Author Archives: An Ounce of Me

Manhandled by a Meerkat!

WARNING: The following blog contains explicit talk on the subject of mammary glands.

I need to talk about boobs… nope that’s a horrid noun… what other word can I use??? Other suggestions I have googled are hooters (too strip joint), jugs (too derogative), cleavage (too posh), bosom (too matronly), knockers (too Carry On!), or good old-fashioned breasts perhaps? Even saying ‘breasts’ forces me to say the word a bit quietly as it sounds a bit rude, it wouldn’t sound rude if I was referring to chicken breasts but just ‘breasts’ on its own sounds a bit wrong.

My sudden urge to broach the subject is not a need to write the next 50 Shades of Grey but because I have spent my day, with my Mum, at my local breast clinic. Let me explain.

Last month, I found a lump under my arm. I decided to ignore it, convincing myself it was ‘nothing to worry about’. But then I became obsessed with its presence, finding myself having a little feel of it whenever I could, pretending I was scratching a non-existent mosquito bite in Sainsburys to check it was still there. I eventually realised this behaviour was just plain weird and finally booked a doctor’s appointment. Unfortunately, we have a lot of The Big C in my family history and breast cancer particularly (the word breast is not so rude in that sentence funnily enough). So, when I gave my doc a meet and greet with my armpit (lucky him!), he was fairly certain that my lump was fatty tissue (ew) but, after taking a closer look at my family history, decided to refer me for “further tests”.

My Mum, who is a breast cancer survivor, assured me my over-prodded lump felt normal to her and was nothing scary and happily agreed to accompany me for my day at the clinic. We arrived at 1030 today and was led into a waiting room of 15 women and 1 man and was informed that my day could last between 2-5 hours. We stocked up on chocolate and prepared ourselves for the long haul.

First up was my meeting with the consultant, we had a chat about all things mammary and she asked me to make myself comfortable for an examination. She then proceeded to knead my lung protectors as I lay there considering what an excellent loaf of bread she would make. She regarded my lump agreeing it was probably ‘fatty tissue’ to which I felt strangely offended on behalf of my lump. Her attention was then taken by my left boob which she explained ‘had a thickening to one side’, as if I knew what that meant, but assured me it was probably nothing but would send me upstairs for further tests.

Upstairs, we settled ourselves in another waiting room before I was called for my mammogram. For those not knowledgeable on this test, basically its a metal boob sandwich with your chest area becoming the filling. A nurse places your breast on a cold metal plate like she is about to fillet a fish, then instructs you to not move but to allow her to adjust your position for you. So considering I am stood, without top, facing a metal machine, the nurse then moves my arms and hips around in a weird sort of robotic dance leaving me awkwardly hugging a machine with my breast in an excruciating vice like grip.

Next up, just to make doubly sure my lump and new ‘thickening’ was of no concern, I was asked to wait for an ultrasound in our third waiting room/corridor of the day. I considered that as a Mother of three I have had my fair share of ultrasounds so felt fairly relaxed about this test. How wrong was I!

After what felt like a week in the waiting room, I was led into a darkened room by a nurse where a male doctor sat engrossed on his computer screen. She asked me to dismount top again, honestly should have worn a simpler bra, and ‘make myself comfortable’ on the bed with my paper towel dignity cover, nice! After a lot of grumbling coming from the male voice in the room, a little man in a bow tie came to my side of the curtain and sat on the edge of my bed forcing me to ‘budge up’! After I was instructed to remove my paper towel, along with every ounce of dignity, I was then smothered in lube as he proceeded to use the scanner in a windscreen wiper fashion to check out my rack. What made it massively awkward was that not only did he look a bit like Serge the meerkat out of the comparethemeerkat ads but actually sounded like him too! He checked out my lump which he literally scoffed at my suggestion that it was ‘a lump’ but instead said “it is merely muscle, or fat, or vein”. He then checked out ‘my thickening’ which he surmised to be cysts which apparently are ‘normal’. I’m not sure what is normal now! He then almost shouted that ‘your breasts are extremely dense!” and looked at me excitedly for a reaction, to which I wasn’t sure whether to say ‘thanks’ or not, is it a compliment or is he suggesting they are a bit stupid? My breasts are to be renamed dumb and dumber perhaps? He said it was not good or bad but just made the scan easier. I unnecessarily answered “Glad to help!”. Thankfully the ordeal was over fairly quickly and Serge was soon off to fiddle on his computer again.

We then returned to waiting room No.1 to see my earlier consultant. She took a look at my results from both scans and showed me the notes on the computer, which actually said ‘patient has extremely dense breasts’, thanks Serge! She was confident that I had no major concerns but that as I have three female relatives (Mum, Aunt and Cousin) with breast cancer that I should have the gene test, which is my next step. I also had ‘moderate risk’ stamped on my file so I can receive mammograms earlier than most women which I am very thankful for.

I am now cracking open the prosecco, raising a glass to dumb and dumber for their bravery today. I am forever thankful for my health, I have seen first hand the grip of cancer on loved ones and pray for my future health and wellbeing and salute the fight of those less fortunate than myself. We can only hope for future without this terrible disease but for now we have Serge to keep us smiling.

A true fighter friend of mine, who is kicking cancer up the butt but unfortunately by way of her own bank account, is Lauren’s Marvellous Medicine, if you would like to be inspired and to help her cause, please check out her weblink on facebook: https://www.facebook.com/LaurensMarvellousMedicine

The Twins Have Turned 6!

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Apologies for my late blog post. It has been 4 weeks since my last blog and I confess this is purely due to a lack of time, lack of energy and lack of brain and humour capabilities. With the 6 weeks holidays two-thirds of a way through, I am starting to find myself incapable of stringing an adult conversation together, let alone make an attempt at writing a hopefully witty blog.

I love my kids, honestly I really do and even when us school parents (through gritted teeth) told each other on the last day of school that ‘we are really looking forward to spending time with the children’, I really meant it. However, 6 weeks is a long time for any family unit and rather than finding myself making up little ditties on my guitar like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music, as I’d hoped, I instead feel that I am developing more similarities to Mrs Hannigan in Annie, grumbling under my breath about ‘little children’ whilst looking for bottles of Gin in my laundry basket.

But these are special days and no matter how many ‘she said, he said’ or ‘I’m bored/hungry/thirsty’ demands I have dealt with in my slightly manic sing-song voice these last few weeks, we have had fun too. I have crammed my calendar full of events to keep the kids occupied, in order for us to spend ‘quality time’ together and to encourage a separation period between the children and the Wii. I have also organised 3 birthday parties for our twins, yes 3 parties!

Our twins turned 6 on the 8th of August, yet we started their birthday celebrations on the 23rd July. The reason for this is that the 8th of August fell during our holiday to Norfolk so we had to engineer for them to see their friends and family prior to our week away.

Party 1:

The first party was held at a non air conditioned indoor play centre for kids, complete with many forms of airborne bacteria thanks to the masses of kids in a close environment. The day was the last day of school, non-uniform day, so I decided to book it straight from school. What I didn’t bargain for was it happened to be also the hottest day of the year so 10 sweaty overheated kids emerged from their classrooms before the party had even begun. The two hours consisted of the children running around like a bunch of crazed lemmings. My daughter adopted a high-pitched scream on every slide as other parents (including us) tutted at the out of control kid making the annoying noise as I tried to discreetly quieten her without being noticed. The twins enjoyed themselves and we ticked off the first of their celebrations with an amazing cake courtesy of my talented cake maker friend.

Their most excellent cake from my talented friend Anthea Scott.

Party 2:

This was a more sober affair, you probably thought I meant sombre but I was referring to the hip flasks me and hubby always take to a play centre (only joking). Anyway, round 2 gave our family members who were not coming on holiday the opportunity to swamp the twins with presents. I had given up on trying to persuade the twins to wait until their birthday to open their presents as it was still two weeks away! The party meant more cake, more presents, happy twins, party 2 ticked off.

Party 3:

As I mentioned in my previous blog (https://anounceofme.com/2013/05/19/my-neighbouring-set-of-not-so-desperate-housewives/) we have the benefit of neighbours who have also become our friends. As their children do not attend our kids school, nor are they a member of our family or will be coming to Norfolk with us, we had another birthday party for the twins. This was a BBQ, my hubby’s party of choice if ever we are at home, lots of presents, more cake, happy but confused twins asking me whether they are 5 or 6 as they can’t work it out. Must not do this again next year. Party 3 ticked off.

The Twins 6th Birthday:

We had a lovely week away in North Norfolk with our parents which we all really enjoyed. And without trying to sound like ‘Kirstie and Phil’, the location was perfect, the cottage spacious and it was jolly splendid fun (that was the Kirstie bit). On the Thursday of our week away, it WAS the twins ACTUAL Birthday for REAL! We woke the little ones up, excitedly explained it was their Birthday to which they were not overly impressed about despite us decorating our temporary living room with balloons, banners and dishing out party poppers. Another Birthday to celebrate, obviously they soon got into the swing of it with the promise of more presents and cake. We also had arranged to take a boat ride off Blakeney Point to see wild seals, complete with our dog Chester and I even managed to persuade our Captain to lead another sing-song of Happy Birthday with all the passengers joining in, which a fellow tourist bizarrely filmed, whilst Chester growled at passing seals in the water.

Chester the sea dog.

It does feel very strange to say that our twins are now 6. It only seems like yesterday that I sat exhausted in my hospital postnatal bed, staring wide eyed at two little babies in two little plastic cots, feeling a mixture of excitement and sheer terror at the prospect of two babies to care for along with my then 3 year old son. But we survived…. just… but that is a whole other blog… Stay tuned for more and I promise it will be sooner than 4 weeks!

Feeling Hot Hot Hot

A Safer School Run

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A bone of contention for a large proportion of parents is the dreaded school run. A daily task that should be viewed as an opportunity to spend quality time with your offspring as you deliver them to a day of education, but instead often results in a stress filled drama for many of us. My memories of the school run as a child was strolling to my infant school with my Mum and big bro, playing word games, stopping to stroke cats and enjoying the relaxed walk to school. In reality, my poor Mum had the arduous task of trying to drag me up the road, avoiding every cat whilst maniacally guessing what animals begin with A to try to bring me nearer to the school gates.

Now I’m a Mum of three, the school run is one of my least favourite activities. With a sulky 9-year-old son who has to be surgically removed from his bed on a daily basis, my 5-year-old twins consisting of my son who insists on bringing a particular awkward Lego creation and a bouncy ball with him, whilst his twin sister will need to find the appropriate hairband, bracelet and flavoured lip balm before leaving the house. Furthermore, this treasure hunt of accompaniments takes place while I hurry to cram food into lunchboxes, beg my little darlings to finish their half eaten breakfasts and hunt for missing homework with a demented Labrador in the mix running off with school socks.

And it seems no matter what time I set my alarm, I always end playing the part of Tourette’s Mum screaming at my kids in a Drill Sergeant fashion in our crowded hallway with ten minutes to spare before the school bell rings. Our school is exactly a mile in distance from our house, I have walked it with the kids, however, we live at the bottom of a hill and by the time we make it to the top of our road the kids are too tired to finish the remaining half a mile. So, aware that I don’t want to become ‘one of those Mums’ who always drives their children the short distance to school, I drive halfway to eradicate the hill and then allow the children to scooter the remainder of the journey.

Our school is very keen to encourage parents to walk their kids to school to avoid the amount of traffic around school gates, to improve the children’s health and to aid the environment. I agree with this and hope my half a drive to school is a small effort in the right direction. Our school recently installed scooter pods (flashy bike sheds) in our school playground in a bid to achieve more on foot school runs. This is a good idea in theory but also means that I have had to invest in three bike locks with three different combinations which are impossible to remember and no matter how much my youngest son tries to pull them apart himself, I am left every afternoon in a James Bondesque situation trying to decipher their relevant codes.

The real challenge with the introduction of scooters on the school run is the last leg of the journey up to our school which is along what should be a relatively quiet residential street. However, many parents rather than finding easier routes to school will instead gridlock the street outside the school, park on the zigzags and double yellow lines to make their school run easier at the expense of the safety of others. Now, it’s not my style to attack other parents, I don’t wish to turn my blog into a Katie Hopkins troll fest, but the safety of my children funnily enough is close to my heart.

Each day the road outside our school is awash with cars dropping off their kids making it near impossible to cross the road sometimes with cars pulling up on the pavement while others are reversing onto it. Last week, one parent pulled onto the zigzags, sent her kids out of the car then left her passenger door wide open as she climbed onto the metal railings to see them go in. Surely, there is an easier way to take your children to school then to adopt the pose of a suffragette adorning the school gates. We occasionally have a ‘dalek’ parking warden car arrive to scare off the parent parkers, but this can instead cause chaos as parents rush to move their cars before their number plate is snapped and in turn putting more pedestrians at risk as they speed away.

According to the AXA RoadSafe schools report, more than 2,400 children under the age of 16 were killed or injured on Britain’s roads in 2011. And following a decline of road traffic accidents involving children in the 1980s it comes as a sobering read to see that the figures have started to rise again since 2011 with the highest rate of deaths in the under 8’s age group. It doesn’t help that since 2009/2010, the Governments’ budget for child road safety has dramatically fallen from £3.78 million to just £78,000 in the 2012/2013 financial year. It seems that Lollipop Ladies were on quite a tidy sum.

It’s a tricky subject to broach but honestly if you could see the chaos that ensues in my household every morning and my ability to deliver my children into school with literally seconds to spare without feeling the need to park outside the school. If I can manage to park a short distance away then I’m sure anyone can. Apart from robbing parents of the opportunity to do the school run in their pyjamas there can’t be that many advantages to parking outside rather than a street away.

Disclosure: All statistics within my blog are for information purposes, I have not been paid by AXA or any associated agency to discuss the Roadsafe venture. I have editorial control and retain full editorial integrity

Happy Fathers Day!

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Dear Dad,

I feel very fortunate to have you as my Dad. In the words of Frenchie from Grease, my go-to film for advice as a teenager, she said to Sandy: “The only guy a girl can rely on life is her Daddy”. Many friends of mine have had strained, often absent, relationships with their Fathers and I have always felt fortunate that not only have we always had a solid family unit, but that you have always been a key part in mine and my big bro’s life.

You are the backbone of our family unit, you grew up as the only male amongst your three sisters which provided you with the ability to be a modern man, despite growing up in the 50s. With close relationships with my Aunts you have always treated women as equals and never displayed one iota of male chauvinism. You grew up in a post war Britain with a doting Mum and a tough Scottish Dad, who must have been an incredible role model. I remember Grandad as a big burly (to his grandchildren – soppy) Scotsman, who told us how he was in Berlin at the end of the war with the Scottish Fusiliers and brought home a Nazi flag from a German HQ to present to Nan as a trophy, only for her to swiftly throw it in the fire in disgust! You told us, that as a child, how Grandad walked home from work one night and took a short cut across some train tracks only to be knocked into a neighbouring field by a train, but still managed to walk home explaining to Nan when she enquired about his bruises the next day, ‘that it was just a wee knock’. How do you live up to a man like that? But you know what, in my eyes you do and more.

I have always envied how your 20s were spent in the ‘swinging 60s’ and as a promoter of bands you were at the forefront of rock n roll music, and you remember what you did as well! You managed to wangle concert tickets for The Beatles during their heyday only to pass them to my Aunt’s as you didn’t want to sit through 2 hours of fans screaming! I love the story of how you met Mum, which could easily be transferred into a film script. How you saw her arrive at a house party you were at with friends and found that the understairs cupboard of the house had been converted into a shelter during the Blitz with a seat and a light. You then engineered ‘a game’ for one of your mates to persuade Mum to meet you in there and when she did she was quick to make her excuses to get out, only for you to pursue her over a series of dates instead.

You and Mum have always had a rock solid relationship, providing me with a foundation to want the same for myself. It is often said that your choice of boyfriends can often mirror a man similar to your Father, well it was hard to find a man to match up to be honest. I know you were less than pleased in a couple of my ex’s, but never intimidated them or tried to sway my decision, but maybe just hinted how I could probably do better. They often told me that ‘I don’t think your Dad likes me’ so I think you conveyed your feelings subtly to them. I can’t imagine how hard it must be to see your little girl become a woman and bring home boys and it wasn’t until I met my hubby that I saw you actually relax around one of my boyfriends. Although, the circumstances were not ideal as I had asked hubby in our early weeks of dating to collect me from my wisdom teeth removal operation. What I/and he didn’t bargain for was the amount of anaesthetic I would be given and the lack of stitches they would give me, resulting in him collecting me from the recovery room to find an extra from The Thriller video dribbling blood and making a Zombie like moaning noise. And this is how he meet the parents, holding a blood soaked towel to my face as I stumbled into my house!

You worked long hours when we were kids to provide us with the charmed life that we had. I don’t recall you as an absent father during my childhood, even though Mum was a stay-at-home Mum whilst you would work 12 hour shifts as a Supervisor in a paint factory to make ends meet. I think it didn’t feel like you were absent because when you were not working, even though you were shattered, you would be our play mate devoting your last stores of energy to me and big bro. As we grew older and Mum worked part-time, you were ‘in charge’ of dinner preparations where me and big bro would mouth ‘corn beef hash for dinner then?’ as Mum headed out the door. But we loved our corn beef hash smothered in HP sauce, washed down with a glass of milk and followed with a KitKat.

You have always had a silly sense of humour to make us belly laugh as kids, from doing the ‘turkey trot’ dance to encourage our dog to go mental, to your legendary Max Wall impressions just to make us giggle. You are one of the most intelligent and knowledgable people I know and you and big bro have a Stephen Fry type ability to retain information and converse in a humorous and intellectual way. I can remember how excited I was to get my job at The Daily Telegraph as it has always been my mission to make you proud of me. I desperately hoped that you would regard me as able to talk about current affairs and would often have a read of the broadsheets on my way home, to ensure I was able to impress you with my take on the Middle East crisis.

You have always a knack for psychiatry, a profession I think you would have flourished in. With my sometimes short temper and a knack for feeling very paranoid and easily hurt in situations, as a teenager and even today ,you are the only one who can instantly diffuse my mood and make me see a situation from an objective point of view. You have always been able to give sage advice in a calm manner and provide a shoulder to cry on for many.

As a Day Centre Officer for a bulk of your career, you transformed the lives of many adults with learning difficulties, treating them as ‘normal’ and guiding them through essential skills without patronising them. When you created a gardening group of autistic adults to landscape gardens in the local community, you brought your willing troupe of gardeners to my house. They would hang on your every word as you patiently demonstrated how to create flowerbeds and educate on weeding. And when they didn’t achieve what you wanted you didn’t lecture but just allowed them to find their own way.

I love that you are now retired and I am seeing more of you and watching your relationship with the grandchildren evolve. Your grandkids look up to you the way I used to with Grandad, they all beg to spend one-on-one time with you and I love that. It is easy for a Mum and daughter to become firm friends, as I have with Mum, as we share so many similar emotions and hormones! However, it is often tricky to mirror that closeness with a Father as there is often a need to impress. I look forward to our relationship evolving, I will still strive to make you proud of me even though I know you are, still seek your advice on a regular basis and still try to keep up with you and big bro on your post Newsnight debates. I love you Dad.

When Is Middle Age Anyway?

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I attended a dear friend’s 40 birthday party recently and as we wished her Happy Birthday it was with a mixture of sympathy and commiseration that she had arrived at this milestone. With just three years until I will be making the same big 4-0 birthday plans, I am left with the feeling that hitting our 40s has just crept up on my friends and I and doesn’t really suit us at all.

The trouble is I just don’t feel old enough to be on the wrong side of my 30s. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to ‘get down with the kids’ through talking ‘street’ and dressing like Tulisa. I wear what I think is age appropriate on the hopefully trendy side of ‘Mumsy’ clothing, but can’t get my head around that I am probably considered old by anyone in their 20s now. This was confirmed to me recently whilst being served in a well-known department store, when the 20 something salesman addressed me as ‘Madam’, I almost shouted ‘do you know that Debbie Harry was my age when Blondie were at the height of their fame! She was lusted after which means that 37 is not old!’. Thankfully I didn’t say this as I thought he might not know who Debbie Harry was for one and maybe I was being a bit paranoid, calling me ‘Madam’ was probably part of his sales training after all. I managed to restrain myself from heading to a builder’s site to see if I was worthy of a wolf whistle in my ageing state, and convinced myself it isn’t that important to me what other people think.

It doesn’t help that as I become use to my dwindling 30s, other celebrities in my age bracket, ‘I’m talking to you Posh Spice!’ are constantly battling their weight, nipping and tucking to the point of looking permanently shocked, whilst saying how much they enjoy getting older, yeah right! My other fave celeb Mum (ahem) Gwyneth said of turning 40, “I feel younger than ever and more energetic”. Hmmm now I am still three years away from 40 and I feel older than ever with pathetic stores of energy levels. I often make the groan noise when I have to squat my knees to reach something under the stairs or will often fall asleep, on the sofa, mid movie when me and hubby settle down for an evening, blaming it ‘on my busy day’. Bet Gwyneth isn’t dribbling on her sofa cushion come 9pm, she’s probably doing sit ups whilst chewing on a lettuce leaf!

I am trying not to be bitter about getting older. I had a debaucherous enough youth to feel like I am able to glide into my older years at a slower pace with more refined nights out. My friends who have already hit the 40 mark have done it looking pretty damn fabulous and still have lots of ambitions to fulfil. One of my best friends is in his late 40s and is not one bit worried about heading to his 50s, but instead is welcoming it with open arms, saying he feels wiser and more relaxed about getting older.

Debbie Harry is still fronting Blondie in her late 60s, even if it is in a mad bag lady style. David Bowie is releasing a new album and he is approaching his 70s and Sir Paul McCartney, well, he really does need to realise that it is time for pipe and slippers and Midsomer Murders on box set.

My inspiration is my 81-year-old Aunt. She is young at heart, strong, resilient, hilarious and always delivers words of wisdom. She is super fit for her age and recently joined a gym ‘to get rid of her bingo wings’. When she filled out the enrolment forms for her personal trainer, she faked her date of birth so that it made her 75 instead as ‘she didn’t want to be treated like an old biddy’. My Aunt is my Mum’s sister, they grew up in a house of women along with my other Aunt and my Nan, my Grandad sadly died shortly after my Mum was born. My Aunts were children during the war, with my Mum being born in 1945, and they grew up having to be strong, resourceful females in a male dominated world. They have remained this way throughout their lives, striving for the best in life for themselves and their families, never complaining, with the reasoning if there is something to moan about then change it!

Age is just a number, we are only as young as we feel, 40 is the new 30, 50 is the new 40, along with all the other clichés we like to chat about in order to reassure ourselves that we are not past it. What I think is as long as I surround myself with my young at heart friends and family, who have a couldn’t care less attitude about getting older, I will hopefully always have a grasp on the fountain of youth. In the meantime, I’m off to watch Springwatch with my cup of cocoa, only 20 minutes before I pass out on the sofa anyway.

I will leave you with a poem that my Great Aunt wrote, another strong inspirational female relative of mine, with her take on life.

THE GOOD OLD DAYS

We met, we married, a long time ago
He worked for long hours and wages were low
No telly, no radio, no bath, times were hard
Just a cold water tap and a walk up the yard
No holidays abroad, no carpets on floors
We had coal on the fire, we never locked doors
The children arrived, no pill in those days
And we brought them up, without state aid
No valium, no drugs, no LSD
We cured our pains with a good cup of tea
If you were sick, you were treated at once
Not fill in a form and come back in a month
No vandals, no muggings, there was nothing to rob
In fact you were rich with a couple of bob
People were happier in those days
Kinder and caring in some many ways
Milkman and paper boys would whistle and sing
And a night at the flicks was a wonderful thing
We had our share of troubles and strife
But we had to face it, that was life
But now I’m alone and look back through the years
I don’t think of the bad times, the troubles and tears
I remember the blessings, our home and our love
We shared them together and I thank God.

My Neighbouring Set of (Not So) Desperate Housewives

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We live in a heavily populated residential area, about 15 miles from the centre of London, in a charming county few have heard of for the right reasons, Essex.

As a child I grew up in a street very similar to where I live now. My parents, me and my older brother inhabited a semi-detached house with carbon copied houses either side of our road. The area was friendly, close to our school and a few alley way walks to the local park. Our street being situated in this family friendly environment, was full of other families funnily enough and we forged friendships with many of our neighbours. My parents had other couples who they became close friends with and whom we would visit on a Saturday night and be allowed to stay up late while they ate fondue and drank Baby Cham (I was born in the 70s!). Our next door but one neighbour was my Mum’s best friend and I later married her son, not sure if it counts as bigamy actually and should tell my current hubby about it really. I’m sure the marriage could be annulled as we were 6 at the time and my cat played the part of the vicar along with my Sindy dolls as witnesses. Along with my first husband, we had a gang of kids that me and my big bro hung out with down our street, as long as we stayed on our side of the road and didn’t go past No. 21 that is. We met up constantly at weekends and school holidays, with us girls practising our roller skating stunts to the sounds of 5 Star while the boys pulled the legs of daddy-long-legs and chased us with them. There were many happy days in the six week holidays spent around each others houses as the only way our parents could often socialise was to take us with them.

Now I’m a grown up and find myself in a very similar situation. We have the fortune of having met a number of other couples in our street that we not only have the common factor of young children with, but also the appreciation of wine as well. The women of the group I now count as close of friends of mine and we are not only on hand to help cover each others kids/dogs but also to pop in to borrow an onion or an extension lead when desperate. Having spent a few drunken nights in each others company and then having to witness each others hangovers the next morning while pegging out the washing or loading the car up, has meant we have become very comfortable in our warts and all friendships.

However, not every neighbour is the type of person you would cut a spare key for and I have plenty that I would happily swerve a conversation with or rather not take a package in for. Don’t get me wrong, I can’t say I have the likes of Fred and Rose West nearby (as far as I can tell) but there are a few unusual characters too close for comfort. We have an agoraphobic who lives opposite who never leaves the house and only makes herself visible when the pizza/Tesco delivery arrives when a vision of Demis Roussos answers the door and then scurries back inside. Another neighbour on the other side of my road has a forecourt front garden with his and hers flash sports cars, along with landscaped gardens complete with hot tub, yet on a monthly basis the lady of the house and her partner will get drunk, shout at each other in the street and one will fly off in one of their cars returning the next day as if nothing has happened. A few doors from us we had neighbours who recently moved out whose party trick was to have BBQ’s late at night in all weathers while their teenage son revved his scooter in the back garden or drove it full pelt up the service road at the back of our house. My hubby decided to knock at their door to complain one day after we were fed up with our washing being covered in diesel fumes and our twins (then babies) suffering from a constantly disturbed nap time. The Mother of the scooter deviant answered the door and then suggested hubby talk some sense into her son as she had given up!

You eventually learn to live amongst the stranger neighbours when there is a balance of nicer ones as well. Me and my other three neighbouring friends now talk about the goings on in the street by always starting the sentence with, ‘the other day when I was folding my washing’ as if our bout of snooping was unintentional, which of course it is!

Unlike the many soap operas on television, our neighbour friends are unlikely to bury each other under the patio or sabotage each others relationships, but we can count on each other for help or a natter between deadlines, school runs and dinner preparations. When hubby is working a late or night shift, at least once a month, me and my neighbouring friends will try to have a girls night in at mine, which has now become a necessary part of our schedules. It will often involve a bitch about the other neighbours, but it is also a chance to offload about our problems and concerns and receive an unbiased piece of advice in return. It seems that Ramsey Street had it right after all, sing along if you can “…It’s when good neighbours become good friends….”

Is It Really Their Swan Song?

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I can confess that I’m not a JLS fan, mainly because I’m not 13 and also I consider myself to be a bit old to be a boy band fan. But when I passed the newspaper stand the other day I was stunned to read ‘R.I.P JLS’ on the front of a tabloid! Had there been some awful accident? Had the foursome carried out some sort of boy band suicide pact? I quickly scanned the article, “fans traumatised….help line has been set up….they have decided to concentrate on their solo projects…” Oh, the band have split up, panic over!

Illustration by Faye Brocklebank

JLS apparently stands for ‘Jack the Lad Swing’ to represent the genre of music they produce, which sounds a bit invented to me. Still, it is an improvement on their original name UFO (Unique Famous Outrageous) which thankfully was dropped in the X Factor process or they would have sounded more like a Drag Queen act!

I don’t wish to be mean to JLS, they seem like a smiley bunch of lads that can carry a tune and have given us memorable lyrics such as “If I die, would you come to my funeral, would you cry?”. I’m sure they are very nice boys who treat their Mothers’ well, I’m just having a whinge about the whole emotional break-up/reunion thing that pop bands are so good at these days. JLS have split up after just 5 years together (helpline really?) and their main reason for the split was ‘to go out on a high’. But are they really going anywhere when they have a farewell tour and greatest hits album to do first? I can’t recall anyone splitting up from their partner to then go on a farewell backpacking holiday together.

After JLS have dragged out the last bit of their fame to say goodbye to their fickle fans they said that they will be concentrating on their ‘solo projects’ which will be down the route of acting, producing, with one member planning on becoming a farmer. But is it inevitable that they will end up on the line-up of Never Mind the Buzzcocks in a few years time? Perhaps Aston can return to the kids programme the Fun Song Factory? I have kids Aston, I saw you sing Polly Put The Kettle On weekly in our house. Not so Jack the Lad Swing then eh?

I don’t mean to single them out though and I wish them every success in their future careers. It’s just the regurgitation of pop bands returning from the past which makes the tears of the band splitting up so hard to believe. Kerry ‘flog a dead horse’ Katona is currently finding a new way to appear on TV with the seriously addictive Big Reunion programme, reuniting Atomic Kitten along with other forgotten gems from the 90s. I watched it obsessively, for a bit of nostalgia but mainly as many of them are in my age group and I could compare how we had all fared over the years. I thought Ms Katona would provide the biggest source of entertainment but when the “fight like my Da” girls from Bewitched started ripping into each other I couldn’t tear myself away. As the Spice Girls/Take That demonstrated, pop bands do tend to detest each other after a few years of relentless touring and photo shoots and a reunion is often filled with grimaced smiles and veiled insults until they have earnt enough money to disappear back into obscurity.

When should a band reunion be a bad idea though? Are Mick Jagger and Paul McCartney a long time retired? A few years ago hubby and I went to see one of our favourite bands, The Red Hot Chili Peppers, in Hyde Park. Their support act was James Brown, the Godfather of Soul himself. I was quite intrigued to see him in concert, he is a legend after all but we were concerned at his advanced age and how he would handle it. When his infamous song ‘I Feel Good’ started up, his huge backing band and entourage of singers took the weight of the song leaving JB to mumble ‘Yeah’ continuously over the microphone. Back in his heyday, JB used to have a gimmick where he would pretend to collapse in exhaustion, a member of his crew would put a cape around his shoulder to ‘help him off stage’ and JB would throw the cape off in a ‘ta-dah I’m alright really’ kind of way. At this concert, JB (we think) pretended to collapse, the crew member put the cape around his shoulders and just led him off stage, unfortunately there was no ‘ta-dah’ moment and after a long segment of the instrumental version of ‘I Feel Good’, he stumbled back out to rapturous applause, the crowd thankful that they hadn’t just witnessed something awful. Am I glad I saw him perform? Yes. Did I enjoy it? Not really as it was all a bit worrying.

Time for my pot kettle black admission now. Me and hubby are off to see Adam Ant in concert in a few weeks time, a birthday present from me to hubby. I have seem him on Jools Holland recently and he is in good voice, however, his eyesight has deteriorated so much he has to wear glasses. And for some reason he wears glasses normally referred to as ‘NHS glasses’ alongside his trademark Piratey regalia. Will he be as virile as his younger self was or will his ‘Dandy Highwayman’ be less ‘Stand and Deliver’ and more ‘Sit down and have a think about it?’. I will let you know.

We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside

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I apologise for neglecting my blog for the last two weeks, this is mainly due to the surge of activities brought on with the Half Term hols, but also because we have been on holiday in Wales. Me, hubby and the kids, along with my parents, decided to holiday in this pleasant land as we really like the country and because we have friends that moved there and we haven’t seem them in years.

Now we have a dog I set about searching for dog friendly accommodation and along with our not so Spring like weather, find one which had a capable heating system and preferably a woodburner! We found a idyllic holding of four converted barns on a plot in West Wales, this meant we had the use of two cottages side by side and plenty of surrounding fields fit for our dog. The holiday was booked and as usual my packing was left to the last minute as I desperately tried to dry out clothes on the radiators an hour before leaving and debated whether to pack clothes I haven’t worn in years just because ‘I might get a chance to this week’.

After we crammed our car and my Dad’s car full of all weather clobber we set off on the 5 hour journey to our holiday home. It soon materialised that achieving it in 5 hours was a little ambitious with three children with seemingly weak bladders and a car sick dog (who knew). Still I always find Service Stations an interesting experience and if I ever get round to writing my book I will definitely scour them for characters as you see all walks of life in them.

It’s lovely isn’t it?

The cottages were lovely and apart from an bit of an overbearing landlord who lived next door, we settled in quickly. The countryside was stunning, the empty beach was nearby and our days were filled with outdoorsy activities without me having to nag the kids to ‘get some fresh air’ as they willingly wanted to explore. It was a shock to my system though and a realisation that either I live in a very polluted place or find it hard to relax, as while I was on this holiday I seemed to contract Narcolepsy. Of an evening I felt compelled to check to see if someone was crouched in the corner of my bedroom shooting tranquiliser darts in my direction, as no sooner had my head hit the pillow I was out cold. Thankfully this was also the case for the kids after their active days we had undisturbed nights.

All weather beach days

The nicest thing about our week away was seeing the children so happy. With zero Wifi connection and useless mobile reception my eldest was on Bin Weevils cold turkey for the week. At first he struggled with the lack of computer time but as his addiction slowly waned he rediscovered simple pleasures alongside his siblings. We hit the beach in many layers to play hide and seek in the sand dunes or go crabbing and eat ice-creams even though I was unable to feel the tips of my fingers without gloves on. We went for long country walks feeling like the dwarves from The Hobbit as we stumbled across waterfalls and spotted wild seals and dolphins as we scrambled across rocks. My youngest son was a miniature Bear Grylls as I constantly removed him from trees and begged him to stop doing ‘wild wees’ as it became the only way he wanted to go in the end.

As the week drew to a close, we were all disappointed to be leaving to go home. I haven’t slept nearly as well since coming back, the kids are back to begging for more TV and computer time and I have a mountain of washing to deal with. But none of us are pining as much for our holiday home as our dog Chester. As a energetic 1 year old Labrador he flourished with the ability to roam our surrounding fields to his hearts content. He developed a love of sheep that was weirdly touching at times and he was introduced to ice-cream. Since we have returned, he walks around our garden and looks at me as if to say ‘Is this it?’. As we all slip back into our former routines I swear he looks longingly out of the window wishing he was back there. I will leave you with his personal highlights.

My Holiday Romance

I have never seen waterfalls in Essex

Best Holiday Ever!

The Weather Outside Is Frightful

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Not so typical Spring weather….

With Easter just a few days away it felt a little odd to be digging out the children’s snowboots yesterday as our local temperature plummeted to Arctic. Their school was closed for the day due to a broken boiler and rather than thinking about readying our garden for an egg hunt next weekend, I was considering resurrecting the sledges instead. This end of the world weather is starting to depress the nation and you can’t help but wonder if Spring will be cancelled this year. With every day that continues to bring us a sleet/rain/snow combination, I find myself worrying unnecessarily about the health and safety of daffodils and trees, they are really trying to strut their stuff but instead are being battered by our freakish weather system.

Kamikaze Daffodils!

While I waited in line in the shops today, I overheard two ladies discussing the usual British topic of weather. One said, “This weather is ridiculous isn’t it?” Her friend replied, “They say it’s going to get worse and to expect more snow. When will they give us some good news?”. What I wanted to ask them is, who are ‘they’? Who are these people you refer to? The weather experts, the Government, the FBI? We are all happy to put the blame on ‘them’ but who should get the blame?

Even when you watch the weather forecasters on television, they seem fed up at work as they deliver weather reports with a raised eyebrow and a shake of their head in a ‘what are we like?’ type expression. I particularly like when they try to shirk the blame by stressing that we were expecting a good weather weekend, but now there is a cold front heading over from Siberia, it must be the Russians fault. Or the reason that our Summer’s are so wet is due to a pesky ‘misplaced jet stream’ sitting over the UK, if it wasn’t for that then we would be basking in the heat. Long range forecasts for Summer this year believe that we can expect flash floods in June, heatwaves in August and perhaps a swarm of locusts at some point?

The week ahead looks bleak.

I often worry that it is all down to climate change, that perhaps we are destroying our planet so quickly with our carbon emissions, that by melting the Arctic we are causing this freakish weather? Were the summers of our childhood so much better than they are now or are we just better at moaning about it now we’re older? I try to do my best by the planet, we recycle obsessively, try not to use unnecessary electricity and educate my children about the importance of being eco-friendly. However, when so much of the world doesn’t bother and with places like Las Vegas blaring electricity 24/7, it leaves you feeling like you could be turning up to an earthquake disaster with a dustbuster!

Whatever is the cause of this weird weather system, be it our planet evolving, our forecasters passing the buck or a one-off bad start to the year, if our weather was to suddenly straighten out what would the British public talk about? We can only hope things turn around, in the meantime I am about to wrap myself up in fifteen layers to see my children’s ‘Spring concert’ in their school with the dodgy heating! Happy Easter everyone!

anounceofmedotcom

Being a Mum of 3, clinging to a career path, squeezing in a social life, remembering how easy life used to be!

Author Archives: An Ounce of Me

Manhandled by a Meerkat!

The Twins Have Turned 6!

Feeling Hot Hot Hot

A Safer School Run

Happy Fathers Day!

When Is Middle Age Anyway?

My Neighbouring Set of (Not So) Desperate Housewives

Is It Really Their Swan Song?

We’ll Keep a Welcome in the Hillside

The Weather Outside Is Frightful

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