me as an example of a Class A prat and think of me next time you go to the garage. You will never get that valuable time back and you won’t be able to spend that £200 on ASOS. True dat.

Monday, 22 May 2017

The Daily Fish Finger.

Copyright Getty Images


I’ve just read “that” article in the Daily Mail, giving a darn good thrashing to those of us that expose our parenting and let people in to have a little glimpse at our lives. I don’t know what to say. I agree with one point: Yes, children are a gift but I am not seeing this supposed gin-soaked Hogarthian scene and I am pretty damn sure that the men and women sharing their lives and experiences aren’t currently sat in a piss soaked ally round the back of St.Paul’s effing and jeffing whilst their little ones are left to fend for themselves.
 So, why do we write these blogs? Why do we share our experiences predominantly in a comedic way? The short answer is why the hell not. But I think many of us decide to start writing for so many reasons. For example:
Parenting is tougher than you originally thought. You’re suffering from post natal depression or anxiety and writing and sharing is therapeutic and helpful. You started writing to get your brain going again. You wanted to share your experiences with others to see if there is anyone else out there who is going through the same thing.
There are so many reasons. We mostly do it to share, to say to others, “it’s ok”. Modern parenting is tough, especially if you throw work into the mix too. I had to go back to work when my daughter was 3 weeks old. It was only one job but it was still emotionally pretty tough and physically too. Having to express milk that early on was difficult enough as it hadn’t really “come in” yet. As the weeks followed I had to organise filing up the freezer full of plastic bags of booby juice. If one spilt or if one wasn’t used when I was working it was like a massive loss and a kick in the teeth. The work that had gone into that 50ml; wasted. Down the drain. But I wouldn’t have had it any other way. Going back to work was good for me. I’m very lucky that I am self-employed so could decide when I wanted to work. Well, as long as there was the work to go round. In my game it’s feast or famine.

 Anyway, I have been a bit slack on the old blog the last two weeks. I’ve been doing a lot more childcare and that means no time to write. When she naps that’s when the bomb site from lunch (and probably breakfast, oops) is cleared up. Then washing to put out/put in etc etc. You know, all the domestic bollocks that gets in the way of doing exciting things like writing my blog. And thank God for it. I am thoroughly enjoying writing it and I’ve had some jolly nice comments along the way. So ta muchly me bredrin. The past two weeks have been all about the garden office we’re having put in. We’ve had demolition, re-pointing, new fencing and foundations which means a lot of staying in and making tea and coffee in the Sainsbury’s mugs. (Just in case). The sorts of things that make you realise that you might have finally reached adulthood. We seem to have got through a lot of chocolate Hob Nobs as well. The actual building goes in next week and that’s half term so hubby is going to be doing the staying in for that. I’ve not gone to the gym in two weeks so just as the hot weather comes in, I am feeling like a Stilton that has been left out of the fridge too long and has started to slide off the cheese board. Even the vegan diet hasn’t helped me as I’ve been eating too much freakin pasta and not moving my “squidgy bottom” as my Mother in law so kindly called it the other week. The sleep thing is very up and down so I am just tired and a bit “arse in hand” as my Aunty Peggy would say. Small one has yet another cold and we had a Chicken Pox scare but it turned out to be a heat rash. Thank fark for that!


 Something that has also cropped up since the second birthday came around is the need to be attached to Mummy like a Koala for most of the day. It can be cute, especially when she puts her arms round my neck and gives me a proper hug but it seems to happen all day. We went to her little friend’s birthday party at the weekend. She wouldn’t let go of Daddy when we first arrived and then when I rocked up after parking the car the koala made a b line for me and held on tight like a bicycle lock. Even when playing pass the parcel she wouldn’t leave my lap so I ended up playing on her behalf and little does she know, I’ve had that game sussed for years. You just have to keep a very sharp eye on the music player and whoever is operating it, listen and hang on to the parcel for a little longer than you should. It’s a bit of an art form as to how you linger but I’m going to pass these valuable skills on to my daughter. That and how to win a sack race: put your feet in the corners and run. And egg and spoon: chewing gum under it. My husband can focus on the numeracy and literacy. I shall focus on the life skills that will get you through. Mostly through a school sports day but nevertheless, indispensable skills. Anyway, having shared with you my most intimate secrets and pieces of advice to help you through life, I must go and soak myself and my child in gin and go and sell my wares on the street or, nay, down the alley. Now, let me have a rummage through the freezer and ‘ave a shufty at what’s for tea….A ha. Good ole C’ptain. Always there when you need him.


Monday, 15 May 2017

Never put a used nappy in a washing machine.

I’m back. Did you miss me? (Maybe don’t answer that). Last week was busy and I did a lot of commuting by car so had no writing time. How do people drive to work everyday? I don’t know how you do it. For most of last week I felt sedentary, frustrated at sitting still and going nowhere, and really pissed off that my satnav had taken me to places like Ruislip and South Oxhey. I never thought that I would venture to either place but I have now. Didn’t Gareth Malone do his first choir thing in South Oxhey? Anyway, I’ve been now so I don’t need to go back. So, apart from long journeys I’ve also been dealing with a two year old who has discovered tantrums, has a teething cold and has stopped sleeping again. Paw patrol is back on you muthas!


 Sweet mother of pearl. I feel like I’m just about getting through each day. We are having work done in our garden which requires some sort of brain power from me as I am having to project manage the thing. Today, I’ve got the small one. She is exhausted, pouring with snot and has a bumpy rash on her forehead so I shoved her in front of Frozen, this morning so I could get on with shit. After two strong coffees I achieved quite a lot. She is now asleep so I finally have some time to write. Today, we have our builder in who is doing a sterling job whilst I do a sterling job at being a crap parent. I over cooked her lunch but have managed to get a doctor’s appointment for the rash so that’s 5 mum points to me. Possibly lose 5 for the crap lunch. So, I’m back to zero. Bugger. I’m back into the brain fog again. We have been up three, four, five times a night with this cold/teeth/separation from Mummy shizzle. I have slept on the floor twice more since my last confession and my back is screwed. However, I have made myself go Vegan for 30 days so I’m very healthy on the inside, have glowing skin and can look a pig in the eye at Hobbledown Farm without feeling like a complete bastard. But no  amount of healthy living will reduce the size of the bags under my eyes. The coal scuttles are back.

 Ever since my daughter’s birthday, in fact the day after, the terrible twos began. Ye Gods, do we have a whole year of this? I’m going to end up in a padded cell. I mean she can really scream when she’s pissed off. If you get too close you will walk away with a perforated ear drum and a feeling of regret. There’s lots of throwing herself on the floor like she’s in a Greek tragedy and a lot of me carrying her across me as it’s the only way to get her out of public places quickly and also a good position for restraining a fighting, angry toddler. But all of this is going on with not a lot of sleep for everyone involved. I tried doing some mental arithmetic the other day and it took me two hours to work out the length of fencing we needed but only between the posts. I had to draw a diagram in the end. I also left the hob gas ring on and nearly burnt my sodding arm off, broke down crying in a medical role play as I got into it a bit too much and the epic fail of all epic fails was putting a used nappy in the washing machine. I mean, we have a lot of washing. We also have a lot of washing that needs to be washed but just stays in the dirty clothes basket. There’s stuff in the bottom that’s been there since we moved house last October. Anyhoo, I did my fourth load of the day, took it out and wondered why our laminate looked like a winter wonderland. I removed the washing piece by piece and everything was covered in a white dust and bits of white fluff. And then I found the offending article. A size 5, pull up nappy, used and entangled in some of my opaque tights. Great. Just great. Don’t do it. Ever. Even if you rinse it all again it will still be covered and when you go to hang it out it all falls to the floor. Thank god for me hand held, cordless mini vacuum. It’s paid for itself for getting me out of this latest cock up. As I type this, that sodding squirrel is looking at me. Goading me. He wants my tub of violas but he ain’t going to have them this time. I went out into the garden on Saturday morning to find flower heads all over our decking where the little shit had tucked in. Well, no more Mr. Squirrel. No more. I know where you live.


 Right. I’m back. Squirrel was sent packing. Not on my watch ya little git. It’s been very difficult to get motivated to do anything the past week.  I have managed to put all of the birthday presents away and I’ve ordered nice thankyou cards with a pic of the nipper on the front and written two thirds of them. I have also found a ballet class for her to go to and made a vegan cheesecake. I did one from the Deliciously Ella book. Now that lass uses a lot of ingredients in her recipes. I mean, loads of nuts. She must have a massive food processor. I very nearly knackered the motor of my Mouilnex, just trying to get through the ton of dates she suggested. Also, I hadn’t read the bits where I was supposed to soak said nuts for 3-4 hours before cooking and freeze my bananas. Who has time to soak nuts FFS. I busked it and it looked pretty cool in the end. Our lovely friends ate it without gagging so it can’t have been that bad. So, that’s been me my little friends. Hopefully will have more opportunity to write this week. Got some commutes so I shall type to my heart’s content and drink coffee made by someone else. Now that bastard squirrel is back. Please excuse me.


Monday, 8 May 2017

We didn't have that in my day.


Birthdays. They are now a multi-million pound industry and the peeps at the top have really tapped into the children’s market. Every shop and supermarket has something that could be a party thang and there are companies that produce every kind of tat to do a “theme”. I always remember when I was getting married, people kept asking me what my theme was. The theme is Wedding FFS. What theme could I possibly want? Star Wars, Thomas the tank engine, Knightrider, ruddy Frozen? No, it’s a wedding. The theme is wedding. I was also badgered about a colour scheme. No- I don’t have a colour scheme. One was inflicted upon me but by that point I didn’t give a shit and just wanted to focus on the important bit: getting married. Very similar to a children’s party: it’s a birthday. When I was a nipper my Mum hired the church hall, we had Mr.Rainbow who did a Punch and Judy show that condoned domestic violence, he fashioned a balloon into a phallic looking dog and then a Super Ted cake came out. Party bags were distributed filled with toxic shizzle from China and some furry stickers and at least one child had to be picked up early because they’d chundered in the salmon pink toilets that were colder than the arctic and smelt of Jeys fluid. Job done. That’s what I call a party.
  

 When we started out on the parenting journey we had agreed not to go mental on the party front. Now, I don’t mean the two of us going out until dawn and crashing through the door, throwing our clothes in the hallway having been dropped off in an Uber. I mean children’s birthday parties. The thing is, as my sister once said, “When they’re really little, they won’t remember it anyway.” Exactly. Of course they won’t. However, when our small one turned one we ended up having the whole family over but we had to decamp to a local tearoom as our flat was too small and it ended up being a very formal high tea. She was one. This year was no different. All the grandparents wanted to be involved so I decided to have them to ours. We have a garden now and the temperature was above 16 degrees so we shoved everyone out in the garden. However, I also decided to do a party for her little friends from childcare two days before. I finished work early the day before so embarked on the party shop. I decided to go to Tiger. I started out sorting out gifts for the party bags. Only five of them. Just five I thought. The problem with Tiger is you see that it’s a pound and you grab 5 of them and so it goes on... Oh, there are some cool string lights, they’re only a fiver. Look, ladybird bunting. Great, she loves a ladybird. Ah, ladybird cups. Cute. Behold, ladybird plates. Hold the phone, there’s a packet of puffy sparkly stickers? Shove ‘em in the basket. I get to the till. There’s other shit in there that I can’t even remember picking up as I had been swept along on the Tiger tidal wave. How much…..? 40 cocking quid!!!??? I need a sit down and a flat white forthwith. No time though as I have to do pick up of said nipper. Nipped in to H&M to buy cute sparkly hair clips and a sparkly cardigan. Then hot foot it to the balloon shop for a giant number 2 helium balloon. £10 plus another 2 for the weight. I still had the food shop to do the following morning. Another £30 went piff, poff, poof into the air. That’s it, we can’t eat for the rest of the month. We also bought a cake. It was a bumble bee. The good people of Waitrose had done a mighty fine job on it. I feel no guilt. If I had made it, there would have been crumbs, frosting, burns, blood and tears, Oh, and a bin. Mostly a bin.




So, I start to decorate the table and put everything out. Ladybird bunting- check. Ladybird cups- check. Ladybird plates- check. Red table cloth- check. Red knapkins- check…….SAY WHAT!? I’ve got a sodding theme. And as if by magic, I fell into the party theme sink hole. I had also put everything symmetrically out on the table in a very OCD kinda way. Like 3 under 2 year olds are going to give a shit about a bowl in a fan formation and four balloons balanced “just so”, two either side. I’m going to blame this flaw in my ability for rational thought on the recent bout of sleep deprivation. You could also argue that I am totally under my daughter’s spell and would pretty much do anything for her. I need to go and get a sodding grip. When she’s three, I am going to book a table at a Harvester and she can bring one friend. I am going to insist on John Lewis vouchers and she can watch an episode of Peppa Pig as a treat. Yeah, that’s exactly what’s going to happen. Who am I trying to kid.




 The thing is, she was so excited about her little mates coming round that I thought she would burst. They had an amazing time running around the flat and eating cake and trying to throw themselves off the sofa. Both of her amazing childminders were there and then she was surrounded by all of her family two days later. That morning, she brought her party dress into our bedroom and demanded to wear it with her sparkly tights. My husband had also bought her the most beautiful pair of navy party shoes. She loves them. She was running around looking like something out of an Edwardian novel. What can I say, I got myself a party gal. She can already do “Cheers” and say “Pub” so my work here is pretty much done. So, I am going to start saving for birthdays to come. I just have a feeling we’re going to be seriously out of pocket. And she’s getting into Frozen. Heeeeellllpppppp!!!!!!!!

Friday, 5 May 2017

Birthday girl.

Tomorrow, my little girl turns two. I wrote the following for her christening but I wanted to share it with you. It felt appropriate as this small person, with sapphire blue eyes and really cool hair turns two. Where has the time gone?




To my daughter

This is your Mummy. Yes, the one with the wild ,curly hair and red
Lippy that likes to sing A Windmill in old Amsterdam, that insists on three naps a day and who constantly administers gels and creams to various parts of your anatomy. Yes-The very same.
Now listen carefully little one. The moment I found out you were coming along I loved you. You will never know how much I love you; it's a love that makes my heart ache when you're not with me.
If I have any advice of how to get on in this big, wide world it would be this:
love others and love yourself.
Cherish your family.
Value all of the friends you make along the way. You won't take all
Of them with you but the good ones stand fast.
Take an interest in people whom you meet. You never know what you might learn and the friendships you might gain along the way.
Sing
Dance
Run
Roll down hills
Enjoy silence.
Breath. Stand on a hill looking out to sea and just breath.
Love all creatures whether great or small.
Don't worry too much about what people think of you. Enjoy being who you are. As you get to know yourself along the way, enjoy it even more.
Hug. A lot.
Laugh.
Read
Always say please and Thankyou.
Listen to things around you. Listen to people. Listen to all kinds of music. Listen to all the different voices in the world.
Look up. We spend so long looking ahead or on the ground or at our phones that we can miss the beauty above us.
Embrace learning whilst your young. Soak the information up like a sponge.
But most of all, be happy.
Never be afraid little one. Mummy & Daddy are here. Always here. The path you choose to take may not always be easy or straight forward but feel safe in the knowledge that you are loved. Very much loved.
Have a happy day little one.

I love you ,
Mummy xx




Thursday, 4 May 2017

The number 2.

It’s one of THOSE mornings. I was up a lot during the night. We are teething again. The last two. The final frontier. The last hurrah. But because I have been used to sleep for the past month this latest bout of sleep deprivation is hitting me hard. The last week has been rough. I feel like a complete failure as I’ve been on paw patrol. I’ve slept one full night on the floor: right hand in cot, 6th bar. We’ve got through 2 packets of Nielsens granules, a whole bottle of Calpol and half a bottle of Nurofen. My back is knackered from lying on half a play mat and lifting a 2 stone child out of a cot with sides that don’t go down. I’m ratty, I’m not thinking straight and I have to organise two birthday parties this week. Tomorrow, 3 under 2’s are coming to our house for my daughter’s second birthday. The outbuilding in the garden has been demolished but needless to say, they haven’t finished. “Oh yeah, love. We’ll be done in a day.” No you won’t. Your van is full from the job you tried to fit in before coming to our house and I’ve just heard you on the phone saying to someone, “see you in an hour”. So, don’t bullshit me squire. You have spread yourself thin and taken on too many sodding jobs. Our garden looks like a scene from The Blitz. Bricks piled up, electric wires sticking up from the rubble and tools littered around the garden that an inquisitive soon to be two year old would love to have a crack at. Toddlers love a lump hammer and a saw. I just don’t need this shit this week. On Sunday, we’ve got the whole family coming round but I’m seriously planning plan B which is to decamp to the park. I’ve got to make a cake, wrap a bike, sort out party bags, clean the flat and paint my nails. I mean there’s a lot to do.



 And then there’s the teeth. Oh, we’ve had fun this week. Tears, dribbling, refusal to eat anything but an Organix corn snack and some really shit nights and some truly shitty nappies. She’s been taking ages to go to sleep unless Mummy’s hand is in the cot. We’ve also had a good old wee on the carpet and a major incident in a sofa shop. So, the sofa bad search is still going on. We had found one and then ‘im in doors changed his mind. Don’t ask. I’m so over it. Imagine the scene: hubster was trying out several sofa beds, and so was small one. She was hopping on and off cream sofas, white sofas and oatmeal looking things with a fleck. I just happened to a check in the pant department (her not me) and there was nappy full of the squits. This was the kind of nappy that was going to breach. I tried to subtly suggest that we needed to head off asap as there was an unexpected item in the bagging area. Mr Man kept on looking at sofas doing that really irritating thing, “Yep, coming. Just one sec. “ Aargh! Finally he cottoned on that this was a leaker and we had to go and get her off the light coloured upholstery. We walked with purpose to Superdrug as this was the one trip that I hadn’t bought the changing pod. Yes, we have a pod. Deal with it. I’m so frickin “Surrey” yo. I had to buy an entire packet of nappies, wipes and water as husband had realised that he had leaky shit on his hoody as he’d been carrying the small one in an awkward way. They really need to sell an emergency pack for incompetent mothers like me who don’t come prepared. We ran into the big M&S Home and I panic bought a 5 pack of trousers and we did the clean up. Feckin teeth. They cause untold misery.


 But, the pot of gold at the end of this murky rainbow is that we are at the final furlong. The last two sodding teeth. When they are through and I can go back to peaceful slumber (haha) I am going take myself off to a ruddy spa. I want to walk around in a dressing gown where everything smells of Clarins and people are drinking prosecco. I want to find a cubby hole and read a book, actually read a book and take it in and reflect on every single tooth that we have grown and welcomed through those gums. Every single fecking one! And I will go to this spa on my own. Sadly, I can only dream. Money is tight as a duck’s nether regions so I might just go to my Mum’s for a couple of days. Until then, I have to work out how to make a number 2 cake (an actual number 2, not a “number 2” nappy style!) without it looking completely gash and entertain little ones with no sleep. Hopefully, after the stress of this week and lots of caffeine I’ll be completely hysterical and be able to do several rounds of Musical statues and Hop little bunnies. There will be no prosecco on Friday afternoon but there certainly will on Sunday. Anyway, I’ve got to come to terms with the fact that my little girl is turning two. She is no longer a baby. She can walk, talk, feed herself and demand that I make the clothes horse into a shop. I’m struggling a bit with the whole 2 thang. I could only bring myself to buy her birthday card a couple of days ago and I got totes emosh when we built her balance bike. I’m going to be an emotional wreck on her actual birthday. Pass the prosecco for gawd’s sake!



Tuesday, 25 April 2017

A Comedy of Errors.

Sleep. Hmmmm. I dream of fluffy white pillows, feathery duvet and sleeping until my alarm goes off. I dream of waking up and not feeling like I’ve been hit by a bus, have been on a huge bender or feel about 92 years of age. I dream of looking in the mirror and not going, “Oh Christ almighty” at the visage that reflects back at me. I dream of not being woken 3 times a night and stumbling out of bed only to trip over my husband’s size 11 Crocket & Jones shoes, that really frickin hurt when they slam into your toe in the dark abyss. I dream of dreaming again. So, you can probably tell that the sleep is going really well at the moment. It has actually got a lot better. I haven’t slept in her room or been on paw patrol for weeks now. However, there are just multiple wakings where she shouts out “Mummy!!” at the top of her lungs and then demands “Hand” in a weak and dramatic little voice (no idea where these Judi Dench tendencies come from. Honestly.) On the plus side, we only have two more teeth to go. One bottom molar is rearing its ugly head at the moment so that was the reason for last night’s midnight and 4:40am wake up calls. I did actually get some sleep. The night before however, was not so good.

 I woke up that fateful morning feeling like a tfl double decker had ploughed into my side the day before. I had been in and out of my small one’s room. Hand and back rub administered, plus granules and Calpol for aching gums. I felt rough on Monday morning. I felt like my head had been stuck up my arse and my eyes had been forced open to look at the sun. Small one was dropped off at amazing Childminder, car was dropped off at home and I sloped off to work. I didn’t even have time for a Flat White, that’s how shit my morning started off. I walked to work from Willesden Junction. This place makes me sad. It’s just a series of railway lines, industrial waste land and really pissed off looking folk, like me. I arrived, signed in, went for a pee and then my producer came out. “Morning. Nice to see you. You’re with me this afternoon….” Oh FFS! This afternoon? I double checked my emails and there it was: OUP, 2-5pm. Bollocks with an extra helping of bums.  

 So, I said my Goodbyes and I made my way home with a face like a slapped arse. Oh good. The tube’s here, I’d better run for it. Great I’ve got a seat. The announcement tells me that’s it’s going to West Ruislip. I don’t want to go to West Ruislip. I’ve never been there but I know I don’t want to go there. Especially this morning as I want to go home and do the hundred and one things that I had planned to do on MY AFTERNOON OFF. I finally get home and have about an hour and three quarters. Needless to say, the flat doesn’t get cleaned, that letter doesn’t get posted and the car insurance doesn’t get renewed. Nothing on my list gets ticked off. I do however, manage a nice lunch, a blog post and put a wash on.

 So, the week must get better from here on in? Mais non, Harriet. Oh non indeed. This very morning I was working on an app. The previous recording that I had done on it was two years ago and had started well. I was 39 weeks pregnant and I had to take my maternity notes with me just in case. I had to travel to Bexleyheath but on that particular day the tubes were screwed and there had been a power cut at London Bridge. I remember ringing my husband in hormonal pregnant tears asking him what I should do. It took me three hours to get there. So, when I started off today I was hopeful of a safe and speedy journey. To Marylebone. Where the ruddy confirmation email had told me to go. I arrived 15 mins before my session. I just had a bad feeling. I walked up to the studio which I had actually worked at many years ago, only so many years had passed that it was now an estate agents. Really? Are you actually sodding kidding me!? I checked the email. Marylebone. It says Marylebone in black and feckin white. I rang the lovely guy that runs the studio. No, he hadn’t been at that address for over 3 years. So off to Bexleyheath I went.


 The bonus of these major cock ups is that I have done all of my required step count on my Garmin for the day and I did the job so quickly that I got off at my old stamping ground, Bermondsey where me and my husband lived for 10 years and before we were married. I ate my Pret looking at Tower Bridge and the river Thames. I walked along the Thames path and took a photo of where I got married and then walked to the station for my afternoon session. So, things turned out ok. I haven’t even told about the session I missed on Friday because I hadn’t put it in my diary when I was ill. Oh yes. My grey matter has shrivelled away like an old man’s todger. I wonder what else this week will bring? I’m due some luck surely? Maybe I will do the lottery tonight. Might as well make the most of my winning streak eh?

The Curious incident of the dog in Padstow.

The Curious incident of the Dog in Padstow. I'm back. After a 3 weeks leave of absence I'm back in the blogosphere, coming at y...