Song of Asharde

Things My One Year Old Would Rather Play With

2012-01-22T20:40:00.015Z

. . . than the hundreds of age appropriate and educational toys provided for her.

1) plastic bottles from the recycling
2) the TV remote
3) two wooden spoons and the hall radiator
4) coat hangers
5) a wireless keyboard dongle
6) the CD rack
7) a smelly trainer
8) a tissue box
9) junk mail
10) the mop

The Iron Lady

2012-01-15T17:09:00.037Z

I am so glad that someone has made a film about this formidable female icon of British history. I am even more thrilled that they found an American actress to play her and that it will hit general release before the real life Baroness pops her clogs. Perhaps, in a moment of clarity, Baroness Thatcher will see the film and, looking past the rosy glow of hollywood, feel sorry for those who suffered under her reign.

The Poll Tax riots
Privatisation
The Miners Strike
The Falklands

To name but a few of the ecomonic and political horrors we, as a nation, suffered under Maggie Thatcher. A iconic figure of hate in her conservative blue suit, stepping on the working classes in her patent two inch heel. Many will not mourn this woman when she shuffles off her mortal coil, I would say there may be a queue of people outside the cenotaph with their dancing shoes on waiting for the moment this woman is put in the ground.

Let's hope the film does well anough to allow the profits to pay for the lavish state funeral to be awarded this beacon of misery. But, no, it is perhaps a fitting end to have that bill fall at the feet of the tax payer. Her final insult to the working class.

One Step at a Time

2012-01-08T22:04:00.005Z

Dissolve the Resolve

2012-01-01T17:34:00.001Z

Okay, I admit in the past I have trashed the whole resolution idea, being the dissolutioned old cynic that I am. But if you had to listen to as many people as I have as they harp on about the mental line they have drawn in the sand between them and their demons, you'd be cynical too.

The biscuit addict signing up to Weight Watchers (again), the forty a day smoker stocking up on patches (that they're never going to use), the scatterbrain buying her page-a-day diary.

I am not a kill joy by nature but I have grown weary of nodding my head and making those affirming noises that people need to hear, while knowing categorically that in a matter of weeks we will be here again, sat at this same table, having that other conversation about what went wrong.

My general (and relatively uneducated) feeling is that people are full of noise but that annoying clatter rarely amounts to positive and contructive action. I have lost count of the people I know whose New Year's resolutions have gone the way of the do-do by the first week of Febuary while the people who have succeeded in their goal, well I could count them on my nose. "Count them, Jim. One."

I personally threw in the towel on the resolution thing years ago, not through fear of inevitable failure, but because January is a stupid time to make these promises to yourself. It's freezing outside, blowing a gale, the tele is the best it's been all year (not saying much, granted) We've just spent the last two weeks stuffing our faces with rich food, chocolate and booze turning the twenty pounds we were planning on shedding this year more like thirty and the gym is full of treadmill hogging wankers.

We are doomed before we even begin.

I took to publishing an accomplishment list, stating things I had achieved in the previous year but, although we have a new baby and I'm now a fully qualified dispenser, 2011 has been otherwise uneventful. So it would be easy to fall back on old habits, listing resolutions for next year that I will struggle to keep and then feel like a failure when I fall short of my own exacting standards or I could list the things I DON'T want for next year and hope that this list written by my own hand (well, two finger peck) will stand as a reminder to my weaker self.

1) I don't want a wardrobe where 80% of the clothes don't fit me.
2) I don't want to spend every day doing what other people want.
3) I don't want to miss out.
4) I don't want to sit on my half finished novel for another year.
5) I don't want to teach my kids bad habits.
6) I don't want to lose any more friends to apathy.
7) I don't want to worry about money all the time.
8) I don't want to apologise for being myself anymore.
9) I don't want to be too tired to enjoy my kids.
10) I don't want to care what people think.

I hope 2012 brings you all a little more of what you want, a little less of what you don't but, above all else, good health and happiness to you and yours.

Next Christmas

2011-12-25T17:18:00.001Z

Dear Santa

Thank you for a wonderful Christmas, all the lovely the presents, the delicious dinner . . . hang on, that was all down to me. Next year could you send the Christmas fairy to take care of all that so I can just put my feet up and enjoy it? Oh, and could I have Christmas Eve off rather than spending it stood in a shop being shouted at?

While you're at it, could you also make me worry less about other folk, take more time for myself and make people feel obligued to shower me in gifts in thanks for the hard work I put in all year making every other f**ker on the planet happy.

Other than that, booze and pyjamas would be fine.

Yours sincerely

Sharon
xxx

Festive Food

2011-12-18T14:59:00.000Z

It seems as soon as there is a sniff of Christmas in the air, the celebrity chefs crawl out of the woodwork and start telling us how to par-boil a sprout. Granted they must film these Christmas specials in July, but that is no consolation when you're being patronised by some tubby arsehole in a festive jumper (but enough about Anthony Worrall Thompson)

The fever spreads like measles with the likes of Jamie Oliver and Delia Smith promoting supermarkets they don't shop at, while Lorraine Pascal does her best to look convincing while taking a tiny bite of something you know she won't swallow. There are so many chefs (chefs mind you not cooks) who think we have nothing else better to do than to comfit our duck legs and the likes of Gary Rhodes and the Hairy Bikers who think we should all eat more butter and lard.

Well at least these guys look as if they eat and enjoy what they make, poor old Gary wouldn't last the winter in my neck of the woods.

Then there's Nigella; curvacious, vivacious, voluptious, Nigella. Mistress of temptation. She appears before us in her silk dressing gown and slippers, licking her lips and whispering her secrets of domestic goddesshood and we can't fail to be impressed. I have seen her drinking cocktails in a low cut evening dress, rolling out a black cab in killer heels, stumbling into the kitchen as she removes her elbow length gloves and dons her marigolds and then . . . she preheats the oven.

Anyone else would be found in a drunken stupor by the firebridgade among the ashes of what was once the entire street, but not Nigella. Even pissed as a fart, she is able to set something away marinading before she falls into bed with her makeup still plastered to her face and her marigolds still on her hands.

Don't get me wrong, I love to cook and bake and make Christmas food that demonstrates how much people mean to me (nothing says I love you like homemade chocolate fudge) But I have a life and aspiring to the perfect foody Christmas presented on these shows is a meltdown waiting to happen.

I love Christmas food, but I also love shortcuts and cheating. Things come in jars and packets for a reason, so some other poor buggar can spend weeks perfecting the recipe and everyone else can just buy a jar of it. I would love to have the time to make mince pies with little stars on top, dusted with icing sugar, or a mammoth chestnut and mushroom pie just in case the one vegetarian I know comes round but I don't.

I don't have their huge, cavenous houses and cosmopolitan friends either.

Our modest little Christmas will be as it always has been, full of good cheer, good people and tried and tested favourites that might not make an impression on Masterchef, but grace my table year after year.

Frozen Planet

2011-12-11T20:17:00.000Z

A fantastic series, make a cuppa and pop you're dressing gown on, you're going to feel the cold.

Comfort and Joy

2011-12-05T04:19:00.000Z

Here we are again, my friends, another year drawing to a close. That paranoid and panicky season when we feel compelled to rush out and spend money we do not have on crap we do not need.

We agonise over gifts for people we don't even like and for what? A badly spelled and grudging thank you? (By email, the ability and desire to use a pen slowly dimishes with each generation)

Add to this the current economic climate (a phrase I hate, considering I am in no position to predict or change the weather patterns) 2011 brought with it a recession, financial crisis in Europe and pay freezes across the public sector. We will have to pay more into our pensions in order to get less out and everyone working in retail will be made to feel grateful to still be employed rather than mourn the demise of the Christmas bonus.

Is it a Tesco value chicken and oven chips for dinner this year?

And yet as Christmas approaches, the footfall increases, the queues lengthen and the patient tempers fray as they have in previous years. The snow has held off another month later than last year, giving people a wild eyed look as seige mentality overtakes them. They won't be caught out this year, they will have a fridge and larder stocked to apocalyptic levels and they will trample or trolley barge anyone who comes between them and their emergency turkey.

And once again I shake my head at the madness.

We have a new addition to the family this year, a little sister for our princess who will be eleven months come Christmas and these girls, these two glorious, happy, healthy girls are all the Christmas cheer I will ever need. Their grins on Christmas morning when they open what, by today's standards,will be a modest amount of gifts will lift my spirits for the coming year.

I don't care that I've pulled the Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve shifts this year (someone has to work them) I don't care that hubby and I don't have the spare cash for gifts for each other. I wouldn't care if it was oven chips for dinner (be less washing up - don't put the idea in my head)

I am certain my Christmas will be full to the brim with joy.

Black Friday

2011-11-27T20:10:00.000Z

Like most other American traditions such as Wal-Mart (cleverly disguised as Asda) Halloween hay rides and covering your entire house in Christmas lights to confuse low flying aircraft, we who have no reason to celebrate Thanksgiving are being exposed to the idea of Black Friday.

To us Brits Black Friday is traditionally the day Jesus was sent to the cross, giving his life to save humanity (from the original sin his father gave us in the first place - don't get me started on that shit) but anyone who browses Amazon looking for cheap DVDs will have seen the special deals this week.

A pre-Christmas chance to grab a bargain seems like a good idea (in these strapped economic times) until I read about the woman in America defending her discounted xbox with pepper spray. Twenty people were directly affected, including seven children.

I would like to think this is an isolated incident, one slightly unhinged woman who forgot to take her Citalopram that morning but I fear this may be a symptom of the growing hostility we have for our fellow human beings.

Don't get be wrong, I have occasionally stood at the crowded tills in my local supermarket and thought how much easier things would be if a dose of Captain Trips wiped out half the dithering idiots in my way. I once ran over a woman whose spacial awareness has deserted her (with a cumbersome pram not a car) but crowd control should be left to those who have received the appropriate training.

As for the xbox lady? Happy Holidays you f**king nutjob!

Children in Need Bake Sale

2011-11-20T21:24:00.000Z

Chocolate chip shortbread

125g softened butter
55g caster sugar
180g plain flour
25g dark chocolate chips

Another Year Wiser

2011-11-13T12:57:00.000Z

Another year, another birthday.

As I creep slowly toward my mid-thirties I realise that I am aging quicker than I think. I have occassionally struck colleagues dumb with a pop culture reference from before they were born, or started a conversation with 'do you remember' to find that no one did. I often look at young women in the street and think 'did your mother let you go out dressed like that?' Last week called my phone a 'blueberry'.

Are these the actions of a vibrant young woman with her finger on the pulse? Am I suddenly out of touch with anyone under the age of twenty-five? I fear I am and yet I find the idea comforting.

I am a child of the eighties when there was no broadband streaming the answers into our homes. We did our homework the old fashioned way, by walking to the library, finding a book on the subject and paying 5p a sheet to photocopy it.

I bought CD singles at Woolworths, knowing by money counted toward something.

Today we have British Safety standards for side impact protection car seats for all children under thirteen. Back in my youth we had the wheel arches in the back of a Ford transit that you clung to with white knuckles while you avoided loose tools rolling at you on roundabouts.

We didn't have birthday parties at Krazy Kingdom, two hours of chicken nuggets and soft play. If you were lucky you got a lopsided homemade cake, a bag of chips and got to choose which video to rent that week.

We didn't have ethernet game consoles, wi-fi or apps. We had a Spectrum 64 with a tape deck and 'outside'. If you didn't want to play 'outside' you were given jobs to do like tidying your room, or topping and tailing a bucket of gooseberries. Heaven forbid you ever complained that you were bored. Being bored meant you were given a task that began with you putting your wellies on and fetching the wheelbarrow.

We had Sindy dolls, Star Wars figures and our imagination. When it rained (and it had to be bucketing otherwise you were given a cagoule and told 'it'll clear up') you had to play Connect Four on a towel on the kitchen table.

The highlight of the week was a Supermousse.

I look back on all these things with affection and hope that in some small degree I can bring to life these simple pleasures for my children. Sometimes we sit at the kitchen table and play dominoes, or play bagsy with the Argos catalogue not because it is all the entertainment we have, but because it's fun.

I am proud to be the age I am, otherwise look at what I might have missed.

Bitches, Please!

2011-11-06T21:34:00.000Z

Devil's Chocolate Cake

2011-10-30T20:26:00.000Z

The secret ingredient to this dense, moist cake?

Beetroot.

You read right, beetroot, don't ask me why it works but it does. This recipe came from the Asda magazine and will be a favourite for the spooky party we have on Halloween every year.

175g unsalted butter
100g dark chocolate
250g cooked (not pickled) beetroot
3 large eggs
100g cocoa powder
225 SR flour
200g caster sugar

Durham Light Infantry

2011-10-23T21:24:00.000+01:00

My maternal grandfather served with the Durham Light Infantry during the Second World War but, like many who survived the unimaginable horror of trench warfare, he didn't like to talk about his experiences. As his granddaughter, born seven years after his death, he is a man I would have liked to have known and it was important to me, my brother and my mother that we have more to remember him by than his tattered medals and a generic postcard from France.

We got in contact with a man compiling information, photographs and stories of the DLI and, using his knowledge and contacts he was able to fill in a few details for us. We now know which battallion my grandfather served with, his rank (a Lance Corporal) and have had some old photographs restored of him astride a motorbike on the front lines. We have also requested his service records from the MoD.

This quest for information led us to a full family tree search, something that various members of the family have attempted over the years to varying degrees of success. After ploughing through birth, death and marriage records, the census from 1851 onwards and even tromping round graveyards, we have traced one branch of our family back seven generations.

Some useful links for anyone interested in doing the same:

www.newmp.org.uk
- the website of John Dixon, the man compiling information on the DLI. He is contactable directly through the email address on the site and would welcome any photos or stories about the DLI during WW2

http://county.durham.gov.uk/sites/dli/Pages/WelcomePage.aspx
-the DLI museum and art gallery, Aykley Heads, Durham

www.findmypast.co.uk
- one of the better family tree creators I have used, this site allows you to view the census, birth and death records at a reasonable cost (£6.95 for 60 credits, giving you 90 days access and costing an average of 5 credits per record that you can print out)

http://www.mod.uk/DefenceInternet/ContactUs/ServiceRecordsEnquiries.htm
- from here you can print out the form to request the service records for deceased service personnel, you do need to be next of kin and there is a charge of £30 and a possible waiting time of 6 months.

Droids

2011-10-13T21:27:00.000+01:00

Austerity Measure

2011-10-09T21:27:00.000+01:00

We are currently in the midst of a financial crisis.

Not just the banks, squandering away our savings on risky ventures, or the government borrowing from other governments in order to lend to other governments, but we, generally and specifically, are up shit creek.

For years we have been spending more than we earn, subsidising our lifestyles with loans, credit cards and overdrafts in a twisted game of economic Buckeroo. Did we think this would go on forever? Did we think we would never have to pay that money back? Money that was never ours in the first place.

So the bill has finally landed on the doormat, the catalogue man is at the door demanding his money and we stand, empty handed claiming we can't afford to pay.

Bullshit!

Our lifestyles have been bloated out of proportion, blurring the line between want and need. It has become too easy to have things we shouldn't be able to afford on our meagre salaries and feel that we have earned them. We gripe about an increase in council tax, something that pays for the collection and desposal of our rubbish, the maintenance of street lights and roads, yet we pay £40 a month for Sky, so we can watch reruns of crap we didn't watch first time around.

We NEED to pay the mortgage, light and heat our homes, feed and clothe our kids, however we CHOOSE to shop at Next and Sainsbury's rather than Aldi and Asda. We WANT Sky + with movies, a 52" plasma and a fortnight in Spain every June.

There is a word that describes us: spoilt.

The truth is we could live cheaply if we wanted to but we are addicted to everyday privelages that our grandparents would have considered gratuitous luxuries. Yes, we live in the modern age and have access to these benefits, our wages are tenfold those of our forefathers who struggled to feed a family of nine with nothing but a ration book and two threadbare hens. We are strides ahead of our grandparents and still feel we have the right to complain, strike and riot (many dropping a day's pay to do so) because no matter what percentage of the collective debt is our doing, we will stamp our feet, pout our lips and refuse to pay a penny of it back.

I have gone from feeding and clothing two on a double wage, to three on a wage and a half, to four on what barely amounts to a single wage. I shop at Aldi, clothe the kids in George and occassionally reach for a needle and thread rather than replace. I plan, I budget and more importantly, I think.

My advice to the masses? Quit bitching, grab and oar and start paddling.

Back to the Mill

2011-09-18T21:37:00.068+01:00

This week marks the end of my maternity and although I am sorry to come to the end of this time off with both my elder daughter and the new baby, I am also glad to get back into a role other than that of wife and mother. Don't get me wrong, I love my family and strive hard to look after them to the best of my ability but I need a break from the endless school run/nappy change/food shopping/nappy change/school run cycle. I need to feel that I am useful for tasks other than wiping snotty noses.

I am also in desperate need of adult conversation.

Conversations with my hubby (who is an adult - most of the time) consist of him telling me about his meeting with high rollers from head office, implimenting new stategies for dealing with complaints and bringing new people onto his team. My side of the conversation consists of the BOGOF offers in Tesco and the size, shape and colour of the contents of the baby's nappy today.

I have begun to loose my identity as a person.

It began when I started refering to myself in the third person. I have become a fantastical creature capable of dealing with any problem, righting any wrong. No matter how tricky, fearsome or gag-worthy the mess is 'Mummy will fix it.' It is as if I no longer have a given name nor wants and desires of my own. I have given over everything that I am to the three most important people in my life and the time has come to claw back a little of the old me.

Therefore, with only a little trepidation, I am lookng forward to returning to work.

Scruffy Looking Nerf-herder

2011-09-04T21:38:00.000+01:00

Proves It Was a Decent Paint Job

2011-08-21T21:39:00.000+01:00

Birthday Boy

2011-08-07T21:14:00.000+01:00

Hubby's Birthday cake

If Only . . .

2011-07-17T21:41:00.000+01:00

Android

2011-06-26T21:50:00.000+01:00

Reigning Men

2011-05-29T21:51:00.000+01:00

British Actors worth the licence fee

1) Colin Firth
2) Alan Rickman
3) Anthony Hopkins (Sir)
4) Derek Jacobi (Oh, look, it's the Ninky Nonk)
5) Jason Statham
6) Ian McKellan (Sir)
7) Christian Bale
8) Daniel Craig
9) Dougray Scott
10) Gerard Butler

Closure

2011-05-08T21:15:00.000+01:00

Happy Easter

2011-04-24T14:07:00.000+01:00

Our entry to the school Easter Egg competition - Sonic the Hedgehog won

When I Grow Up

2011-04-03T21:47:00.002+01:00

As a child I had many fanciful career aspirations, mainly influenced by the hours of American tele we used to watch on Saturday afternoons, including a stunt man, a helecopter pilot and a soldier of fortune.

Join me in my reminescence and name the show.

1) Colt Seavers
2) Stringfellow Hawke
3) Francis Poncherello
4) Templeton Peck
5) Jonothan Higgins
6) Devon Miles
7) Rosco P. Coltrane
8) Dr Jonothan Chase
9) Wilma Deering
10) Jesse Mach

Quick

2011-03-13T20:53:00.000Z

Here's Your Problem

2011-02-06T17:37:00.000Z

One Born Every Minute

2011-01-30T18:38:00.000Z

This documentary, following the maternity ward of the Princess Anne hospital, Southampton was of great comfort to me during the final trimester of my second pregnancy. It reassured me in the weeks leading up to the arrival of our second daughter that no matter how tiring, troublesome or painful delivering this baby was going to be, I would not turn into one of those weeping, wailing women that make maternity wards sound like a field hospital during the Crimean.

I knew this because . . .
a) I have already delivered a 8lb 15 oz baby with no more than gas and air and a bottle of contraband orange squash (granted a hour or so before she was delivered I told the midwife to come back tomorrow as I needed some sleep)
b) I knew I had the full support of the eager father to be who will not spend my entire labour texting on his phone or eating a bag of chips.
c) My chosen mode of transport to hospital was a retired police officer with over 25 years of pursuit driving experience.

Although the naivete of some people never ceases to disturb me, I wonder what these women were expecting. It's a baby, it's head is going to be the size of a grapefruit (if you're lucky) and it's coming out the way it got in. It can't stay in there indefinately and no amount of screaming is going to hurry up either the baby or the midwife on standby with a heavier painkiller.

Women have been giving birth since we emerged from the trees and ran accross the savannah, medicine may have advanced, survival rates for complicated births has risen dramatically but we as a specie have learned nothing.

Our daughter was born on saturday afternoon, at 9 lbs 1 oz, just in time for tea. If I was relatively calm for the birth of my first daughter, I was even calmer for this one. In fact the midwives were ready to send me home, unconvinced that a woman who was calm and intelligible was actually in full blown labour.

The primary midwife assigned to me was newly qualified, she sent me a thank you note.

Too Much, Too Young

2011-01-16T21:49:00.001Z

Twelve Day of Christmas by The Rock

2010-12-26T21:21:00.000Z

On the night Test faced the Great One, This is what he'll see:

12 Sharpshooters stinging,
11 Eyebrows raising,
10 Spines-a-busting,
9 Noggins knocking,
8 Kicks-a-kicking,
7 Punches punching,
6 Suplex smashing,
5 Seconds of the people chanting the Rocks name.
4 Rock Bottoms,
3 People Elbows on your
2 Buck teeth

and an ass-kicking all over New Orleans

The Perfect Christmas

2010-12-19T22:47:00.001Z

There is no such thing as a perfect Christmas, we are too diverse a nation for that, but for every person there is an ideal and in that the essence of what Christmas should be. For some it may be non stop parties, other a little peace and quiet. Many aspire to the Christmasses of their childhood, while others want the festive season to be a grown up affair a world apart from what they have endured in the past. To each I wish a little festive magic.

Our traditions have grown, as we have, over the last ten years or so. We made a pact early on so as not to fall into the common trap of being forced to go to the in-laws one year and the outlaws (as we affectionately call my parents) the next. We justified our choice then by saying we both worked and Christmas was the one day we had together but now we have kids we support our decision. The pleasure of Christmas is rushing downstairs, opening presents, eating chocolate for breakfast, slouching in pyjamas while playing with all the new toys Santa brought.

Where is the fun in having to put all those new toys aside and be dragged out in the snow to Grandma's?

We stay home for Christmas, welcoming visitors if they choose to call but they accept us as we are, pyjamas til lunchtime and often anti-socially engrossed in our gifts. Our traditions (a list of which follows) are simple, accomodating and flexible enough to make Christmas a relaxed and stress free affair and long may that continue.

1) Send out Christmas cards after we receive the first one from our friends (we have one friend who always sets the ball rolling)

2) Gifts bought well in advance, ordered online and stored away to prevent last minute panic attacks (a no present pact helps, so no unexpected gifts from people you haven't bought for)

3) Tree put up while kids at school or in bed (less stressful than having the kids watch you struggle to get it straight or argue over trimming it - they wake up to find the Christmas fairy has been)

4) Deliver gifts early so people can pop them under their tree, no rushing around Christmas eve doling our presents in a sweaty flurry, and they know who you have and have not bought for in case they have forgotten the pact.

5) Stock up. We do this gradually over the weeks leading up to Christmas, buying an extra loaf of bread and emergency onion rings in advance so the shopping bill for December isn't ridiculous and if people do call you can rustle up a chilli con carne by merely opening the freezer and a tin. It also means that you don't have to rush out food shopping on December the 23rd at midnight in sixteen inches of hard packed snow.

6) Turkey cooked Christmas eve (Yes, turkey. Good enough for the Cratchits, good enough for us.) Less stress on Christmas day, we have slices in buns on Christmas eve and it is perfectly happy to sit in the fridge overnight.

7) Open one present on Christmas eve. This comes from our old tradition, before we had kids, of opening our pressies at midnight. We now open one before putting the kids to bed and that gift is usually a sentimental one from grandma that includes Christmas pyjamas.

8) The mincepie, carrot and thankyou note.

9) The Christmas Movie. The afternoon of Christmas eve, while the turkey is cooking we often have Muppet's Christmas Carol or Elf. Later on, when they kids are in bed, we often watch Scrooged (with Bill Murray)

10) Presents first, then breakfast followed by a morning of slouching in pyjamas playing with the new toys before slinging on some clothes for lunch at 1:30 or 2 o'clock. Tea is often a turkey sandwich if you feel up to it or Christmas pudding if you couldn't face any at lunch time.

God Bless us, every one.

Snow

2010-12-12T14:43:00.000Z

Tis the season for abandoning your car in a drift, skating to work down an ungritted hill, braking your ankle on frozen slush cravasses and walking the kids to school only to be told the teachers can't get in and it's shut.

The Inuit live on ever moving ice floes, sew their children into reindeer skin snowsuits and dig through metres of rock hard ice to find fish for supper. We get two inches of light, soft snow and the entire British infrastructure grinds to a halt.

This year, so the met office says (and we all now how reliable they are) has been one of the coldest in thirty years. Cold weather warnings, roads closed due to drifting, bridges closed due to high winds, flooding and sheet ice.

And I bet some dip-shit will still try to climb Ben Nevis in a cagoule and flip flops.

I Feel Sorry For The Dog

2010-12-05T21:30:00.000Z

Rest My Case

2010-11-28T17:21:00.000Z

Awesome

2010-10-24T20:52:00.000+01:00

Breakfast Aisle Six

2010-09-05T20:55:00.002+01:00

Wonder what they have the other five breakfast aisles?

Marriage

2010-08-01T20:52:00.000+01:00

Fiction

2010-07-14T20:49:00.000+01:00

Trolley Dash

2010-06-20T18:29:00.000+01:00

WTF?

2010-05-09T18:28:00.000+01:00

Happy Easter

2010-04-11T14:10:00.000+01:00

Our entry into a work Easter Egg competition - first prize, naturally - the biggest Thorntons egg I have ever seen!

Pity the Fool

2010-04-04T18:12:00.000+01:00

Clown Car

2010-03-28T18:25:00.000+01:00

Mothering Sunday

2010-03-21T21:37:00.001Z

There's a torn and dog-eared corner of my heart's leaf,

Whereupon such truths of womanhood are writ

That are handed down, each mother to each daughter,

Although distilled by each, as we see fit.

They are the oath and measure of our wisdom,

Of lessons learned, hopes dashed and battles lost,

And the foresight that each woman who succeeds us

Will shoulder lesser ills at greater cost.

We dismissed our mother's warnings, thought them futile,

Their lives but pale comparisons of ours.

And when we're called to show our due devotion

We honour then with afterthought and flowers.

But now I am a mother to a daughter

Who will grasp the sterling truth before too long

That a mother's love is like a mother's wisdom

Freely given, often tested, rarely wrong.

Coverage

2010-02-07T18:24:00.000Z

Farts

2010-01-17T18:19:00.000Z

Truly Madly Christmas

2009-12-22T20:11:00.000Z

Christmas things that drive me mad . . .

1) Coloured Christmas lights all over the house that flash
2) Anything that dances and plays a festive tune
3) Tinsel in all shapes, sizes, colours and thickness
4) Miserable staff wearing santa hats
5) Massive discounts on your guaranteed for Christmas sofa
6) Christmas outfits for pets
7) Same ten Christmas songs in every shop since October
8) Christmas earrings, especially if they flash or play a tune
9) People who queue from 3am in their sleeping bags outside Next
10) The generic soap cliff hanger, like I give a shit.

The Top 100 Questions My Three Year Old Asks Me Every Day

2009-06-29T15:02:00.000+01:00

Is it time to get up yet?
Can I come in your bed until it is time to get up?
Why have you got your eyes shut?
Can I jump on your bed?
Why can't I jump on your bed?
Is it nice in hospital?
Can I jump on the beds there?
Can I wear your shoes?
Can I have an icecream for breakfast?
Why can't I have an icecream for breakfast?

Why do we need to go to the shops?
Do they sell toys?
Can I drive the car?
How big do I have to be to drive the car?
How big am I now?
Do dogs drive cars?
Are we at the shops yet?
Are we at the shops now?
Is this a toy shop?
Why do you need money?

Where does the money come from?
Is there a man inside there giving out the money?
Does he not get bored?
Does he want some lunch?
Is it time for lunch?
What am I having lunch?
What are you having for lunch?
Can I have what you're having for lunch?
Can I have crisps with mine?
And then what?

What can I have after my lunch?
Is it in the fridge?
Can I look in the fridge?
Is it a jelly?
Can we make a jelly?
Is the jelly ready yet?
Can I touch the jelly?
Can I go round the block on my bike?
Will you peddle it for me?
Do dogs ride bikes?

Can I go to nana's on my bike?
Can I have a bourbon biscuit at nana's?
Can I have two?
Can I have things on the tele that are not boring?
Can I play in the garden?
Can I play bubbles in the garden?
Will you blow the bubbles?
Can I blow the bubbles?
Can I drink it?
Why can't I drink it?

Will bubbles come out of my nose?
What about out of my bum if I pump?
Is that a worm?
Can I pick it up?
Do worms bite?
Can I take the worm to nana's?
Does nana like worms?
Why not?
Can I take her a slug instead?

Can we go to the big park?
Can we go to the little park?
Can I have an icecream after we've been to the park?
Can I have an icecream after my lunch?
Can we have lunch at the park?
Can we have lunch and then go back to the park?
Why can't you go to the park when it's dark?
Can't we take a torch?
Can you hold the torch?
Will you carry me home?

What are we having for tea?
Is that what I'm having?
Can I have a turkey dinosaur?
Can I have more sauce?
What can I have after?
Can I have an icecream?
Can I dip my icecream in my sauce?
Can I dip my icecream in your sauce?
Can I eat it in the lounge?
Can I have a tissue?

Do I have to have a bath?
Are you having a bath?
Can we get in the bath together?
Can I wear your pajamas?
Can I have a story?
Can I have three stories?
Will you clean my teeth for me?
Why is it still light outside?
Can I come down and watch the football?
Do I have to go to sleep, it's boring?

Classy!

2009-05-24T14:14:00.002+01:00

Things I Remember

2009-05-17T16:52:00.017+01:00

1) Climbing up the foot of my parents bed, squeezing between them at some ungodly hour of the morning then spending most of the time poking my dad's eyelid open with my thumb to see if he was really asleep.

2) Picnics on the moors with a flask of tea, beef paste sandwishes, bags of KP crisps and my mum's special canvas fold out chair.

3) Photograph albums full of various relatives stood in front of their cars.

4) Washday, also known as 'Mangle Monday' when, during school holidays, I was tasked with turning the handle while my mother fed and my brother held the basket.

5) My father's shot gun, displayed on the arch above the dining table.

6) A blackbird's nest in the bush by the shed with five bright yellow, expectant mouths reaching up like ceramic pie funnels.

7) Picking pretty flowers that turned out to be thistle heads.

8) The ceramic dray horse and barrels that stood on my great uncle's hearth, and his collection of old frying pans in case anyone needed a coal skuttle mending.

9) A jack russel who used to like to ride in the wheelbarrow.

10) The smell of my dad's shed, the sawdust under the lathe, the petrol for the strimmer, creosote and PVA.

Free Amusement

2009-05-10T20:45:00.001+01:00

Now some folk find it hard to amuse kids on rainy days. I think I have an advantage, I think like a kid. So when faced with a rainy afternoon, a bored three year old and a mountain of toilet roll cardboard innards, I was possessed by something that would make Mister Maker wake up in a cold sweat (now if I discovered something to wake Sportacus up in a cold sweat, I think I could bottle it and become very rich indeed) The result was a kind of animal skittles game that kept her amused for ages and she kept going back to again, and again.

Added bonus, it cost nothing.

Other ideas for amusing kids for free.

1) Dress up in your best winter hats and scarves and go mountaineering to the landing, set up base camp and eat rations in a tent (saves on heating too)

2) Go to your local library, you can read as many new stories as you like and you don't even have to buy one out of guilt (like I sometimes do in Borders)

3) Play indoor rugby with a soft toy (a fluffy chicken works best)

4) Sort out your wardrobe (it's surprising how much fun kids can have trying on mummy's shoes and laughing at her big pants)

5) Put empty icecream tubs on your feet and go ice skating on the hall carpet

6) Make spaceman helmets from cornflake boxes and turn the kitchen into a shuttle with dining room chairs for seats and a cushion control console (you can then explore strange planets in your own living room such as Jelly-moon and the Bum-wiggle planet where the bot spiders come from)

7) The rubbish orchestra, now I know most three year olds don't need musical instruments to make a dreadful racket but you'd be surprised what you can do with elastic bands, bottles, rice, spoons and pans (other than make your neighbours write to the council)

8) Sock puppet theatre (it helps if the socks are clean, odd and have names like 'Wuzzlefuzz' and the 'Gum-gum Botty Wot')

9) Play shark attack (bit like pirates at school) put cushions on the floor and use the couch as a base. Take turns to be the circling shark in the water trying to catch the unwary sailors who fall in before they make it to safety.

10) Bake a cake. You don't need to be Nigella to follow a simple recipe (our favourite is banana cake - which is fortunate as I always seem to have a hand of slightly brown bananas begging not to be wasted) and you get to impress folk with your efforts. If it turns out crap, tell everyone the three year old did most of the work and they'll be full of nothing but exuberant praise as they bite into cake wrapped egg shell.

Unique, Like Everyone Else

2009-05-01T15:13:00.000+01:00

Two in the Bush

2009-04-26T21:34:00.000+01:00

You can tell the Spring Bank Holiday is approaching. You can't get parked within a five mile radius of Homebase, every guy you pass in the street has a growbag over his shoulder, you are awoken every morning by some guy trimming his hedge and kept awake every night by him cutting paving slabs.

Yes, it's that time of year again when we start to feel guilty over our long neglected gardens and make that weak and short lived commitment to do something about it. We pull out the worst offending weeds, take some wire wool to the grotty barbeque and then buy enough beer in the hope that folk will be too sloshed to notice the state of the garden.

And so we don our gardening gloves (that we buy fresh every year because we can never find the pristine pair we bought last year) and smile sheepishly at our neighbour over the fence - the one who has been griping none-too-quietly about the weeds coming through from our garden - ready to tackle the triffid that has taken over one side of the garage, or the mass of dandelions and field buttercups that used to be a lawn.

After several bank holiday weekends (they bunch them together in April and May to really give you good swing of the scythe) we seem no further forward and resort to the slash and burn teqnique which is quickly followed by swearing, getting nettled, nearly poisoning the dog with innappropriate use of weedkiller and then tossing three tonnes of gravel on it in the hope it won't grow back.

And all because Charlie Dimmock wasn't free and we were too scared that Irish bloke would put a great metal fin in the middle of the drive and make us pretend to like it.

I can poke fun all I like. I am no different.

We have had an overgrown ivy that is determined to consume our shed. It had grown thicker and thicker which each passing year and no matter how fast we hack it down it seems to grow back like Kirsten Dunst's hair in Interview With a Vampire.

I was determined this year would be different.

Rather than cut it back to something manageable, I decided I was going to have the whole plant ripped out at the roots never to return. I was fully aware that I may have to demolish the shed in order to achieve this but, at this point, I am expecting heavy casualties.

Starting on the farside, where it overhangs the pavement and tries to snatch passers by off the street like Audrey II, I discovered a bird's nest and all work had to come to a halt. As desperate as I was to attack the plant, I wasn't going to destroy some poor bird's house while their eggs were in it.

So I moved to the other side and was there on a ladder happily hacking off great chunks and throwing them in our newly aquired brown bin when I saw something furry in the undergrowth. Being a country lass I was not frightened by the prospect of something climbing up among the thick branches and gasping its last. I had convinced myself it was a rat or a weasel when it turned it's head and looked at me.

My three year old, playing happily in the yard, was aware that mummy had gone still as stone and was holding her breath. The beastie was alive and living in my ivy. Upon further inspection I discovered it was a cat, stray or feral I have yet to determine, but the bloody creature has taken up residence on my shed roof. I shook a branch and demanded it vacate the premises. A second, smaller head popped up in front of it and started to whimper.

The cat had crawled in there to have her kittens.

I am now left with the dilemna of having a mother cat and three kittens (at last count) living on my shed roof, a husband who has an allergy, a three year old who I wouldn't want to expose to a feral cat and a garden that still looks like the Heart of Darkness. There is no chance of adopting them. I wouldn't chose to have a cat, so I'm sure as hell not getting four by default. We have contacted the RSPCA who have suggested leaving her along until the kittens are bigger and she may move them to a more suitable home.

In the meantime, we are checking on our guests morning and night to ensure they're doing alright and keeping the backdoor shut in case they make a break for the house.

I blame the ivy, I think it's using the cats as human shield.

Love's Lament

2009-04-18T14:04:00.003+01:00

I heard his mournful curses

They came from far above

And when I turned to look at them

I was looking down on love.

He hadn't quite deserted me,

As I was once convinced,

He'd just stepped into shadow

And I hadn't searched there since.

He crossed to stand beside me,

Ran his fingers through my hair

And wet my cheek with love's last tear,

Too late to show he cared.

Birthday Girl

2009-04-07T14:02:00.001+01:00

My little teacup turned three today.

A small step on the long ladder of life but in honour of her special day we had a treasure hunt. It began with a card depicting a fruit bowl, once she found the fruit bowl there was another clue (along with a doll) that lead her on a merry dance through the house before ending up in her room where the final piece of the puzzle was awaiting her.

Her new doll's house complete with mummy, daddy, grandma, grandad, brother, sister, cat, dog and rabbit.

Isn't it great being three?

Fool Hardy

2009-04-01T20:40:00.000+01:00

Number One

2009-03-22T13:53:00.000Z

Two Year Old Wisdom

2009-03-15T19:47:00.000Z

Q: Have you got a cold?
A: No, I have coughs and snot and my nose is melting.

Q: Why is that baby in the dog kennel?
A: Because the dog needs to drive the ambulance.

Q: Why don't you like boys?

A: Because they have smelly feet and hiccups.

Q: Why is this doll in the teapot?

A: Because that's daddy and he's at work.

Q: Whether you meant to do it or not is irrelevant, isn't it?
A: No, because I am NOT an elephant!

Q: What will we do if you waste all the toilet paper?
A: Use wet wipes instead.

Q: What does that sign say?
A: It warns people that if they let their dog poo on the path and don't clean it up they will get into trouble.
Q: Is it the dog's birthday? Because that poo has three candles in it.

Q: What are you doing?
A: Tidying up.
Q: Why, is Grandma coming?

Watchmen

2009-03-08T22:37:00.000Z

I have purposefully been avoiding the discussions, reviews, trailers and general hype surrounding this film because, frankly, I wanted to enjoy it. The trailer has been roaming around the net for months with people slobering over it in the hope it will live up to the expectation generated.

Mixed response from me I'm afraid.

The story is sound, surprising and raises some philisophical questions that could keep a pub conversation going for hours. The cast is full of faces that I haven't seen much of and therefore didn't have any preconceptions about. It's gritty, beautiful, hideous and understated in equal measure and worth seeing.

I did look at my watch halfway through.

I wasn't bored, it was just one of those moments when so much had happened, so much had yet to happen and my left arse cheek had gone to sleep. At times like that it is easy to allow my mind to wander onto such things as 'do I need the loo?' or 'where won't be busy, 'cos I'm starving'

Highlights for me were the whole sequence with Rawshack in prison, and Doctor Manhattan's bright blue knob which seemed to follow me round the room like the eyes on painting in a Scooby-do haunted mansion.

Downlight? The worst recording of Halilula I have ever heard (makes those people from X factor look like vocally trained pros) shame as some of the other tracks used are extremely downloadable.

Things Motherhood Has Taught Me

2009-03-01T22:49:00.000Z

1) That my mother was often right.

2) Ninja-like stealth.

3) Single-handed dexterity.

4) How to stop anyone doing anything using only the tone of my voice.

5) That the world is not easily rationalised.

6) The best tickle spots.

7) To be suspicious of silence.

8) That age is a state of mind.

9) That there is fun to be had, whatever the weather.

10) There are more important things in life than tidiness.

Knowledge

2009-02-25T22:43:00.000Z

Knowledge, fickle Master.
You tear my brain to line your nest,
And when I bleed to do my best,
You mock me.

Knowledge, tireless leader.
You send me over burning coals,
And when your brand has marked my soul,
You mock me.

Knowledge, valued saviour.
You draw me back from foolish lengths,
Expose my weaknesses and stengths
And Mock me.

What Religion Did for Us

2009-02-19T22:48:00.000Z

Working Girl

2009-02-15T22:23:00.000Z

I go back to work full time as of next week.

This is my attempt to keep us financially afloat while husband is inbetween contracts with his agency. It's been a tough year for him with departments being axed, work being sent to India, temporary contracts being too temporary and recruitement agencies advertising positions that do not exist. The immense emotional pressure of knowing he is the major bread winner for us as a family has only added to his frustration.

And so I do what I can.

It has come at a good time for the company I work for. Our consultant has been struck by a strange malady (no I haven't poisoned her!) and is unable to work in the department while the doctor's try to narrow down what could be causing her swollen face and itchy skin. While she is quarentined it is up to we few who remain who are trained to work with the machines and chemicals of the photographic lab, to fill her shoes.

At this point in time I'd clean the netty for extra cash.

The truth is, however, that I love the photo lab. I would swap two days doing what I do (I think my official job title is 'dogsbody') for double that in the lab. The work is straight forward, the girls are fab, and our regulars are a hoot. If I had to go full time anywhere, it would be here.

I will, however, miss my little girl.

I will miss her something rotten. What will become of my social life if I have no playgroups to attend, no messy time, no toddler swim sessions or trips to the park? How will I cope without her cheeky face at my elbow every minute of my day? How can I eat my lunch without little hands stealing grapes off my plate? How can I go to the loo without a little voice calling "are you doing a wee or a poo, mam?"

I hope hubby enjoys this time with her as much as I will miss it.

Dreams and Goals

2009-02-05T22:48:00.000Z

The Bugle Boy's Alarm Clock

2009-01-26T22:34:00.000Z

The Year of Thrift

2009-01-19T21:21:00.000Z

Since everyone seems to have been affected by this credit crunch (my credit has been crunching for years) I thought I'd share some ideas on how to save pennies. Some, I appreciate, are sheer folly (others down right dangerous) but they may just save you a packet.

1) walk to work (doesn't apply if it's over five miles and involves crossing a six lane motorway)

2) take a pack lunch (it's cheaper and safer - the spotty guy from Subway didn't sneeze in it)

3) leave your purse at home (it's hard to pick up lunch hour bargains when all you have for currency is a five year old packet of Polos and handbag lint)

4) share a bath (great with your partner/crap if you get the end with the taps and/or dripping showerhead - fun with kids/not so much fun if they poo)

5) visit the library (even if they have to order in the book you want it will only cost you twenty pence - it's also quiet if you're hungover and not full of as many tramps as you'd think)

6) bank your pennies (raking around down that back of the sofa may not be your idea of a good time but a good coin scrounge can sometimes reap £80 in spare change)

7) throw a clothes swapping party (this doesn't work if all your friends are size ten and you're . . . well . . . NOT - but fab if you're bored with your accessories and you have richer friends who shop at nicer stores)

8) walk to the supermarket (you can only carry so much -although I have tested the limits of human endurance - so you spend less)

9) eat out (not false economy if the 'out' happens to be parents house and you called 'to see how they are' around dinner time - can also apply to parents-in-law)

10) colour your own hair (do the math - Saks = £40 vs Boots = £4.99 + free shapers bar with the advantage card points - do not sue me if it goes green, you chose the colour not me)

Motivated?

2009-01-10T22:24:00.000Z

It has begun.

I have been attending a spinning class at my local leisure centre for a few months now but as places are limited you have to book in advance. I haven't been able to book a place for weeks. It seems that everyone and their Aunt Fanny has decided that this is the year to get their flabby arses to the gym and try something new to shift those excess Christmas pounds.

And every single one of them chooses MY class.

There is hope that after a few sessions they will give up (some will give up after the first session in the saddle) and I'll be able to get my usual slot back. Until such time I will be running in the fresh (is slightly damp and chilly) air and may have to blow the dust off some of my old fitness DVDs.

I should probably warn the neighbours to glue down their ornaments too.

Be Resolute

2009-01-01T19:47:00.001Z

May 2009 bring you more of what you hope for and less of what you expect (I hope we win the lottery, I expect even if we do, it will be a tenner, divided between a syndicate of 35) Bah, old cynic that I am.

You'd think, with the change in attitude even I can hear in my own voice over the last few years (marriage, a daughter and turning thirty may have mellowed me - the jury is still out on that one) that I would have something positive to say about New Year and, in particular, New Year's resolutions.

Well I don't.

I know some folk see it as a new start, a reason to get off their arses and do something about those nagging things that have been left to fester all last year (some would say that's why men have wives, so the nagging to do these things can continue throughout the year) but we all know it's a crock of shit.

We promise to do things, to be things, to begin things and to finish things, to be people that we are not. The promises we make to ourselves and our loved ones never change. We always want to lose weight, to shape up, to quit smoking, to quit drinking, to solve our money worries, to make a difference, to make our home/work balance actually balance and to be an all round better and more organised person.

And we want instant results and it to be easy as falling off a log. Who are we trying to kid?

Funny isn't it, the way we all eat like pigs at a trough until the 31st December and suddenly on the 1st January we no longer have Jaffa Cakes for breakfast, eat crisps in secret in the car going to work or class exercise as the dash to the Spa in the rain for late night chocolate.

Suddenly our bodies are temples that will only have organic, wholesome nourishment that comes in miniscule portions and costs more than drugs. We attend the high priced gym every night after work, no matter what. And we make lists of things to do, people to call, accomplishments to work toward.

And we fail at them all.

I am not trying to break the resolve of anyone who has made one of these life changing promises and has the determination to achieve it. Let's face it, if you have the motivation to achieve something you want in your life (or out of it as the case may be) you won't wait around for January next year to start on the path will you? You'll decide to get right on it, no matter what time of year, and power to your elbow.

You are the minority.

The rest of us will break our promises, stumble at the first or second hurdle and go back to our old ways with the reassurance to our egos that at least we tried. There's always next year.

I am not imune to the lure of the resolution, I have made the same ones every year for a decade: to be thinner, fitter, richer and generally better off, and I have accomplished, to varying degrees, all of those. Not all the paths began on the 1st of January, not all the paths have reached their destinations yet, but the determination with which I have approached them has never faltered and never will.

So rather than making promises that I'll have disregarded by February, I'd like to publish my accomplishment list for 2008.

Last year I:

1) lost 50lbs in weight

2) got back into running

3) started writing a new book

4) taught my daughter to swim

5) made a dozen new friends

6) lent my voice to a trailer

7) started learning sign language

8) got in touch with some old friends

9) discovered quorn

10) kept a blog

Penicillin for Christmas

2008-12-25T19:49:00.000Z

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

2008-12-20T19:49:00.000Z

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

2008-12-15T20:48:00.000Z

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

2008-12-04T18:58:00.001Z

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

2008-11-28T18:58:00.000Z

First Ewok - "That guy's wise."

Second Ewok - "Martin Short?"

Push Me - Pull You

2008-11-20T18:53:00.000Z

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

2008-11-13T18:52:00.000Z

Now that's a birthday cake!

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

2008-11-05T21:39:00.000Z

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

2008-10-31T20:08:00.000Z

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

2008-10-21T20:45:00.001+01:00

John Cena Taps Out

2008-10-11T19:58:00.001+01:00

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

Strange side effects

2008-10-05T21:12:00.000+01:00

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

2008-09-23T20:44:00.001+01:00

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

2008-09-21T14:46:00.001+01:00

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

Playgroup

2008-09-17T20:38:00.000+01:00

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

2008-09-04T20:25:00.000+01:00

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

2008-08-30T22:02:00.001+01:00

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

2008-08-27T15:56:00.001+01:00

Life's a Beach

2008-08-27T15:55:00.001+01:00

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

2008-08-08T20:46:00.001+01:00

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

2008-07-20T20:06:00.000+01:00

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

Things Folk Don't Know

2008-07-16T20:37:00.000+01:00

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!

2008-07-08T20:50:00.001+01:00

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

2008-07-05T20:43:00.001+01:00

Come on, answers on a postcard, what is her superhero identity?

A) Flubber

B) The Fat Avenger

C) Fry-up Girl

D) F*ck Me, What Was That?

E) The Five Hundred Pound Ass Whupper

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

2008-06-29T22:22:00.000+01:00

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

2008-06-22T15:01:00.000+01:00

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

2008-06-15T20:48:00.000+01:00

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

2008-06-08T22:45:00.000+01:00

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

Evolution

2008-05-25T14:15:00.000+01:00

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

2008-05-18T12:47:00.000+01:00

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

2008-05-11T21:10:00.000+01:00

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.