Penicillin for Christmas

I am in no position to moan about Christmas. On the contrary, I have had a wonderful lead up to the festive season which, considering I work in retail and have a two year old, wasn't exactly how I imagined it.

This year I have been one of those annoying people who is super organised and got all the gift shopping done early, all the food shopping frozen and was able to tell a manic mother-in-law (who phoned Christmas Eve to see if there was anything we needed while she dashed out to the shops) that there was nothing we'd forgotten.

That has not always been the case.

I can remember staring at the rows of empty shelves in our local Spa where the bread should have been (I'd been hoping to get a pack of bread buns - they didn't even have a stale pitta) and wondering how I could improvise turkey sandwiches when all I had was the turkey.

I can remember going for a drink on the afternoon of Christmas Eve one year only to leave the pub in a blind panic convinced I had left the oven on (which I had - with the turkey in it)

I once ate my Christmas dinner off an ironing board, as we had no dining table.

This to me, is part of the charm of Christmas. People get hung up on making things perfect, on striving to find the perfect gifts, the perfect turkey, the perfect napkins and the perfect centre piece for their perfect table. They drive themselves into a frenzy, rushing to the shops to buy more than they need, and certainly more than they can afford, in order to appease some festive demon who always whispers not enough.

My Christmases are different.

We buy presents, not as many as we used to as more and more of our friends and relatives have joined the no present pact. We enjoy turkey and stuffing sandwiches on Christmas Eve and a fabulous turkey dinner (with all the trimmings) on the day itself. I have even been known to have Slade playing in the background as I give my roasties a shake.

A little Christmas cheese is often unavoidable.

The self-imposed stress, however, is. Does it actually matter if you haven't got enough dinner plates or champagne flutes? Will Auntie Pam mind eating hers off a plastic plate with the face of a cheeky monkey peering at her through the sprouts? Does grandad complain about having a deckchair? Or being sat next to second nephew on a barstool? Or are they just glad to be around family and friends who actually want their company?

We told everyone this year, don't bother buying us gifts, just come and see us. Bring a bottle of wine or a bag of Doritos if you must bring something and you'll be welcomed with open arms.

Christmas isn't about the ridiculous amounts of cash we fling at people in lieu of genuine affection. It isn't about being cooped up in a strange house with twelve grumpy and flatulent people who you haven't seen since, well, last Christmas (for a damn good reason) It isn't about settling old scores.

Christmas, for me, has become a beacon of hope in a drab and dreary year. It is the one day we were guaranteed off together (is was not always so - bloody call centres!) It is about spending quality time with our little girl who we have not broken the bank to please. Who cares if we didn't have mountains of presents? Who cares that our tree came out of a box? Who cares that I couldn't drink the bottle of wine given to us for Christmas day because I was on penicillin for a throat infection? We were together.

The highlight of my Christmas 2008?

Taking our little girl around the block on Christmas afternoon on her new pink bike. To most folk Christmas is expensive. To me, it's priceless.

Return to Azeroth

I suppose I should preheat the oven. Tonight I'm eating my hat.

Thought we had left this place behind us but, with the lure of old friends who, let's face it were the real attraction to playing these online games, we have bit the bullet and returned to World of Warcraft.

Not that Age of Conan wasn't a fabulous game, on the contrary it was too good. There was too much to do, too many places to go and too little time to really get to grips with such an expansive and detailed game that we ended up playing less and less and eventually cancelling our subscriptions for.

Then a whisper came from over the frozen wastes of Northrend.

We left a handful of good friends there, guys whose humour and conversation we have missed and, although we have made some good friends by treading other waters for a while (you guys know who you are) we could never replace the community we had built up there.

And so we return.

Save Me From Santa

Took my two and half year old to her playgroup Christmas party this afternoon. Not quite the glitzy lavish affair I'm sure Christmas parties will become when she's older with girls competing for how much of their mother's make-up they can steal and snogging boys just to see if they taste of pringles (what? like you never did that!)

It was as modest a gathering as thirty under threes in one room could be. The mothers/grannies/carers got coffee and homemade cake. The little ones got cocktail sausages and hulahoops, so much fun was had by all.

The highlight of the afternoon was the appearance of the long awaited Santa. He wasn't very portly, his beard wasn't real and his wellies were green rather than black but he did us proud. All the children received a present (a book rather than sweets) and his visit was short and sweet so no one caught him removing his beard to have a craftymince pie in the kitchen.

My daughter was terrified of him.

That is not to say she recoiled in horror but she would not be coerced into going anywhere near him. I couldn't blame her. I have drilled it into her from the time she started walking that she holds my hand, never wander off and never talks to people she doesn't know. And here I was telling her it's okay to go talk to a strange guy with a beard and a sack who wants to know what she wants for Christmas so he can climb down our chimney when she's asleep.

And we wonder why kids have nightmares.

Not to be deterred, however (she is my daughter after all) when asked to tell Sants what she wanted for Christmas she cupped her hands to her face and shouted over the crowd that she wanted 'a pink bike and a pink helmet'. He gave a thumbs up from a distance and she seemed satisfied with that.

Let's hope he has enough room on is sleigh.

Makka Pakka Snowman

Anyone with kids under five will know who this is supposed to be. I appreciate as he started to melt he cut quite a sad figure on the grass outside our house but he was better than the Iggle Piggle we attempted first :)

Eee - Cha - Wa - Wa

First Ewok - "That guy's wise."

Second Ewok - "Martin Short?"

Push Me - Pull You

A) Switch off unneccessary light to save on electricity

B) Leave lights on while you're out to deter burglars


A) Walk your kids to school

B) Local authority no longer has funding to salt paths



A) An egg a day is a healthy way to get your protein

B) More than three eggs a week can lead to high cholesterol



A) Coffee is good for the heart, stimulating the circulation

B) Coffee is linked to certain forms of cancer


A) Eating oily fish is good for your joints and your mind

B) Tuna fish contains traces of mercury that can affect the brain


A) We are increasing the Council Tax to pay for more refuse collections

B) We are changing your refuse collection date to once a fortnight

Another Birthday

Getting older has never been a concern of mine (nothing to do with spending so long as a teenager trying to pass for older just to get served in pubs) although trawling facebook has made me realise that some folk have added ten years on their physical age by ciggies and sunbeds.

I do notice the lines around my eyes more now but they are proof that I smile more often than I frown. The odd grey hair (or three) only confirm that there are enough people in my life whom I love enough to worry about.

And I feel wiser, even though I may not always act it.

I have that settled feeling, something I have spoken of before, which seems to have coincided with leaving my twenties behind. It is a deep rooted satisfaction that comes from knowing that, although I have made many errors on the road of life, I got the important things right.

I married the right man. I held onto the right friends. I chose happiness and health over material trivia and wealth. I chose to become a mother when I knew I could do the role justice. I have taken responsability for everything I do and everything I am. I spend my free time with people worth my time.

So, by some folk's standards, I had a quiet birthday with the two people who mean the most to me, my husband and daughter. Life doesn't get much better than that.

44th President

A few months ago, when I first heard this man speak, I got a strange tingle at the back of my neck. It was that odd feeling you get when you are witnessing something significant but can't quite put your finger on what it is that has peeked your interest. I began to think this feeling was HOPE.

A lot has been said about this man, about the significance of who he is, his racial background, his political background, his experience or lack there of. I am in no position to comment on any of it and I imagine for every well thought out argument there are a hundred knee jerk reactions that will carry just as much weight with the general public.

All I know is this: I am very rarely drawn to anyone talking about politics. Although relevant to our daily lives, it has always seemed like the greatest waste of breathknown to man, a web of lies that I have closed my brain to for years never imagining any of these overpaid blusterers ever had anything of worth to say.

I listened to Barrack Obama. Every word made sense.

All I can say is this: Whatever else his term in office brings, something in this world has changed for the better with his election. It is as if common sense has suddenly broken through the cloud of prejudice, hatred, greed and stupidity and a ray of sunlight has fallen upon us.

Good Luck, Mister President, rather you than me.

All Hallows Eve

I must have had a deprived childhood since I cannot remember ever going trick or treating. Living in the middle of nowhere might have had something to do with it. You go traipsing around the countryside in a pointy hat and carrying a broomstick you're just asking to be tied to a fence post and set alight or shot by a farmer's twelve bore.

I do remember school parties where all the girls went as witches and all the boys came as the Crow, they must have run out of original that night.

Halloween will always have a special significance to me. Some ten years ago, while studying in America, I fell in with a crowd of people who were considered 'freaks' by the rest of the student body. To me they were normal as shoe laces.

It seemed to me, as an outsider, that the southern state I was staying in disliked anything out of ordinary. Homophobia, racism, chauvenism and stupidity were rife among people of my own generation who, frankly, should have ditched those sentiments a century ago. I was berated by my own sex for even contemplating walking home alone through well lit streets, having short hair (which MUST mean I was a lesbian - it didn't help that it as purple at the time) speaking to fellow students who were black (that was asking to gang raped - apparently) or coercing with the 'freaks' in the cafeteria.

Trust me when I say, the freaks seemed ten times more sane to me.

Among these outcast folk were a couple of guy who liked guys, one girl who liked girls, one girl who had tattoos (and was therefore labelled a worshipper of Satan) a couple of arty poet types and a Catholic. Hideous criminals of society, I think you'll agree. Their only failing in my eyes was that their segragation from the rest of the 'normal God Fearing' students had made them relish their 'freak' status and use every opportunity to rub it in.

One of the guys would dress up in drag at the drop of a hat, just to annoy the homophobes, the girls would snog in the foyer where everyone could see them, they would dress up as pirates and go to the mall and other attention seeking bollocks.

Small change by my standards.

I did, however, meet one 'freak' of interest. So interesting in fact that I dated him for three years and considered (but thankfully did not go through with) marrying him. His crime to humanity was being Wiccan.

I don't intend to explain Wicca (that's what Wikipedia is for) but I will say that the ideas behind this neo-pagan movement matched some homegrown truths I had harboured and I soon found myself performing candlemagic with him and scouring new age junk shops for pagan paraphenalia. I still own a Tarot deck which I've been known to drag out at dinner parties when I've had a few glasses of wine.

The truth is, although real life has overtaking whatever mystical aspirations I once had, I still feel an affinity with the idea that the most important forces in the world are the ones which surround us in our everyday existence. The air we breath, the earth beneath our feet, our kin and the love that binds us to them.

I may have packed away my altar and Book of Shadows but sometimes, when the moon is waxing and the night is crisp and clear, I feel the tug of the 'wee hag' within me, and supress the urge to run skyclad through the fields (again, more common when I've had a few glasses of wine)

So for me Halloween isn't just a cheesy rip off for folk who want to drag their kids round the neighbourhood to stock up on ket. All Hallows Eve (or Samhain - if you follow the Pagan callender) is a nostalgic glimpse into my gothic, mystical past.

It is as close to religion as I get.

This year I took my daughter to the Halloween party at playgroup. She wanted to go as, yep, you've guessed it, a witch. She's my daughter alright.

Blackberries

John Cena Taps Out

"And that's just the way the Cookie crumbles, J.R."

Strange side effects

There are obvious benefits to losing over fifty pounds in excess body weight. Aside from the health related ones such as lowering my blood pressure and alleviating my sciatic nerve problem, I have discovered some unexpected and rather surprising side effects.

1) My arse fits a regular toilet seat with no overhang.

2) I can wear a two inch heel all day and NOT be crippled.

3) My wedding ring is too big for my finger.

4) My tits look bigger :)

5) My tits look lower :(

6) I can see my collar bones.

7) I can cross my legs.

8) I can fold my arms UNDER my tits.

9) My wardrobe is suddenly in colour.

10) I'm always cold.

Disturbing

Things I find disturbing:

1) underpants that you find lying in the street

2) snails that live in fishtanks

3) conversations you overhear on the train

4) male ballerinas

5) toupes

6) cycling shorts on men (probably for the same reason as male ballerinas)

7) talking to someone with a lazy eye

8) the contents of other people's shopping baskets

9) tabloids

10) bum cleavage (and supressing the urge to park a pencil in it)

DFS Wouldn't Dare

Gotta love American advertising, they get away with anything:)

Playgroup

I have always tried to get my little girl out and about. We have been going to the story and rhyme time at the library since she was six months old or so and the parent and toddler sessions at our local baths since she was fourteen months, but today was the first time I have taken her to a toddler play group.

It was like feeding time at a chimpanzee santuary.

After taking her to the big park recently, which we do when the weather permits (bearing in ming this summer I have been more likely to get trench foot than a tan) I am becoming more and more aware that she is intimidated by gangs of other children particularly when they are crowding in on her to get a turn at the slide, or to climb the rigging on the fort. She has become so used to adult company, me and Steve, Grandma and 'little' Grandad, Nana and 'big' Grandad etc. that I think she was confused by the behaviour of other children.

Time to resolve this before she starts nursery next year.

Don't get me wrong, my daughter is no shrinking violet. Tall for her twenty-eight months, with the vocabularly of a four year old she is the only two and a half year old I know who understands such words such as 'conversation' and 'remarkable' and can count to twelve in English and eight in Spanish (blame Dora) but I think it is time for her to gain some social nouse. Hence the trip to the playgroup.

Bit of an eye opener.

Firstly, that this group has been going for a long time and I have only just tracked it down. Secondly that some folk see it as an excuse to have a coffee and gossip about their next/last holiday while other mams keep and eye on their kids. Thirdly, that sixteen kids between the ages of six months and four years could make that much noise.

It was like Beruit.

Being a big kid myself, and to ease my daughter into it gently, I was on the floor arm deep in toys, pulling things out and getting right in the thick of it. Once or twice a plastic teapot sailed passed my ear. Once a moulded plastic courgette pinged off the back of my head. If I could have fit I think I should have taken shelter in the wendy house. The soft play area was no man's land with three of the older kids waging world war three in there that was only interupted by an occasional angry mother dragging a casuality out by the arm.

Then everything halted for juice, coffee and biscuits.

I would have rather have had a gin and tonic and a temazepam but you take what you can get in a warzone. The children gathered around small tables and were given juice cups and biscuits. The mothers sat around the edges with coffees. My little girl decided she wanted to sit on an adult chair with me and dip her biscuit in my coffee. Can't blame her for choosing the officer's mess rather than the grunts chow line.

At one point a little girl of unknown parentage came up to me with a book. I asked if she wanted to read it and she nodded shyly. My little girl, who loves stories and has to be dragged out of our library with the promise of an icecream, came over too and I read them the story. The little girl smiled at me when I had finished and immediately went for anther one. By the end a little boy had appeared and squeezed himself onto my lap too.

There were only a few tears from my little princess. Little girls tipping her dollies out of the prams, little boys taking up residence in the crawl tunnel so she couldn't get through but overall she enjoyed herself and asked if she could come again. She was the only one to say thank you for her juice and biscuit.

Now if mammy can get her tranq prescription filled, we're good to go . . .

Apocolyptic Poetry

THE DAY THE CITY BURNED

There was no wind,
The day the city burned.
The fire turned inward
And ungulfed all living things.
I sat on a hill,
Not five miles away,
And watched the tower blocks
Sway with the heat.
You couldn't hear the roaring flames,
That whispered every victims name,
Or lit the sky at dusk,
Replacing the melted sun.
You couldn't see the people run,
Or hear them scream.
I have since, in dreams.
But the strangest part of it all,
Was that curious absence of wind.

- I wrote this poem when I was nineteen, after a strange dream where I was sitting on a hill watching a city burn in the valley below me - the dream ended with me driving away in a cream cadilac with John de Lancie tied up in the boot (ask I shrink, the hell if I know) but I find the piece eerie since 9/11 happened five years later.

Fashion Fall Out

This week I have been bugged by the following fashion failures. . .

1) wearing flip flops to the office

2) visible underwear

3) wonder bras on old women

4) napalm strength Joop

5) thin white T-shirts over huge lace bras

6) Crocs (x10 if worn with socks)

7) wearing wellies to go to the supermarket when it isn't raining

8) Ugg Boots (x100 if summer)

9) pigtails on anyone over 10

10) visible tatoos on wedding pictures

The Power of Punctuation

Life's a Beach

We have been trying to get out to the coast all summer but, since this year seems to have been the wettest summer I can remember I have been more likely to reach for my wellies than my flip flops.

We braved the weather during my week of work to visit Whitworth Hall, a picturesque hotel with deer park and gardens near where I grew up. We were married there in the little church a stone's throw from the hotel, which is the same church my parents were married in back in 1970. We also had our reception in the hotel.

It pissed it down from the minute we got out of the car until the minute we left. We had to go to my parents house up the road, strip off and tumbledry our clothes while she made us a sandwich and a cuppa. And the highlight of my daughter's day? Hand feeding the deer? The fabulous countryside? The swans swimming regally on the man-made lake? Not likely.

Her favourite bit was the icecream she had in the car on the way home.

Our trip to the coast this week was a greater success. It didn't rain, in fact it was hot enough to raise a little sunburn on the back's of our necks. It was also windy enough to blow our sandcastle back in our faces but you can't have everything. Josie loved every minute, running into the sea before I could get my shoes off, laughing as daddy chased a wasp from our picnic spot (or was it the wasp chasing daddy?) and her favourite bit?

Yep, you guessed it, the icecream on the promendade before we came home.

Isn't it great being two . . .

My Diet Update

I know I have campained for the larger lady, complaining about fat girl shops and the small changing rooms but ultimately loosing weight has always been a lifelong goal for me. I was large as a kid, being a big baby and chubby toddler, and being surrounded by my mother's fabulous cooking and baking didn't help. I know people often blame society, their metabolism, their genetics or their glands but even I think that's a load of horseshit.

Your genetics can determine how tall you will grow, what colour eyes you have, what diseases you may be more susceptable to (like diabetes and certain cancers) but being overweight is directly linked to eating too much and doing too little. I know people may see that as an over simplification but I won't turn my nose up at uncomplicated answers.

I come from a long line of heavy set, big armed farmhouse type women. Their size was determined by the heavy, stodgy food that graced the table each evening and the fact that they could be called upon to drag a cow out of a ditch at 3am without a moments notice. A skinny, undernourished weakling afraid of breaking a nail wouldn't last long in our family.

I have inherited my mother's smile and her laughing eyes (that twinkle with merriment) my father's height and his crackly knees. Everything else is my own doing. My weight, if you hadn't noticed, is a big issue for me (excuse the bad pun) and taking responsibility for it has been the biggest and hardest decision I have ever had to make.

The fact is: weight means nothing, it is a number on a dial, same goes for dress sizes. How I feel is crucial now in by bid to change my eating and exercising habits forever. And I feel fantastic. So far I've lost nearly 50 lbs and gone down three dress sizes but the real measurement of my success is in how much energy I have.

My Khai Bo class stopped over the summer holidays and I found a Spinning class at my local leisure centre to trial for those six weeks. I loved it. I have never worked so hard, sweated so much or felt so buzzed from exercise before and this is the girl who hated PE at school (didn't we all - it's not real exercise is it?) and couldn't run for a bus never mind my life this time last year.

I'm now doing the spinning class, and running twice a week and will probably add the Khai Bo back in when it restarts in September. I have loads of energy for my little girl and can often be found throwing myself head first down the twirly slide at the park (to show her how it's done - of course) If that isn't slimming success, I don't know what is.

Romance Isn't Dead

It just got older, hornier and hangs around in parks.

Things Folk Don't Know

A few facts that even my closest friends might not know about me.

Most Appropriate Gift Ever Received: a replica of Ramirez' Masamune sword from Highlander

Most Inappropriate Gift Ever Received: red wine

Greatest Compliment Ever Received: 'if we were ever on a plane that went down in the Arctic circle, I'd eat you last'

Greatest Insult Ever Received: 'you're light on your feet for a big girl, aren't you?'

Most Dangerous Thing While Sober: traversing the Ardeche rapids in a Canadian canoe

Most Dangerous Thing While Drunk: balancing on a stone wall when the drop behind me was nearly two hundred feet and having to be rescued by sober boyfriend

Greatest Achievement: getting an 8lb 15oz baby to come out a hole the size of a garden hose

Greatest Disappointment: having my manuscript for a trashy romance turned down by Harlequin Romance for being a bit too sentimental - pot/kettle erm . . .

I'm A Celeb ... Save my Arse!

In light of the harsh judgement I dolled out against the ten celebs (ha) who in my opinion would be first on the ship headed for the sun or (should I finally rally the world into revolution) would be the first people to be lined up against a wall and shot, I have made a save list. These ten people, if there was a meteor about to hit the earth and obliterate life as we know it, would be the first ones aboard a vessel to restart our civilisation on another world.

1) Barack Obama

2) Chow Yun Fat

3) Will Smith

4) Morgan Freeman

5) Gary Oldman

6) Nigella Lawson

7) Ewan McGregor

8) Joss Stone

9) Dominic Purcell

10) M. Night Shaymalan

It is poignant that I could have made a shot list of hundreds and had to think long and hard to find ten people who I would save.

More people I meet, more I like my dog.

Hang on, I don't have a dog, I must just be a hateful bitch.

Super Mum

We were talking at work the other day, as you do on the twilight shift when there's only the three of us in and we grow weary of bitching about work, about superheroes. I posed the question: If you were a superhero, who would you be? I added that it didn't have to be an established superhero, you could make one up. There were interesting answers. We had several Superman, Spiderman, Wonderwoman answers, one Captain Underpants (I believe she is seeking help) a She-Ra and, the best so far, the Milky Bar Kid.
I think I was the only one to make up an alter-ego. I said I would be the Chocolatier. This elusive saviour of mankind would dress in dark brown velvet, preferably with a large zorro style hat and mask and would defeat urban crime with her deadly art of throwing chocolate. Anyone hit by the chocolate would be sent into a euphoric state of ecstacy that would be brought to an end by my lethal roundhouse kick: the Walnut Whip. My enemies would be unable to penetrate my protective shield: the Brazil Nut. I would be accompanied by my minions, two large, muscled black guys in brown Armani suits called the Cocoa Solids and my secret lair would under the Nestle factory.
In truth I have often given thought to superpowers, particularly ESP and telekenetics. I can remember someone asking me if I could have a superpower, what would it be (we tend to have these conversation in our house) and at the time my daughter was still breast feeding and I answered: Telekenesis. You might not see the link but anyone who has just settled themselves into a nice warm bath just for the phone to ring, husband to lock himself out or realise you've left the oven on/shampoo in the cabinet and/or glass on wine on the kitchen bench, will appreciate how handy it would be in those moments to be able to will the desired object into motion and solve the problem without having to get out of the aforementioned bath.
This happened constantly when I was breast-feeding and had just got both me and daughter comfortable. It was as if the phone knew and was waiting for that exact moment to ring. I was convinced the man who read the meter would wait around the corner until he was sure I was sitting comfortably on the loo. My cup of tea would edge along the armrest of the sofa so it was millimetres shy of my outstretched fingers.
If I could have a superpower, that would be it, to move objects by the power of my mind alone.
That or Mind Bullets.

Fat Girl Shops

Anyone who is, and probably always was a regular dress size (I'm talking 8-14 since anything smaller than a size 8 should only be available in Mothercare anyway) will not understand the fat girl shop phenomenon.
It exists as follows . . .

Rather than extend the range in all clothing retailers to include larger sizes, most have opted for one of the two other options available.

The first is the option often referred to as 'fat girl corner' this is a designated area of the store set aside specifically for larger sizes. It is often located at the back of the shop away from the front windows and skinny mannikins. This is to safeguard the reputation of the shop so possible skinny consumers don't see big girls brousing and flee in fear, and so the fat girls have to walk through the fashionable clothes first before ending up in the frumpy corner which stands as an incentive for them to shed five stone. This area of the store is always the furthest away from the air-conditioning, changing rooms and lights. Can't have fat girls getting to comfortable, trying anything on or seeing anything in good light, they might . . . dress better, and that would be horrible, wouldn't it?

The second option is to branch out into a new chain specially designed, tailored and aimed at larger sized women. These are known as 'fat girl shops' and boast larger sizes, larger collections and larger changing rooms (let's face it, there are single wardrobes that are easier to get dressed in than most high street changing rooms - never been in one yet where the girl in the next cubicle didn't think I was rapping out an SOS with my elbows, or where I didn't end up sticking my arse out of the ribbon of fabric they laughably call a curtain) Fat girl shops suffer from the opposite malady to the fat girl corner, rather than frump designed to make you go unnoticed at any function by blending into the beige carpet, fat girl shops are designed to dress you up like something from a Lilt commercial.

So fat girl corner makes the assumption that anyone 16+ has no taste, likes everything tent-like and black and will never take anything back because it was such an ordeal buying it in the first place. The fat girl shop assumes anyone 16+ has short arms, is under 5 foot 2 and likes their friends and family to be able to find them from accross a crowded Indian restaurant, in the dark.

They say the average for British woman is now a size 16. Let's hope she knows how to sew, because she won't be buying much off the peg this season.

I'm a Celeb Get me Out of Here

Your wish is my command, there follows a list of celebs who, if there was a rocket to be filled with ten lucky winners and blasted into the sun, would be the first in line if I had any say in the matter.


1) Delia Smith (Middle Class Know It All House Wife Party)

2) Celine Dion (Not Really French But Milking It Party)

3) Paris Hilton (Spent Millions In Order To Look Like a Cheap Whore Party)

4) Katie Price (Cheap Whore Party)

5) Hillary Clinton (Expensive Whore Party)

6) Matthew McConaughey (Playing Bongos Naked Party)

7) Nick Nolte (Should Have Left Him Homeless Party)

8) Cristiano Ronaldo (Should Be Caught In A Net And Kicked In The Balls Party)

9) Anthony Worrall Thompson (STFU You Fat Middle Class Twat Party)

10) The Chuckle Brothers (counts as one choice - Just Because Party)


I think if we are concerned about global warming, overcrowding, childhood obesity and the state of the economy we should jetison these over-inflated wind bags with due haste and sleep well knowing we did our bit for the planet.

Father's Day

Although I buy into the whole idea that if we take our dad's for granted the other 364 days of the year we could at least take one day to say 'thanks dad' and buy him a pint, I refuse to purchase a pair of novelty boxers or cheesy mug with 'world's greatest dad' on it.

My dad gets a card and a bottle of ale.

I love my dad and appreciate everything he has done for me over the last thirty years. His care did not stop when I moved out, or got married, or bought my own house, oh no. He has always been there for me, popping over to have a look at that leaky tap or fitting my loft ladder. He is the hands on dad that shows how much he loves me by solving my DIY problems (or in my case putting right my DIY disasters) and slipping me a tenner when my mum isn't looking.

He is the ultimate practical man.

When I was growing up, he worked a lot, often leaving the house before me and brother were out of bed, and returning late and tired when we were bathed and ready for a bit of telly and bed. It was the weekends that I really enjoyed because that was when he pottered. There is an art to pottering, and my dad is ace at it. He always had a little job that needs doing, still does even though the bungalow my parents have retired to is immaculate. He is the sort of man who likes to keep his mind and his hands busy.

I was his apprentice.

Anyone who grew up in the seventies, and early eighties will remember Chippy Minter, the carpenter from Camblewick Green. He had an apprentice who helped him, fetched his tools, hung around trying to learn the craft by watching, assisting and generally hindering. My dad was Chippy Minter, and I was his apprentice. I would be at his shoulder every minute of those precious weekends, handing him a straight screwdriver when he asked for a Philips, putting my greasy hands on his new paintwork and invariably being called indoors by my mum with sawdust in my eye.

My favourite job was warming up the putty for windows.

My dad and I rarely talk on the phone, he gets the abridged version from my mum whom I chat with incessantly, but he is always there should I need advice or support and it is a result of his endless patience that, as an adult, I am perfectly able to rotate my own tires, assemble flatpacks without even glancing at the instructions (which are normally in Swedish anyway) and lay a vinyl tiled floor with the minimal amount of mis-cuts and swearing.

I love my dad, he's the greatest.

Petting Zoo

From now on I shall be replacing the phrase 'Kiss my ass' with 'Lick my pig'

Evolution

Our patience has finally paid off. We have waited for the release of Age of Conan:Hyborian Adventures like dogs drooling at the dinner bell and now we're in. It is as good, if not better, than the hype. It is time to put away childish things . . .

These were two (of several) WoW characters we rolled.

These are our new characters on AoC. Spot the difference? It feels like we have evolved from that cartoon world where Roger Rabbit came from, to the gritty real world where Bob Hoskins works. If anyone is looking for me, I'll be in the Thirsty Dog.

Mature Cheddar

It may be a sign of the times, or motherhood, or turning 30 that has stirred a change in me, but I am no longer the twenty-something willing to settle for second best or adequate. These things are no longer good enough for me. This change in attitude reflects on my whole life. I am no longer satisfied with being overweight. I don't want a wardrobe full of clothes that I don't like or can't wear. I am no longer willing to put up with wallpaper I don't like, shoes that aren't comfortable, things that don't work as they should or the cheap and cheerful tat that has surrounded me for years.

I intend to spring clean my life.

This maturing I have experienced stems I think from the realisation that my life, my actions, my dreams and my achievements now influence others, namely my daughter. If I am unhappy, stressed, fat, unfit and unimaginative what example am I setting for a two year old?

Although I sound like I want more out of life, as in material things, the truth is the opposite. I am rarely impressed by big cars, big houses, expensive clothes and extravagant living. There is a greater dignity I think in living well rather than living large. I would rather have one pair of shoes that would last me a lifetime, walk on any road I chose and show their scuffs with pride than a hundred pairs of impractical shoes that, although admired for their fashionability, gave me blisters and were quickly binned.

The fact is, the more I want, the less I actually need.

The heart of the matter is this, I am rich beyond belief. I have a beautiful home, sedately decorated I suppose, often littered with toys, often full of laughter. I have a wonderful husband, my best friend in whole world, the only one who sees me as I am, the only one from whom I hide nothing of myself. I have a beautiful daughter who is always laughing and full of mischief, bright and inquisitive and eager to see and do and learn.

I want for nothing.

I wonder how many people in this world can say that. There is such emphasis placed on having high powered, highly paid jobs. Houses so large that the people living there never have to socialise with each other if they don't want to. Three cars on the drive when only one person in the house has a licence. It is shameful that we value these things above quality time with our family, good manners and good friends, simplicity in all we do and say.

I know I sound like I'm about to retire, rather than a 30 year old working mother, but I think my outlook is a reflection of an ideal rather than an age group. I think Danny Glover said it best in Lethal Weapon.

"I'm getting too old for this shit."

My Stuff

Some people are fantastic at one thing, I'm just mediocre at just about everything . . .

This was painted by yours truly.

No, before you ask, it isn't a vagina.

British Summer

The summer is just around the corner, although knowing the British weather it will be short spells of heat followed by days and days of wind/rain and/or hail, but it does mean digging out my flip flops from the dusty crevices at the bottom of my wardrobe and hoping they will be bearable comfortable to wear this year.

It also means dredging through my wardrobe for things that are not:
a) black
b) knitted
c) polo necked

There is something maddening about a British summer that makes people run out and buy tiny little vest tops two sizes too small and wear them over a black bra with three rolls of fat peaking out underneath. Women who should know better are suddenly and inexplicably drawn to denim hot pants and become convinced that its okay to buy a gold larmay handbag because it matches the shoes you bought in Mejorca three years ago.

And the men are worse.

There is nothing better for putting you off your icecream than to see a man in his late forties in sports (haha) sandals and cargo shorts with what can only be described as a bulging sack of hairy flesh hanging out in front. It is only the presence of a belly button that identifies this luggage as his stomach, and turns mine.

The bank holiday weekend proved to be a red rag to a bull for the worst offenders. A little sunshine and the population goes crazy. We were shopping in our local supermarket when a male offender walked past us, sandals and cargo shorts, thankfully wearing an open necked polo shirt. The shirt, however, stopped at his belly button which hung over another eight of ten inches of stomach swaying rythmically lower than I think his dick would have hung.

Worst part? His belly was tanned.

We can hope it was Saint Tropez but we know it wasn't, don't we?

The Gunslinger

You are not intentionally stone
Alone in this grappling waste that has bleached your bones.
You sit downwind of the dream laden fires
That reflect in your heart, at your hip, in your eyes.

You have drawn on your friends, on your past
On the three who are linked to you finitely.
The undead boy is the foe you fear most
And in paleness you ride, death follows you close.

Be not ashamed of your natural want
Or your talent for firing when other men can't,
You would love me and kill me in the space of an hour
But you'd sing me my name, in chorus with yours

From your dark cursed tower.

Kick Ass Moves

Have been attending a Khai Bo class at my local leisure centre run by a laid-back instructor who seems unperturbed by the gaggle of women who turn up every week to kick and punch our way to fitness with varying degrees on accuracy/hilarity.

I studied Ju Jitzu in my youth (we're talking ten years ago, before the baby and the addition of three stone) and this kick boxing aerobic stuff is right up my street.

This week however, two guys turned up for the class, a brave move on their part as this sort of excercise class is rarely frequented by men. There's something very intimidating to a guy, turning up to a gym class to find a gaggle of housewives in lycra (not the attractive, svelt Stepford wives style shite, but lumpy, bumpy wearing husbands rugby shirts and jog pants with a sweaty crotch kinda thing) They were very brave.

They were also a little bit cocky.

There is a certain swagger about a guy who is accostumed to 45mins each way on a football pitch, who can spend two hours flexing and pressing every weight machine in the room (including the ones that I can't figure out how to work) and think they're pretty ripped.

Until they came to Khai Bo.

It is fair to say that Kenny stepped the class up a notch, that we worked through things a little faster, held the planks a little longer and worked that little bit harder. He didn't want them to go away thinking the class was too easy for them, and therefore not come again. Everyone there however, every single housewife, knew exactly what he was doing, and stepped it up too.

It is refreshing to see a six foot two defender humbled by a five foot mother of three who can complete the full set of abs without loosing her smile or ruining her hair.

We'll see if they come next week, shall we?

What a load of SH*TE!

Last time I saw something like this it was decorating the back of a public toilet door. That will be £7500 please . . .

Eye Of The Beholder

Over the last few years I have got back into painting.

The smell of turps could often be detected wafting under my bedrom door as a young teenager and, unlike some folk I went to school with, I wasn't drinking it. I was quite an avid sketcher, chalker, charcoler and painter in my youth, getting an A grade GCSE in Art and Design and I always regret not studying it further. Then life took over, uni, drinking, pizza, drinking, clubbing ... did I mention drinking? And my art took a back seat, so back seat it was practically in the boot.

Then for some reason I suddenly got the bug again.

Buying a house might have something to do with it, and furnishing the house with our own taste and style (don't get me wrong, the donations of furniture from well wishers who knew we had little was gratefully received, and appreciated, but there is a time to call in the bin wagon and replace everything with stuff we actually liked) And that went for the artwork too.

As a teenager posters adorned every square inch of free wall in my bedroom, as an A level student one wall was covered in revision notes and scrawl designed to help me study, and as a university student my walls were covered in hundreds of weird and wonderful photographs of my mates doing weird and wonderful things . . . usually after drinking.

Now, as a sophicticated adult (no sniggering) I like art on my walls.

I am not talking about a bunch of dogs playing pool or a tennis player scratching her arse, I'm talking about original absract stuff that no one else has. I do own a few prints from Ikea that I imagine everyone in Europe has somewhere in their house, but the rest of the stuff is mine. I'm no Leonado Da Vinci, in fact my talent runs into the abstract because frankly even the stuff supposed to resemble something . . . doesn't. There was one piece, however, that was a dramatic abstract sweep of pinks and reds that my art critic of a husband took one look at and said "Is it supposed to look like a vagina?"

I painted over that one.

It does no good to get disheartened over my stuff, no matter how amatuerish I think it is sometimes. At the end of the day I have painted a couple for people, sold one or two and that makes me an artist available for commission, I suppose. Sounds good doesn't it? If I ever need an ego boost I just log onto one of the many sites out there dedicated to showcasing up and coming artists and their exhibition, my favourite is the one funded by the Tate.

If they can sell a piece of scrap paper with a smiley face drawn in coffee for £1200 I think I stand a chance, don't you?

Hot, Sweet Tea

Because I could not quite reach death,
He reached across for me
And in his rundown cottage
We shared a pot of tea.
He told me all his troubles,
And I told him most of mine
He stood to brew another pot,
I welcomed lonely Time
Who had come knocking,
On the off chance that
The two of us were in
And although we'd finished all the tea,
We started on the gin.

Where's Willy?

This is an actual add from e-bay

Can you spot the seller who took the photo?

Can you tell me why he's naked?

End of an Era

The day of judgement has finally arrived. I have cancelled my subscription to World of Warcraft and for the next few weeks will have to find some other diversion to fill my time before something else comes along.

Maybe I'll get around to updating my blog, stranger things have happened . . .

Although I have enjoyed playing WoW for eighteen months or so it finally got too much. The grinding levels, the grinding gold, the grinding motes, the grinding resources, the . . . grinding. There was only so many level five warriors whispering me for help/gold/boost, tuxedoed gnomes dancing on the mailbox (often mercifully obscured by the draenai shaman parking his elephant) and endless platoons of gold sellers camped outside the auction house that I could stomach before I snapped.

I have been playing off and on for the last few weeks pretty much alone, begging the question why play a Massive Multiplayer game if all I do is quest by myself? Truth be told, I can happily play alone, questing and exploring and crafting to my hearts content, but this was different. I didn't really have a choice in the matter.

My hubby (instigator of my habit, and grinding/questing buddy) had given up the WoW ghost long before I got sick. Our guild of fairly jovial, helpful and chatty folk had uprooted themselves and made a new home on another server (namely Horde but I won't start dark side bashing) and out of the few of us left those with any sense left for raid guilds and never looked back. I however remained.

It is a sad thing, to watch something you saw grow and flourish, something you spend time nurturing and watering, crumble into slow death and disrepair. It is sadder however to watch to the bitter end and do nothing. Like any survivor must, I turned my back on the smoking husk and walked away . . .

. . . and I feel better for it.

And what of the future? Am I now to join the ranks of facile gossip hungry minions who crowd before the TV every night to absorb the mind numbing trash that passes for entertainment? Will I be made to care who won Big Brother, which celebrities are going to the jungle or who won this years' pointless media circus that dares to call itself a talent show?

Will I shite!

If you're looking for me this summer, try searching the vales of Hyboria where it is rumoured a band of warrior nomads are swathing a path of destruction under the watchful eye of King Conan.

The buxom mercenary with the bow in her hand might just look familiar . . .

Child's Play

Just what you always wanted,

a plush Ted Glen.






I'm both intrigued and terrified by what classes as good entertainment for kids these days. My own childhood was spent roaming Greendale with Pat and Jess, mending lost toys with the mice from the Mouse organ or travelling to the moon in a spaceship made of an old baked bean tin and a funnel.

I turned out ok, didn't I?

The minefield that is children's TV today, however, is another thing altogether. There are shows that I will allow my daughter to watch like Peppa Pig and Lazy Town (or maybe its me watching Lazy Town while she pretends to play with her toys) but there are many shows where I find myself scrabbling for the remote in horror.

While I am still queen of the remote control of power I will strive to shelter my two year old from the likes of Barney, whose wholesome american bullshit I find disturbing, and anything that involves a Disney Princess. Yo Gabba Gabba has won the award for strangest show in that it is incomprehensibly shallow and presented by Shaft's little brother in an orange jumpsuit, and the
soulless parody of the Magic Roundabout (that they only get away with because the parents of the generation watching it aren't quite old enough themselves to remember it) is only worth mentioning because they must have spent mega bucks making something that frankly seems quite cheap.

It seems to me that our children are currently being borbarded with complete and utter trash designed to sell merchandise and make a quick buck. This shouldn't surprise me as this seems to be the way of the world and children are merely the softest target. My resolution? I've just bought the DVD compilations for Bagpuss and Button Moon, for my daughter, of course :)

German lay-by

If people didn't do it, they wouldn't need a sign

The Yummy Mummy Diet

Nearly everyone I work with is currently on a diet. It is hard to sit in the canteen now without someone passing comment on how many calories have just passed your lips and suggesting that you swap your rice crispie square for a curly wurly and save eighty calories. I have this to say in response ...

DIETS DON'T WORK!

Take it from someone who firstly has been at varying degrees of obesity for almost her entire life and secondly has tried every diet out there. You name them I've probably done them. I've done the high protein one, the low carb one, the steak and banana one, the grapefruit diet, the meal replacement shakes and the green bean soup one that me and my flatmate tried and she started to halucinate. Don't get me wrong, I lost weight. More weight on some than others but ultimately I ended up right back where I started.

And the reason none of these diets work?

YOU CAN'T EAT THIS WAY FOR EVER!

So you give in to the smell of chips and all of a sudden you're off your diet and back to eating the way you used to and the result? The weight you just lost eating nothing but cottage cheese and rivita (which should only be used to deter mice from taking up residence in your home, once they see you have rivita they f**ck off somewhere else where they have proper food) piles back on plus a five percent tip.

So are there ways to eat normal food and still shift this two stone of baby weight? (Ok I lost most of the baby weight just getting her to come out but I have to use some excuse for being this size rather than being addicted to bourbon biscuits and pringles) The answer for me is both incredibly simple and yet infuriatingly complex.

I HAVE TO CHANGE THE WAY I EAT FOR LIFE!

That's for the rest of my life as in forever, until death. It will mean skipping an aisle or three in Tesco so I'm not even tempted to slip a packet of HobNobs under the mange tout without anyone noticing. It might mean putting more effort into dinner (I am a cordon bleu in opening a tin) but this is the price I have to be prepared to pay.

I have lost 20lbs so far, that's about a stone and a half and the reward for my efforts? I bought a new top for a Christening I went to the other week and had to get a size 16. I don't think I was a 16 when I was sixteen. Think you'll be seeing me on the cover of Slimmers Magazine? Only if it's the issue with a free packet of HobNobs :)

Poetry is Dead

Reeling, kneeling
At the feet of a man
Who kneels no more
But lies eternal.

A voice at my shoulder
Sympathic and shy
"Someone close?"
He had noticed that
Wet corner of my eye.

"Just someone dead."
I had said
And left him
To kneel in my place.

Blonde Printing Out Her CV

Swim In Poo

In the spirit of new year new me I have dragged my blubbery carcass to the swimming baths for the first time in possibly seven or eight years. I can say categorically that nothing has changed. The smell of chlorine and wet dust and wee permeates the air and the slapping sound of people slipping on their nylon clad arses en route to the showers can be heard regular as clockwork. I now have a two year old excuse to belly flop the large floats but it has to be said that there has always been a two year old deep inside me screaming to get out and a trip to the baths is like unleashing the dragon.

I can remember swimming lessons from junior school being a torturous affair with a gaggle of girls all fighting over who didn't want to stand next to the kid with psoriasis and skid marks. I also remember the two PE teachers who took us never, and I mean NEVER EVER getting their kit off and getting in the god damn pool. I imagine I'm an olympic standard swimmer when I'm fully clothed and standing on the side.

I also remember a girl called Lisa doing the 50 metre backstroke with one pre-pubescent boob hanging out of her costume and no one telling her in case she failed her badge.

I still take my towel to the side of the pool to reduce the time spent in full view to an absolute minimum, although my costume is now a regulation nylon Reebok rather than something that looked like my gran knitted it. I still hate putting my head under the water or getting my hair wet (I heard a rumour that if you dye your hair the chlorine can turn it green and I'm not about to prove them right) and I still end up next to the skid mark psoriasis kid only he's put on fifteen stone and now has a back like a gorilla.

The moral of the story? That some life experiences will never let you mature beyond the age of twelve? That these things exist to force humility even on those with the perfect ten (they're the ones who have a wedgy but you decide not to tell them) or that the slings and arrows of childhood scar us for life?

I used to pass a leisure centre to and from work every day where the local scroats would rearrange the letters on the side that should have read 'SWIMMING POOL' but would often read 'SPIMMING WOOL' or my particular favourite 'SWIM IN POO'

I don't swim there, don't think I ever will.

A poem like what I have wrote

Separated at birth were we,
Who face each other across this table,
Not recognising the women we see
Unable to keep our hands stable
Or our eyes still.
It was all beyond our will
So out of control.
They stole her from me, me from her
As if we wouldn't mind
As if our kind are immune,
But when our eyes met we knew
That the years meant nothing
And we had never truly been apart
In our hearts,
She was me all along, and I her.

8 Second Abs

Dear Sir/Madam

Having ordered the '8 Second Abs' system
from your website, I was hoping for a full
refund as it is not what I expected.

Yours Sincerely

My Other Life

A little melodramatic perhaps, got people thinking I run swinging parties from my garden shed, nothing so risque I'm afraid. My other life (the time left once my working day is done, my two year old is in bed and I've loaded the dishwasher) currently revolves around MMORPG, namely one MMO. Must I stand in a room with others like me, raise my hand, usher myself to my feet and in the feeble voice of a hardened addict tell the room in no uncertain terms that "My name is Sharon, and I play World of Warcraft."

Mine is not a tale a woe, mild husbandly neglect perhaps but certainly not a life to pitied. My husband has been into MMO's since we met and I entered our marriage with my eyes wide open, knowing I was to be his second wife (at the time I think Earth and Beyond was his first love) and as the old addage goes 'if you can't beat em, join em' so I did.

It may have started with an alt on his account, a weekend gamer who only really got online when he was either a) at work or b) at football but times have changed. I was never one to follow the soaps or to give a monkey's ass who won Big Brother, but I can often be found charging through Alterac Valley on a white tiger (as my mate Los would say) just for 'shits and giggles.'

Is this a monkey I want removed from my back? Is there something wrong with talking to people from all over the world while dancing on the mail box in your pants? The fact that I can write that sentence and know someone, somewhere is smiling to themselves and saying 'Yeah, I do that sometimes too."

It would be interesting, however, to see how many other WoWWags are out there, wives and girlfriends who have got into gaming because frankly there was nothing on the tele and he sounded like he was having way too much fun upstairs alone. In my experience these husbands and boyfriends have unleashed two headed monsters on the gaming community, girls who won't show their helm because it clashes with their hair colour, then can be found at three in the morning leading a forty man (and woman) raid on Ogrimmar.

"What tangled webs we weave." Said the black widow, wiping her lips daintily with a napkin.