Pre-children Saturday mornings used to be about lie-in’s, lazy breakfasts while often nursing a hangover. Now they have become the manic part of my week as both boys have embarked on an early football career, while my daughter dons her tutu at dance class. My role is normally covering the Darcey Bussell side of things but with hubby’s sometimes inconvenient working hours, I on occasion have to cover football training.

I have never called myself a feminist, never been tempted to burn my bra for the cause and even though I have come across one or two neanderthal men in my time, I am able to grin and bear any “woman’s work” type comments. I am lucky to be surrounded by men in my life that have a great respect for women. My Dad grew up with 3 sisters, my brother has 3 daughters and my husband has me, so they haven’t really had an option but to embrace a bit of equality.

But when it comes to the battle of the sexes you need to experience Saturday morning football. From the minute I rock up with the boys, you can almost choke on the testosterone thick air. My boys are 4 and 8 and they are divided in year group, so not very conveniently they are situated on either ends of the field. I’m always late, it’s a talent I have, so normally I’m trying to force football boots and shin pads on younger son while the coach takes the teams (they’re 4 remember) through a pre-match strategy talk. As he rattles on about ‘clean tackling’ and ‘tactical passing’, his not so captive audience fidget and pick their noses.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s a great football school which is run by the church so friendly, fairly non-competitive and most importantly cheap and includes a free cup of tea and biscuit. But it also means that it is run by volunteers, so each week the coach is looking for helpers to run a team of 5 in the matches. This is my favourite part, the parental audience are heavily out-numbered by Dads not wanting to look keen but absolutely desperate to put their hands up. It’s normally the same few that take part and even though they arrive clad in tracksuits, football socks and gloves they have to go through the whole non-committal responses “I don’t mind pitching in, not fussed, ain’t a problem, either way.” And once the coach has made his decision, the other Dads have to remain non-plussed about it, even though it’s clear they are crushed to not have their hour of being a wannabe Harry Redknapp. I am sorely tempted to turn up one week in full sports gear, jog up and down the side lines, do a couple of over-the-top stretches and lunges and put my hand up for a go. My team would be useless, I still struggle with the offside rule and yes 4 year olds are meant to understand this, but it would be worth it to see the shock on the Dads faces.

I do love seeing my boys do their stuff though, eldest son has been playing for 4 years now so is very confident with his training. But it’s youngest son’s lot that are the most entertaining. No matter what the coach and Dad coaches say to them in the pre-match briefing, along with the wasted time putting them in positions of defence and mid-field, the minute that ball is thrown into play it’s like a swarm of wasps all chasing it elbowing each other, aiming at whatever goal is nearest whether it is theirs or not! Brilliant!

Both our boys are very capable at their game and youngest son, despite his more miniature size compared to the others, he is a little firework zooming about the pitch. However, neither me or hubby are looking to fill out any football academy applications. The way I see it, it is a hobby and dare I say it if any men are reading this, it is only a game…. I really don’t want to put them under any unneccessary pressure to be the best, unlike unfortunately a few of the other Dads with their sons, shouting from the sidelines constantly, showing disappointment when a goal is missed. I’d rather they ace their maths and english then become player of the week. Still, it is near impossible to stay totally quiet on the sidelines, and much to some of the Dads amusement I do find myself cheering and screeching “go on son” then cringing afterwards!

My Dad accompained me to football training recently and another Dad approached him to compliment him on my younger son’s football ability. Obviously no point talking to me, as I’m only there to hold the coats. Anyway, my Dad was grateful of this Dad’s quite over-the-top praise of our boy. I was confused by the whole conversation, no names were exchanged, no pleasantries about the weather, a total football dominated conversation between two strangers. Afterwards, I quizzed my Dad about the football obsession that some men have and he quoted a famous ex Liverpool football manager Bill Shankly who was once asked by a reporter ‘whether people take football too seriously, as if football were a matter of life and death?’, Shankly replied ‘No it’s much more important than that’. Need I say more.

I love a good awards ceremony, Oscars, Bafta’s, Grammy’s, Emmy’s, Brit Awards, Soap Awards, actually maybe not the last one, but you can’t beat a bit of snooping at the outfits and sniggering at the gushing speeches. I’ll admit on the surface, an awards ceremony can be a bit dull, especially I would imagine if you have to attend it as the highlighted version we watch is still about 2 hours long, we don’t have to sit through the non essential awards for Best Special Effects, Best Costume, Best Coffee On Set, Best Trailer Decor, etc.

I awoke this morning excited to see the winners of this year’s Oscars. BBC Breakfast News congratulated the non-UK winners through gritted teeth. The silent French film The Artist swept the awards. Bill and Sian desperately tried to wave the GB flag via Meryl Streep’s Best Actress award as her portrayal of Margaret Thatcher, which was excellent, but as Sian stated 2 or 10 times that it was a British film about a British Prime Minister. To distract us from the fact that the French did very well, the BBC duo patted their backs that Britain did very well in Sound and Make-up awards, yeah cos that is what everyone really wants to win!

Still, nothing is as nauseauting as the E! Channel’s 24 hour “Red Carpet Live” footage. Where the main ambition of the programming is what is everyone wearing and who is going out with who, with their perky presenters obsessing about every detail with stalker type interview techniques. Ryan Seacrest takes the lead on the red carpet, asking the intellectual questions such as “Who are you wearing today?” where a botoxed starlet answers in a rehearsed reply, “This is a Gee-von-shee dress with Loo-boo-ton jewellery which my stylist picked for me, isn’t it aaaamaaaazzzzinggg!”. Seacrest clearly has a hard-hitting journalist background going by his slightly awkward interview with French actor from The Artist, Jean Du Jardin. Du Jardin seems to have very limited English, however, it wasn’t necessary for Seacrest to loudly over-pronounce his questioning, “Arrre yoou exciiiited abouuut theee aaawaaard?” to Du Jardin’s exciting response, “Ummm yes”. Fascinating television.

You have to love the newbie winners too, Octavia Spencer was awarded Best Supporting Actress for her role in The Help, when asked the inane Seacrest question, “How does it feel to win?” she replied “Man, it feels like getting cake!”. Ok then. Still makes a change from hearing the word amazing fourteen times in one sentence. And she didn’t let us down with the sobfest acceptance speech either.

You’ve got to feel sorry for the less attractive actors, while George Clooney swans past with his latest stunning model arm candy, Jonah Hill (the chubby one from the likes of Forgetting Sarah Marshall type films) brought his Mum as his date. He explains to Seacrest because his Mum always wanted to experience the Oscars, yeah right haven’t got a girlfriend then Jonah?

One of my other favourite things about awards ceremonies has to be the ‘haven’t won’ face that the other actors have to express when the winner is announced. Best Actor this year went to Jean Du Jardin, meanwhile Brad Pitt, who was tipped for this accolade, gave the best tight lipped disappointed face, as trout pout other half Angelina rubbed his shoulder sympathetically. Kenneth ‘Muppet Lips’ Brannagh was just happy to be seated in the first four rows so didn’t mind not getting the prize.

But for me, the main reason to watch it is so I can have a butchers at the dresses. A fashion expert on Breakfast News said this morning that the dresses are mainly custom made on 6ft tall models so that when the likes of midget sized actresses like Michelle Williams wears it the dress looks so long it could have been made from a parachute. While being interviewed about ‘their amazing experience in this amazing place’ they can pose perfectly but it’s the walking away that is my favourite part, watching them hoick up their dresses like milkmaids sort of ruins the whole effect.

I was recently invited on a spa weekend by two very dear friends of mine. For the cost of a weekly shop, we were promised a night away of pure indulgence, revitalise time, total relaxation and many other descriptions that made us sound like shower gel.

We arrived at a very modern looking building in the middle of nowhere, where all staff were required to be beautiful, skinny, have permanent botoxed induced smiles and a very fabricated orange skin colour. We were escorted to our rooms by a perky “Spa Technician” who gave us a pep talk on how to ‘embrace the experience of our stay’. Once in our room, we were encouraged to change into our swimwear and Spa white complimentary dressing gown and slippers and remain in those for the time of our stay ‘for total comfort’.  We were given our itineraries as we were all booked in for a massage each, unfortunately because 2 of us had delayed our departure on a very important mission (buying chocolate, wine and trash mags from the shop) it meant that 2 of the massages had been missed due to our lateness. So a little disgruntled, we shuffled (really that is the only way to walk in those slippers) to the relaxation pod to try and rebook our missed massages.

We entered the treatment reception, feeling like a cast member of a glamourous remake of the film 1984, to join in with all the other dressing gown clad inmates. After a quick argument between my assertive friend and a heavily hair extensioned “Beauty Technician” we were informed they were fully booked so 2 of us would have to wait until the next day to have our treatments. Luckily for me, my massage was still on and I had 10 minutes to wait for ‘Stevie’ to come and collect me. So I waited nervously in the chill out zone hoping Stevie wasn’t some enormous sweaty man about to pummel my limbs. We chatted and giggled in our threesome until we heard a few tutts and huffs coming from other inmates. One of my friends pointed at the wall above our heads where in large lettering the word SHHHHHHH!! was emblazoned. We stopped talking, sniggering like a bunch of schoolgirls as a  ”Barista Technician” squeaked past in a pair of noisy trousers disturbing the enforced silence.

Thankfully a very female Stevie collected me for my massage, she led me to a darkened room with panpipe music playing and instructed me to make myself comfortable. Once I had laid on my front and wedged my head through the hole of the massage table, so I was now looking at the floor, I really didn’t feel very comfortable! Stevie got to work on “encouraging my tension to leave”. She was very capable and about 50% of the massage was enjoyable, but the other 50% was a bit painful or just really really tickled, so involved me flinching, then apologising, Stevie telling me not to worry, then her doing it again. Once the 45 minutes was over, the last 15 minutes of which I spent trying to ignore the fact I needed a wee, I did feel really relaxed. I shuffled past a few dressing gown clad inmates oddly wrapped in blankets on sofa’s. Then I was once again back in the chillout zone where I found my 2 friends in massage chairs, heads shifting from side to side while they winced at the pressure massage in their backs. We all agreed it was time for some pre-dinner drinks in our room!

According to our itinerary we were to dine at 7pm, so we quickly chucked on our glad rags, slapped on the make-up and hairspray and replaced our shuffling slippers for heels. Convincing each other there must be a atmospheric restaurant and happening bar where we could spend our evening, we found ourselves in a dining room with dressing gown clad inmates eating their dinners. We suddenly felt like we were wearing clown costumes as we received a few bemused looks from the relaxed diners, one lady even had a towel wrapped round her head while she tucked into her risotto, there has to be a line to cross here? Thankfully, after we were seated, some other inmates arrived in normal clothes, although we were still in the minority. After 2 bottles of Chablis, we soon didn’t care and the food was delicious. We then headed to the bar, which we almost walked past mistaking it for a cloakroom, it was only the dressing gown clad drinkers propped at the bar that made us look that way.

So, after a few more wines, our extremely helpful (tip hunting) barman Henry explained that the bar was closing soon and after we stopped wailing to let him finish, he informed us that most people came here to drink vegetable juice and not get drunk. Well, we had included our wine consumption in our relaxation needs so we obviously had to find somewhere else to continue our evening. Henry then explained that we weren’t really supposed to leave the site but he knew of a wine bar in the local village that we could go to. We glanced at each other, we really shouldn’t, we’re responsible Mum’s, we couldn’t sneak out of a spa and go gallavanting to strange bar’s in an area we didn’t know. So as my friend hissed “wimps” at the last guests heading back to their rooms, we had got the address and harrassed the night porter for a cab number. Henry wished us luck and made us promise not to tell anyone he suggested this plan as he got in trouble for this once before. So ignoring the warning bells going off in my head, we staggered past the begrudging night porter who helped us escape into the night.

The wine bar was like a party in someone’s front room and as we stomped through the entrance, everyone stopped to look our way and I had the distinct feeling that tumbleweed had passed in front of us. The next half hour (that is all it was open for) were rather sketchy with the high point being the free shots as a welcome for the fact that Henry had brought more customers. Low point was the lack of toilet door and no light (seriously) so we had to make a human door for each other’s ablutions. After half an hour our daring adventure was over, so we rang our cab to ferry us back home. A few hours later, the alarm went off and our room resembled a rock star’s abode, clothes scattered everywhere, empty wine bottle on the floor and 3 half full vodka cocktails brought back from the ‘wine bar’. We dragged our severly hung over bodies into the shower and back into our dressing gown uniform and shuffled off to breakfast. And although we were greeted with a plethora of cooked wonders to choose from, all of us opted for a coffee and a bit of dry toast.

My friends crept off to their massages, both very aware of the wine/vodka toxins escaping from their bodies. I attempted to plunge into the swimming pool to cure my hangover, which only made my head pound more. We did feel guilty as our sheepish dark ringed eyes were met with the healthy complexions of the other imates, but we reasoned that you can relax anytime but can you break the rules every weekend? We know who had a better time out of all the guests. We’ll just have to make sure next time we do a spa weekend we rebook a different spa, preferably with a pub next door!

I haven’t written my blog for a while and the reason for this, without sounding like I’m trying to get out of P.E. at school, is that I have had “women’s problems”!

I shall spare you any icky details, but it culminated in a bit of day surgery last Wednesday to deal with the ovary area… ok too much detail already, but I have to say without dissing the good old NHS, what an experience that was!

I was instructed to arrive bright and early, make-up and nail polish free, at 7am for my impending surgery. I was ushered into a waiting room by a very grumpy receptionist who didn’t seem to be appreciating her early shift and made to wait for the nurse to call my name. There were approximately 12 other women with very uncomfortable looking husband’s and boyfriend’s sitting next to them, all of us inspecting each other’s day bag and mentally trying to work out each other’s reason for being there. My hubby was at home dealing with the school run as I was feeling oh so independent refusing help and playing it down as usual. Now I’m the ONLY patient sans partner I’m regretting it a little, still I can read my intellectual magazine (Heat) uninterrupted while I’m waiting.

Finally, our names are called one by one and we’re led down a corridor into a circular room with 12 beds seperated by a thin curtain, a bit of a newly decorated M.A.S.H. army hospital feel about it. I am then renamed “Bed 6″ by the admitting nurse and told to find my pot to pee in and hospital gown. Oh the glamour. I had been told not to drink for 12 hours and now I have a cardboard funnel to fill, oh well passes the time as Bed 6 I am also number 6 on the surgery list. Bed 5 is currently in deep debate with the anaesthetist about needle phobia.

Bed 5: “You ain’t putting no needle in my hand without knocking me out!”

Anaesthetist: “I have to put a needle in your hand in order to put you under sedation, I have a cream that numbs the area.”

Bed 5: “I don’t care what cream you have, I ain’t having no needle in my hand. Don’t you have some gas or summat I can have first?”

I’m thinking someone please pin her down and get the needle in, I’m next in line and I can’t stomach anymore of Peter Andre’s interview about how he is learning to trust love again!

Once they have bound and gagged Bed 5 (not entirely sure that happened but they did wheel her off quite quietly) I am being wheeled along the corridor wincing at every doorway while the porter chats away to my nurse. Next thing I know I’m in the operating theatre, a different smiley nurse joins my right side, a now stressed looking anaesthetist (post Bed 5 saga) on my left. Smiley nurse asks me why I look so nervous? Erm… I’m in the operating theatre I thought you would have put me out before I got to see the big lamps and people scrubbing up for surgery.. where’s Hawkeye?

Meanwhile, anaesthetist is complaining about my rubbish veins and slapping my hand eyeing me suspiciously. Perhaps it’s due to my enforced day of fasting yesterday and not a possible heroin habit which the look in his eye is suggesting? He finally attaches the humongous needle contraption into my hand, am feeling where Bed 5 is coming from now and says “Now you sleep” in a Count Von Count from Sesame Street voice, I think I must have passed out before I heard the laugh!

Next thing I know I am forcing my heavy eyelids open and I am in a different room with a young male nurse seated next to me telling me to ‘come round in my own time’. I try to climatise to my surroundings, I can hear the male nurse talking to another male nurse about his upcoming holiday to Playa D’en Bossa in Ibiza, his words are drifting in and out of my subconscious as I desperately try and wake myself up; “I can’t wait, it’s gonna be mental” he says. I need to tell him I know loads about Ibiza, have been there about 7 times over the years, so I turn my head sharply in his direction, squint my eyes open as much as I can force them and say in a bit of a manic voice, “You have to go to Ibiza Town, my friend’s had a bar there, you have to go”, I didn’t bargain for the fact I have probably had a ventilator tube down my throat and haven’t consumed any liquid for nearly a day now so my voice is something out of The Exorcist. He shoots me a look as if my head is going to start spinning round and nervously nods his head. A little voice in my head is saying shut up shut up shut up but I can’t seem to, this boy obviously needs my advice, this young hip 20 something needs advice from the mental looking patient in the bed, so I continue, “I’m going in May, it’s so cool there.” He continues to nod at me slowly while inching his plastic chair back a little. Cool is not a word I deserve to use at this moment in time. “When are you going?” I ask him in my Madge from Neighbours voice. “June” he squeaks thanking his lucky stars it’s a month after me. Next thing I know, Count Von Anaesthetist pops up and injects more inebriating formula in my hand, I don’t try and protest so they wheel me back to Bed 6 where hubby is patientally waiting, bless him, I genuinely have never been so pleased to see him.

I’m doing well with my recovery. Daytime TV is hard work but thank the lord for my Kindle and Sky Plus. Am very blessed with very attentive friends and family and the operation was a success, promising no more problems in the future. Fingers crossed as I wouldn’t want to repeat that experience anytime soon!

I have become quite an expert over the years surviving on little sleep. From nights mis-spent in my youth staggering home in the early hours, having a cat nap then layering on the touche eclat to drag myself into work bright and early a few hours later. Then having kids, the sleep deprivation really kicks in, especially with newborn twins on hourly feeds through the night! I have personally witnessed my hubby wind the dog at 3am in a confused fatigued state!

But now my social life is a bit more civilised and the children generally stay asleep at night, why is it that I have suddenly started to develop insomina?

Having children has turned me into a light sleeper as I always have one ear tuned on the kids, so it doesn’t take much to disturb my slumber these days but its the getting back to sleep I really struggle with.

Firstly, I make the mistake of looking at the time then calculating how little sleep I have until my alarm goes off. Then for some sick punishment my mind goes into overdrive and I can’t possibly nod back off until I have obsessed over varied random memories.

Did I make the right decisions in life? Was I too unhealthy in my younger years? Should I have taken that promotion at the job I did 10 years ago? Why did I go out with the wrong guy for so many years? Why why why do I have to worry about these things at 2am?

Then I start making mental lists, must play more board games with the kids, must be a more cheerful Mum and Stepford type wife, am going to buy a slow cooker and make my own nutritious soups…. sleep sleep sleep…. but my brain has not finished yet, even though with a quick glance at the clock I now have exactly 3 hours and 37 minutes till my alarm, I must worry about the effects of global warming and promise to make more effort to take my fruit juice cartons to the recycling bin at Sainsburys.

I must get back to sleep but I’m a bit wired from my brainstorm session and my arms feel like they’ve grown in length, I can’t seem to bend them behind my head and if I lay my head on the pillow my heartbeat is really loud in my ear. Right, get a grip, meditate, assume yoga pose, deep breaths, imagine you’re laying on a beach hearing  the sounds of waves…. oh great now I need a wee!

Back to bed, have found a comfortable position, hubby has ceased snoring, have 2 hours and 51 minutes till alarm. Need a sleep remedy, a friend once told me to elevate one arm until you can’t hold it up anymore and it should make me feel so exhausted I shall fall asleep, I try this… ouch now I have pins and needles.. Right, I will close my eyes and not allow myself to open them for any reason until sleep is inevitable, or maybe I’ll just open one eye slightly just for a second so I can check that I now have 2 hours and 16 minutes till my alarm!

Am I alone in this? I know I’m not, lots of people suffer from insomnia, but when you are in that zone it can feel incredibly lonely, the street outside is dark and quiet, everyone is asleep other than me.

Then hubby’s alarm goes off, 2 hours before mine because he is on an early shift, he gets up groaning with the realisation that his shuteye is over, I snuggle down under the quilt now feeling smug that mine isn’t and fall immediately to sleep.

X Factor is back! We are now at the mercy of Dermot O’Leary on a Saturday and Sunday evening, a power shake and a serious amount of patience is required to endure the marathon show which includes excessive ad breaks, a ridiculous movie trailer style voice-over for every contestant, and the ever competitive cringy comments from the judges, but god is it addictive!

This year we are ‘treated’ to a new line up of judges, apart from Louis that is and who exactly has he got ‘information on’ to still be employed by this show? Don’t get me wrong it wouldn’t be the same without the ickle irishman and his clueless taste in talent… Wagner, Jedward, in case you think I’m being mean, he was responsible for Westlife covering Barry Manilow songs, who pays this man’s wages? But it really wouldn’t be the same without his camp staging of his acts and his random (unhelpful) responses to performances such as “you were born to do this” and “you’ve grown in this competition”, seriously he said both of these tonight, its the first show, but my favourite Louis comment of the night has to be “I believe in you” which he said to mostly all the acts, he really is one step away from Bruce Forsyth!

Still, I am impressed with Gary Barlow, he’s a much nicer Simon Cowell even with the ‘smell the fart’ acting face he does for each performance so you really don’t know what he’s going to say next, genius!

Tulisa is a much better Cheryl chair choice, she keeps threatening to “say it how it is” but not sure she’ll risk her contract on that.

And Kelly has obviously been told to “America it up” in her new role, with memorable sayings such as “you hot momma” and “hell yes” and “Damn girl!”.

Still as the judges would say at least 15 times an episode it is an “amazing” show and even though most of the perfomers are below 20 years old, we have to remember that this “is their dream, it’s all they’ve ever wanted, they can’t do anything else, and they don’t know what they’ll do if they don’t get through”. Clearly, we owe it to them to keep watching!

I have been meaning to write this particular column for a few days but keep getting interrupted or can’t remember the point I want to make!

Let me explain, I was wondering the other day whether its motherhood or just age which is giving me early memory loss? Did I diminish my brain cells in my sometimes crazy youth? Or do you never really recover from pregnancy brain when the extra hormones that your body is producing might be making your hair thick and glossy, but also manages to turn you into the local village idiot as well!

Or maybe it’s the constant interruptions from my kids that is triggering a mini amnesia attack, as I do often find myself walking into a room then forgetting why I’m there. Or think of something really important/funny to tell a friend/family member, then ring them up, get side-tracked then babble on saying “I had something I really wanted to tell you.. what was it?”  The most used application on my phone is definitely my “to-do-list” app, setting myself alarms throughout the day for the most trivial things that I should really be able to remember independently, such as take library books back, buy dinner tickets, call doctors, etc. I was the Personal Assistant to The Editor of ITV News for god’s sake, how can I not remember the simplest of tasks now!

Then I was thinking about every phone call I have now, every conversation when with my friends, if my kids are nearby I must say the sentence, “what was I just saying?” at least 10 times. My kids might be all cuddled up watching a DVD or be engrossed in some sort of game, then as soon as the phone is attached to my ear it’s like Children of the Corn, they immediately stop what they are doing and shuffle towards me, “Mummy Mummy, I want…I need…”.  I went to the park this morning with my best friend and her 2 children, we started so many conversations which were interrupted by one of the little ones that we gave up in the end and spoke on the phone when we got back to our homes, which predictably was then interrupted!

No wonder my brain has stopped registering memory after a few seconds, it obviously sees it as a pointless exercise!

Time is something that is in short supply for me now, lots of things I used to take time over I now seem to condense or multi-task.

I was thinking this about music recently, I no longer seem to have the ability to settle on one song, music television channel or radio station for any length of time. When driving, I like to mainly listen to Xfm and Absolute as I prefer rockier type of music, however, I find it virtually impossible not to “surf” through the pre-set channels for an old cheesy classic on Heart or Magic or checking in with Kiss for any decent dance music. And then there are the times when No1 son is in the car, it always gets switched to Capital FM for chart music, which I find hard to like any of! Then when the twins are in the car they demand I play “The Lion Sleeps Tonight” off an old 80s compilation I used once to calm a tantruming daughter and now its ALL they ever want to listen to, and at full volume, you should see the looks I get from passers-by when I have “a-wimbaway-a-wimbaway” blaring from the car on the school run!

But what I think the biggest musical difference since my youth is the obsession factor. Before the age of downloading when we used to have to buy the albums on CD and vinyl, it was the most exciting part of my Saturday hanging out in HMV buying the new album to whatever artist I was obsessed with that month, then getting home and listening to every track over and over, studying the literature insert, deciphering the meaning behind the lyrics. I practically slept with Nirvana’s Nevermind album so meaningful the songs were to me! I went through a slight obsession with Lenny Kravitz first 3 albums, taking them everywhere with me, forcing them on friends and families – the modern day Jimi Hendrix, his last few albums I’ve bought I’ve listened to sporadically, sticking with the few tracks I liked and ignoring the rest.

Maybe there is too much choice now, MTV was only the music channel my friends and I watched, Top of the Pops was still an important programme to catch on a Friday night.

I recently saw the excellent Foo Fighters in concert and love their latest album, am looking forward to Red Hot Chili Peppers new album release next month but I know I won’t be rushing to the shops to buy it, bringing it home, closing my bedroom door, playing it through from track 1 to track 12 while studying the inserted literature. I will promise myself to listen to it all though, resisting the urge to switch back and forth to the radio halfway through.

I have always loved having a social life. I am often the one out of my group of friends that arranges nights out, pre plans weekends away, day trips, etc.

In my late teens and 20s I was always the one refusing to leave whichever bar/club we were in until the lights came on at the end, which is always a bad idea to see who you have actually been dancing with for the last 2 hours on the dimly lit dancefloor! I can remember many a night spent club-hopping then staggering into Brick Lane Bagel Shop en route home, make-up having slid off, complicated hair do now completely flopped and the outfit that I spent all week putting together now creased and splashed with vodka cranberry.

The 90s were all about baring midriff with teeny tiny tank tops and combats and trying to recreate Bjork’s multi buns hairstyle. Preperations for a night out with my best friend took at least 3 hours, listening to Beavis & Butthead give their unique take on music on MTV, crimping/straightening our hair using half a can of Silvikrin hairspray, then trowelling on the make-up, over-doing the eyeshadow to make our “eyes pop”, 15 layers of mascara, wedging our feet into super high shoes, we were ready! A sneak past the parents on our way out to the cab (that had been waiting 10 mins) and a raised eyebrow from my best friend’s Dad in a “what are you wearing” look? It was the be all and end all of my existence back then.

Nowadays, I’m not so enthusiastic, don’t get me wrong I love a night out with the girls but the getting ready part is about 15 mins now, which involves my twins ransacking my jewellery/make-up bag, lots of “that’ll do” responses to my desperate attempt to tame my hair. I can’t do queues like I used to and definitely haven’t got the ballsy attitude of “you want us in your club” I used to use on the trendy doorperson with the clipboard! My choice of pubs/clubs nowadays need to hold a decent wine list, lots of seating area, I like a live band (as long as I can hear myself over it). I can do a clubbing night, but prefer it if its a place that plays cheesy music “that I can dance to”.

I won’t give up the nightlife, but don’t feel the need for a 4am finish to my evening now. A trip to the cinema, a nice meal in a good restaurant, finding a couple of sofa’s to sink a few bottles of pinot with the girls that’s what it’s all about for me now.

Do I feel jealous when I see the 20 something girls going out now, taking our mantle? Not one bit. It doesn’t look one bit as fun as it did in my youth!

Train delays, slow waitresses, post office queues, automated phone services… the list is endless of things that try my patience. Patience is something I have always thought I’ve had in abundance. I’ve never been one to complain, never penned an angry letter to a train company, have never been able to leave a waiter/waitress without a tip even if the service was rubbish.

But a true test of patience is becoming a parent. For starters, you have to wait 9 months for the baby to come, it’s a long time! Then the sleepless nights, I had been warned, we coped with no1 son, tantrums, fussy eating, we managed. But when the twins arrived, that was the testing period for this particular virtue! My daughter had colic, for 2 solid hours every night and the only way she slept was in the baby sling or in her chair by the washing machine, when either of these were not viable to use, we rocked her and rocked her, singing nursery rhymes in a slightly manic high pitched voice. Tantrums x 2, Fussy Eaters x 2, we are managing….