Author Archives: An Ounce of Me

Our House In The Middle Of Our Street

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My hubby’s job involves working odd hours. He works on a rota of shifts ranging from working an early shift which is up at 5am and home by 5pm. A late shift where he leaves home at lunchtime and is back by midnight. And the shift I dread the most, nights, leaving home at 8pm and arriving home in time for breakfast and with sleep on his mind. Unfortunately, the kids and our dog don’t really understand the ‘Daddy needs to sleep’ concept and it is a constant battle when nights fall on a weekend, for me to achieve a quiet house. Our children are really adept at the loud whisper or managing to ‘talk quietly’ but then decide to start up a really noisy toy, causing the dog to bark and for them to shout. However, the saving grace is that a week of nights normally follow with a week off work for my hubby. This is obviously a good thing as hubby will willingly walk the dog and do the school run, allowing me time to catch up with my work. Unfortunately it also means that he will feel that the week needs to involve some sort of project that often turns the house upside down. I don’t want to appear ungrateful as I know I will benefit from it in the long run, but it’s just the chaos in the interim that is hard to handle.

My living room

My living room

I am thankful of his hard work, he could spend his week off doing nothing but I suppose part of me feels guilty at how much he achieves in his short space of time compared to my often neglected household chores. The minute he picks up a paintbrush, I feel I ought to be simultaneously cleaning out my kitchen cupboards stating that it’s ‘kitchen cupboard Tuesday’, demonstrating how diligently I keep the house clean. In reality, housework involves just about covering the basics of hoovering, dusting and an occasional mopping of the kitchen floor. This is through lack of time and impulse and I constantly promise to ‘give this house a good clean’ on a regular basis.

I suppose hubby’s enthusiasm to get things done also reminds me of how pretty useless I am on the decorating front. I could paint a wall sure and probably hang a bit of wallpaper at a push but any maintenance issues are firmly left to him leaving me feeling like a bit of a 50s housewife. There was a dripping noise coming from our conservatory yesterday, when hubby asked me how long it had been occurring I had assumed it was just normal considering the rainfall and had been happily ignorant of it. Apparently it was not normal and needed fixing! I can happily embark on writing an article where I have to research all manner of subjects not necessarily of interest to me. But ask me to prepare a room for decorating by having to sand it or scrape wallpaper off the walls and my heart sinks. The ironic thing is and my hubby would be happy to point this out, is that the living room project that is in full throttle this week was pretty much my idea. I was lured by the perfect show rooms of Ikea and the promise of bookcases and french dressers in my living room. I had envisioned how my living room could resemble a grown up space and not an extra toy room for the children, which is how it has been for the last 9 years. We recently built a conservatory which meant a new dumping ground for the kids to use, so I figured it was time to reclaim our living room. I just forget about the upheaval it causes getting to the point of finished.

So, I will try to paste on my air hostess smile as I squeeze between living room furniture that is currently housed in our hallway and kitchen. I will continue to be tea lady for my hardworking hubby who is hopefully going to finish the job he starts before moving on to another. And I will think of the end result to help me along the way and try not to mind the squat that my living room currently resembles. Patience is a virtue after all.

Dedicated to my Mum

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Dear Mum,

As it’s Mothers Day I have decided to dedicate my blog to you. And it’s not because I’ve forgotten your present and this is a free alternative, but instead a little extra treat – I hope! When I thought about what I would write today, I felt a bit overwhelmed at how much our relationship has evolved over the years. As my Mum you are my teacher, my counsellor, my friend, my confidante and my shoulder to cry on. We share a sadistic sense of humour and both have the ability to laugh to the point where no sound comes out. You and I can cry at the silliest things and once one of us starts it is impossible for the other one to stay dry-eyed.

You were a stay-at-home Mum who juggled jobs so not to disrupt me and big bro’s upbringing. You must have had enviable calves as a young Mum as you walked us on 4 school runs so we could come home for lunch. I remember being in junior school and coming home for a bowl of Scoth Broth and a 20 minute Sullivan’s episode before we went back in for the afternoon. You provided everything we needed for school and happily ferried me to brownies, swimming and ballet. And even though the family budget was on a shoestring it never felt like we went without, though I’m sure both you and Dad did. Our annual holidays hold fond memories, travelling by train before we had a car was such an adventure for my young mind even though poor Dad was our pack-horse for the journey with all the luggage. Then we had our beloved Morris Marina, allowing us the space to cram in all our things, me driving big bro mad as I complained of feeling car sick as you entertained us all the way. Whenever I hear Billy Joel I am instantly transported back to car journeys to one of our coastal retreats. Our holidays consisted of simple pleasures, silly walks in the dusk along the beach, hot chocolate and word games, Dad dragging us along in the sea for what seemed like hours in our inflatable dinghy.

As a child you taught me to strive for what I wanted in life. You despaired of me in my sometimes volatile teenage years when I was, admittedly, a little wayward at times. But I always had huge respect for you and knew your advice was right, even if my teenage hormone induced stubbornness didn’t allow me to voice it. I remember writing you many letters of apology whenever we argued as I hated the thought of upsetting you, but as a pig-headed 15-year-old, didn’t want to say sorry out loud. As I stumbled briefly, unsure of where my future lay, instead of lecturing me you took me to the bustling streets of London during lunchtime and gently nudged my attention in the way in which I should go. You never let me think I couldn’t achieve what I wanted in life, you have always told me to aim that little bit higher and it has been advice that I have lived by. My amazing career would not have happened without your encouragement along the way. You have taught me to never be prejudiced or narrow-minded in life. When I upped sticks at 21 to move to Brighton with two dear friends of mine, who happened to be gay men, you not only accepted it but you and Dad came to Gay Pride with us!

Throughout family illnesses you have never faltered, when times were tough you always managed to put a brave face on so that we could feel OK about everything. I knew that I could ask for your help with anything and you would find a way to make it OK. You are the most mild-mannered, polite and dignified lady but I’ve seen you berate teachers and doctors who have let me and my big bro down. When I became a Mum to my eldest son you were a patient adviser but allowed me to find my own way of parenting without ever patronising. When the twins came along and I already had a 3-year-old in tow and a husband on shifts, the cards were pretty much stacked against me. When I began to resemble a corpse on a regular basis, finding it hard to keep my head above water, you dropped everything to come over and help which included your job in the end. We would juggle my babies and my toddler, attending playgroup’s, going for picnics, disrupting once quiet coffee shops for an outing. We made camps in the living room, had craft days and whenever we had nursery rhymes playing we would always exchange knowing amused glances when we heard ‘here we go loopy loo’ as it was tantamount to how we felt most days.

Now my children are all at school and you and Dad both retired I don’t see you as much. We still speak every day and you are still a pillar of support with the kids. But I do think fondly of afternoons when I had dropped my eldest at pre school, we managed to get the twins down for a nap and we would have that 1 hour of respite to collapse in a heap, chat, laugh and promise ‘to get up in a minute to sort out the mess’.

When I became a Mum I changed so much as a person. My life had a different perspective, my nature was a lot less selfish as I dedicated my whole time to my offspring. It is easy to forget the person you once were and I think we as children forget that our Mums were people too. I have lent on you for so much in my life and it took me a while to realise that you were a young woman once with dreams and ambitions and experiences of your own and not put on this earth just to care for me and my big bro. You will always be our caregiver and role model as it is a role that you want to provide and which we need you to be. But most importantly above all else, I am proudest to call you my friend. I love you Mum. Happy Mothers Day. XX

Fasting my food

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I’m not a big fan of diets. I know they are way of life for many and I have been threatening to go on one since I ate my own body weight in chocolate and red wine on New Years Eve, but does anyone really enjoy them? Whenever I’m around one of my dieting friends and we are faced with a cake/biscuit/glass of wine situation, they will sadly decline the offer of said treat because they are ‘on a diet’.

I have always been fairly blessed with a fast metabolism and used to be able to lose weight fairly easily. Now post babies and in the latter part of my 30s, it seems that my metabolism is taking a more relaxed approach in its ability to cut back my unwanted inches, meaning I’m having to actually work hard at losing weight.

However, the trouble is not my metabolism as such but my willpower. The minute my head is in diet mode, I feel the weight of food denial hanging heavy on my shoulders. By cutting out treats, I start to obsess about how much I’m missing them. I start eyeing up a forgotten bottle of Bailey’s that hasn’t been touched since Christmas with a yearning need for its calorific creamy wonder. I gladly eat healthy all day, keeping my calories to a minimum, happily quaffing my recommended 2 litres of water. But come about 5.30 while the kids are finishing off their dinner, I find myself crouched in the corner of the kitchen manically stuffing my face with KitKats and Babybel’s trying to satisfy my intense need for rubbish food, promising myself that tomorrow I’ll try harder.

I have been writing a number of diet articles for work recently and came across the diet involving intermittent fasting. Over a week you eat normally for 5 days and on 2 days you are only allowed to consume 500 calories for a woman and 600 for a man. Apart from sounding like you are preparing for surgery each week, it is said to not only help you lose weight but prolong your life in the process. So I do what every committed dieter does, I buy the book, giving myself another week to avoid it while I read up on it. However, while my Fasting Diet book sat hidden underneath a pile of other books, hubby picked it up for a flick through and got hooked! And as expected he has taken this diet on as if it were no mean feat, telling me how easy it is to change your lifestyle, fit in 2 days of fasting and asking me daily when I’m going to commit to it. The problem with me is the whole ‘change for life’ thing. Perhaps if the book promised that you only had to fast for a few weeks until your ‘mothers apron’ disappeared or you had a spring in your step enough to actually clean the house properly. But a change for life, what happens if I stop it, have I failed?

82 calories per chocolate biscuit...how depressing...

82 calories per chocolate biscuit…how depressing…

Most men find it easy to shed weight on a diet, it’s a nature thing as women retain fluid, store more fat in our thighs and generally drink less beer. So after a week of the fast diet, hubby has lost 4 pounds and feels better about himself already. And obviously he finds the whole fasting thing really easy and thinks everyone should eat like this, getting his work mates doing it and wondering why he has never done it before. Don’t get me wrong I am proud of him, he is very committed, just annoying that he is not affected by the lack of chocolate on his fast days and has even managed not to binge eat on his ‘normal days’. I will start it next week as it was sort of my idea in the first place, I don’t want to feel a total failure. I just need to work out which days I’m going to fast on first, think I’ll have a chocolate biscuit while I think about it.

Make Mine A Veggie Burger Please

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I’m a complicated vegetarian, in fact I wouldn’t officially call myself a vegetarian because I’ve never given up eating fish, only meat. So, you could call me a pescetarian though it doesn’t really have a nice ring to it, sounds more like I have a weird phobia. But I’m not really a pescetarian either as I went back to eating chicken when I was pregnant with the twins, although I ensure it is free range, organic, had a nice life and slaughtered in a humane way, preferably by having its beak stroked while it is put to sleep.

When I was 13, my parents took me and my then 16-year-old brother to a cottage holiday in Wales. It was a beautiful place with a natural waterfall at the end of the field which housed our little cottage. The field also contained a lot of sheep, a flock I suppose you could call it. We loved having them there, waking up to their bleating and as it was springtime, being able to fuss the little lambs as their weird eyed mothers looked on. It was all a big Disney film for me, however, I skipped out to see the lambs one morning to find the farmer backing up a huge lorry and assembling a ramp. He made some unintelligible noise at me as my Dad rushed out to bring me indoors, reassuring me that ‘the lambs were being moved to a different field or just being taken for a shearing’. But I knew what was happening, I finally understood that the reason Clarice didn’t eat lamb shank wasn’t because Hannibal Lector put her off it with his eating liver impression, but because of that noise the lambs make when they are taken away. I gave up meat that day.

Photographer Dirk Ingo Franke

Photographer Dirk Ingo Franke

Now 13-year-olds don’t do things by half, we like to make a point. If we are becoming vegetarians it means soya milk, plastic shoes and animal rights campaigning. No sooner had I unpacked my suitcase from the ‘sheep holiday’, I was then rallying my friends to paint a sheet against vivisection and joining a march on Trafalgar Square. I was trying to teach my friends the evils of McDonald’s and refusing to eat anything that had even been in contact with an animal. My Mum has been a vegetarian for over 40 years, she became a veggie in the early 70s when even Paul McCartney was eating bacon butties. As a child there were bowls of mung beans soaking in water in the kitchen way before the invention of Quorn. She was the original Veggie but never forced her views on us and used to ‘switch off’ as she prepared our meaty dinners. Following the Wales holiday, she was concerned about my sudden refusal to eat meat. She was very supportive but when I turned down her offers of lentil hotpot in exchange for my new diet of plain jacket potato she knew she had a battle on her hands to get me to eat properly.

Over the years I adopted a healthier approach to my vegetarianism, i.e. eating more vegetables and thanking the McCartney’s for Linda’s range of sausages and burgers and I did go back to fish. However, I have never returned to eating meat and especially not lamb. Now I am a Mother to 3 children and have a hugely carnivore husband. I decided to take the same approach as my Mum and allowed them to eat meat while I try to pass off my veggie food as meat to their enquiring eyes. However, what I am 100% adamant about is that I try my absolute best to only buy meat that is free range, organic and British. I do this to make sure the animal has had a certain standard of welfare before the big day comes to be carted off, but mainly to ensure the farming is at a certain standard so that the meat has less chance of containing god knows what (GKW). GKW can be animal antibiotics, bulking ingredients, a higher risk of BSE and most recently horse meat.

As the many shocked messages hit Facebook last week about the realisation that supermarket giant Tesco had sold ‘beef’ burgers containing horse meat, I can’t say I was that surprised. When buying a pack of burgers for £2 I find it hard to understand why people think they’re getting quality meat for that price. When me and hubby first co-habited we had a long debate in the meat aisle of Sainsbury’s about the price of free range chicken. I didn’t want to buy 4 chicken breasts for £3 as I knew we would buying a chicken from a battery farm that had been pumped full of GKW while alive and then pumped full of GKW pre-packaging. I tried to defend the reason that free range chicken is smaller and more expensive is because it is actually chicken and not part chicken, part pig skin and 70% water.

I don’t wish to get on my soapbox about eating meat as I know people will start pointing out that I’m wearing leather shoes, but I do wish to encourage more ethical farming. I don’t think its good enough for multi-billion pound companies like Tesco to pretend to be shocked that there is horse meat in their meat products and pointing the finger at everyone but themselves. You should get what you pay for. I think meat products such as burgers should be labelled honestly much like cigarettes; Warning: may contain horsemeat, pig skin and ground down bones. I bet more people would switch to free range meat then.

It has been said that the horse meat scandal will encourage more trips to the butchers and more home cooking. And as a sort of pescewotsit/vegetarian I actually welcome this. I personally buy organic mince to make my children’s burgers and I buy free range chicken to make my children’s nuggets. If we can encourage less processed rubbish meat and more wholesome meat-eating isn’t that beneficial for all involved, animals and people alike? I know the big argument is the cost but I find you can cook on a budget without budgeting on meat, embrace your blitz spirit, our parents and grandparents did it. I will finish with a quote from the Chief Executive of Iceland for whenever you’re thinking that cheap meat is OK. When asked why his company didn’t test for horsemeat in his beef products, even though they have started to now, he answered “I didn’t test for cat or dog either.” Quorn burger anyone?

Anyone for a spot of nip and tuck?

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My bestie recently visited her pregnant friend, she called me on her return concerned at how dreadful her friend had looked. Now I can personally guarantee that not all pregnant women ‘glow’ during their pregnancy. There’s a lot of bloating, swelling of limbs, cankles, the sleep deprived look brought on by nightly indigestion. Plus points are that your hair is often a little thicker and mostly your skin becomes clearer, however, you are temporarily teetotal and following a healthier diet which helps. But my bestie insisted her pregnant friend didn’t have that haunted rabbit caught in the headlights soon-to-be parents look, but she in fact had really bad lines around her eyes and major eye bags as if she had aged considerably in a few months. I’ve met this girl on a number of occasions and she ordinarily has that flawless skin, hair swishy ‘because I’m worth it’ look going on, so I was very surprised to hear that her pregnancy had resulted in such an unusual ageing process. My bestie went on to explain that her pregnant friend had said that ‘she couldn’t wait to have the baby so she could get back on the Botox’. Apparently the reason she was much more lined than usual is because she has always had regular injections to keep her wrinkles at bay. And whereas other pregnant women avoid eating shellfish and soft cheese, she has to avoid Botox so not to harm her unborn baby.

Smile your last smile!

Smile your last smile!

This revelation raised concerns for me, not just because this girl is the same age as me and the conversation resulted in me looking at the scary side of my hubby’s shaving mirror and examining my own wrinkles, but because it feels very close to home. We can all often spot a celebrity Botox job a mile off and have come to accept it with Kylie, Nicole Kidman and Courtney Cox, all beautiful women but with a sort of waxwork sheen about them now they are older. Will it mean that having a Botox will become as normal as having your roots done? Our future beauty routines will consist of cleanse, tone and inject poison into our skin. We will have to carry pen and paper so we can convey how we are feeling, no longer able to rely on our expressions as we are all left looking constantly stunned.

I suppose my fear of these cosmetic procedures isn’t helped by the clinical names involved. For example, Botox is actually called Botulinum Toxic, a term that conjures up some sort of rat poison to mind. Anything ending in the word toxic surely isn’t advisable? Furthermore, another popular beauty therapy too far is the harsh facial, more commonly known as the chemical peel. It does what it says on the tin ladies! It consists of chemicals that peel your skin off your face, it could double up as a torture aid in a James Bond movie!

Plastic surgery used to be something that was contained in LA, where you would snigger at Joan Rivers Mars Attack look on television and think I would never do that to myself. As a child I remember that Dolly Parton was the only female celebrity who had admitted to a boob job and would be ridiculed by the likes of Kenny Everett and Spitting Image because of it. Nowadays it is completely normal for a female celebrity to sport a boob job, no thanks to silicone addict Katie Price. It makes me wonder what will happen in the next generation. Will my 5-year-old daughter be exposed to completely plastic celebrities when she is older or will we get to the point where we will think what the hell do they look like and put the plastic surgeons out of business? There are essential cosmetic procedures out there though and I am forever amazed at the improvements in medical science to enable people who have scars or disfigurements to seek help to change them. It is just making sure the line is not blurred, that we can be accepted for how we look wrinkles and all. And if you ever feel tempted for a bit of nip and tuck, google Jackie Stallone, it helps I promise you. “Yeah Jackie!”

photo credit: <a href=”http://www.flickr.com/photos/ekai/2421936996/”>ekai</a> via <a href=”http://photopin.com”>photopin</a> <a href=”http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-sa/2.0/”>cc</a>

High Noon Over The Dog Fields

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A daily chore task I carry out each morning is walking our beloved lunatic Labrador Chester. Post school run I gradually open the front door to see if he has destroyed anything in our hallway (his bedroom) while I have been out for the 30 minute round trip. I am eternally pleased that our Postman likes a lie in so that our post is not ripped to pieces before I return. We adopted Chester last summer from a rescue home. He is a Pedigree Labrador but as he was being rehomed due to his excitable nature (what do some dog owners expect?) we got him at a reduced price, a sort of spoiled goods price. He was a gangly 6 month old pup who slotted into our lives perfectly. He turned 1 in November and is still as highly spirited (mental) as when he arrived but stupidly docile with the kids, with the added advantage of looking quite tough (though he really isn’t) so hopefully quite a good burglar deterrent.

Handsome chappie

Handsome chappie

Despite the fact that I spend the majority of the day with him, feed him, walk him then shower the mud off him, clear up the chewed kids toys, re-wash the stolen socks and pointlessly hoover up the coarse golden dog hair, he is still very much a Daddy’s boy! Me and Chester hang out all day, the minute hubby puts the key in the lock I am literally pushed aside while Chester does a sort of dog samba dance in the hallway to greet his master.

As an adolescent dog he needs a lot of exercise and as I spend a majority of my day working on the computer, the only way I can avoid trying to type without a huge dog lying across my lap, is to give him a long walk as my first job of the day. We are fortunate enough to live across the road to a series of farmers fields, they are privately owned for growing crops but have public walkways that we can use, which I bet the farmer just loves! On the edge of the first public walkway a local fellow has acquired a little paddock where he houses a rescue pony and two white goats. The kids love overfeeding his farm animals with carrots and apples and Chester has still not learnt to avoid a headbutt from the goats by sticking his head through the fence each time we visit them. The main downside of this mini farm is that the owner also has a big scary Mastiff effeminately named Lucky.

Mud Mud Glorious Mud

Mud Mud Glorious Mud

The main reason for using the fields for Chester’s walks, apart from the convenient location of them, is that other than Lucky you really don’t see that many other dogs or people over there. My pleasure at walking without others doesn’t demonstrate that I am in any way a recluse, but anyone who knows my dog or has read my blog about my one stab at dog training (please scroll back to Just Call Me Barbara for a reminder) will know that Chester is sometimes a little hard to control. My fear isn’t that I think he may attack another dog or person but that he will most definitely jump up excitedly at the person thus ruining their clothes, whilst over-sniffing their dog’s bottom to the point of vulgar and we are talking dogs here remember! Chester is a very friendly dog, a very very friendly dog, he is also a big coward! If he begins to violate a dog in the cherished way he likes to do and that dog decides to bark/growl/make a sudden movement, then Chester yelps and runs with his tail between his legs to hide behind me. He actually had this reaction when a dog that looked like Toto from the Wizard of Oz growled at him, it’s embarrassing sometimes honestly. So my tactic is the (how Cesar would hate me for this) not to try to train him but to avoid dog/person contact at all times.

Yesterday morning Chester and I were on our usual dog avoidance walk over the very muddy fields (snow melts – mudbath begins) and found myself walking in the direction of Lucky and his owner. Thankfully, Lucky was on the lead but the way in which his owner was being dragged towards us and frantically pointing for me to go into the neighbouring field away from them, I gathered he didn’t have that much control. As I switched direction to avoid them, I saw a huge Alsatian in the field we had now entered. I have seen this Alsatian before, I always avoid him, he is in my eyes devil dog. I quickly retreated back to the previous field where Lucky and his owner were, then tried unsuccessfully to signal ‘Alsatian coming’ in a really bad mime. He thankfully slowed down to let me run (wade through mud) ahead of them. Next thing I know Chester has put himself in a crouched position on the floor with his head bowed down, then I hear the gentle padding of the Alsatian in stalking mode behind us. He steps up to Chester in stealth mode and sniffs him with a quiet growl, Chester is looking at me for help but to be honest the Alsatian is giving me the ‘I can take you both on’ look as he comes and sniffs my wellies. I pointlessly mouth ‘good boy’ to Chester who looks like he would cry if he were in human form. The owner, a very fragile looking woman is still making her way from the other field and my life is literally in her faraway hands as she neglects to catch up with her dog. And just as the Alsatian is menacingly circling Chester for the second time he suddenly stops then runs off with his tail between his legs. His owner finally catches up and explains, ‘he is scared of the Mastiff’ and then carries on after her devil dog. I then see that Lucky and his owner have caught up and scared him off, I have never been so pleased to see them. Stuck between two dangerous dogs, you have to pick a side I suppose. Lucky didn’t even bother to growl at Chester as he came closer to us as Chester was still in his crouched position, looking a bit pathetic now. Chester slept well that day which resulted in a very productive day for me. Not that I would want to repeat the experience  again.

Dreaming about Alsatians

Dreaming about Alsatians

The Power of 1-2-3

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My five-year old son, how can I put it nicely, is a spirited child. He has the most angelic face with very enviable long eyelashes. He is very funny, lively, cheeky and kind-hearted. He also has a bad case of selective hearing, can’t help but run everywhere without any regard for other pedestrians and has a million and one excuses on why he can’t sleep. Each afternoon on the way back from school I attempt to engage him in conversation to improve our sometimes volatile relationship, but normally only receive one word answers or grunts as a reply before I have to restrain him from speeding off down the road. Get to bedtime however and I can’t get a word in, he is totally up for a chat with Mum in a sleep avoidance technique he has expertly developed, but I’m wise to it. Last nights debate consisted of; Is Spiderman called Peter Spiderman or Peter Parker-Spiderman? How does Spiderman go to the toilet in his suit? Does Superman fly because of his cape? And although I’d quite like to know the answers to these weighty questions myself, I just really need him to sleep. In fact, no matter how much begging and pleading or blackmailing I do, when my son doesn’t want to do something, I have a battle on my hands. The strange thing is the only way in which he will listen is if I threaten him with counting to 3.

countvoncount

The counting to 3 method is like a superpower for parents. I don’t know why it works. I can say to any of my little angels, eat your greens or else no football/tv/treats and they will eyeball me to see if my threat is empty or not. If I try to dissuade them from any possible danger such as jumping off the sofa/climbing the wardrobe/putting their hands in the dog’s mouth, I know that what they really hear is the muffled voice of the teacher from Snoopy. But if I am at the end of my tether and annoying myself with the sound of my own voice, I know its time to pull out the big guns with the ultimate of countdowns.

stressed mum 3

When I start the sentence, “I’m going to count to 3, 1, 2…”, I only ever reach 2 before my children leap into action. I don’t know what they expect to happen when I reach 3, trouble is I don’t know what will happen if I ever do reach 3. It is an unspoken rule in life that something happens at the number of 3. If you were about to jump off a bungee you would probably count to 3, in a running race you wait to hear ‘on your marks – get set – go’. Counting to 3 is as second nature to us as queueing and moaning about the weather. So use it wisely and say it proudly, if you have to shout the count to 3 in the supermarket post school run, I will sympathise and give you a knowing smile. Just don’t tell my children that I don’t have a back-up plan if I ever reach the number 3.

Reality Bites!

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I can remember when the first ever Big Brother graced our screens over 10 years ago. Channel 4 had no idea of the monster they had scheduled. A programme about a group of adults locked into a house like lab rats, having to perform tasks for their food and drink. Nasty Nick was almost lynched and hurried out the back door because he wrote people’s names down with a contraband piece of paper and a pencil. Shock Horror! Then came Celebrity Big Brother, much more entertaining as we were treated to a fly on the wall look at celebs looking dog rough without their make-up on and going into a meltdown as they couldn’t blow dry their own hairdo. But being a Big Brother fan is a full-time occupation, it is a nightly show, along with live streaming on their website which I confess I used to watch during the whole Nasty Nick debacle.

Big Brother

Big Brother

I have managed to wean myself from being an avid Big Brother viewer over the years, it was the George Galloway/Rula Lenska cat moment that helped cure my addiction. I have had no interest in the ‘normal’ housemates for a while now but I do tend to watch the launch night of the Celeb edition, just to be nosey. But for some reason this year I have been suckered back in. Don’t ask me why, there is no-one in the house I’m a particular fan of and they are a fairly uninteresting group of people, but I can’t turn it off. Each evening at 9pm, I feel like Peter Sellers in Dr Strangelove, fighting with myself to try to turn over to a different channel. But if I do switch it off, how will I know if Claire from Steps will ever realise that a onesie is not a good look for her, or discover if Rylan is slowly morphing into Max Headroom and find out why Toadfish is actually in the house?

Reality shows have been a cheap alternative to proper TV for a number of years now. In fact, celebrities will pretty much do anything for a bit of shameless airtime and stress its for charity purposes and not purely for their desperate need for the limelight. Strictly Come Dancing is still raking in the viewers despite Bruce Forsyth’s awful banter and Tess (I’m so northern) gushy interview techniques. My parents are avid viewers but will only watch it once they’ve recorded it so they can edit Bruce out and with it half the programme.

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It seems that some celebrities will do pretty much anything in the hope to relaunch a forgotten career. They will eat kangaroo willies in the Australian jungle, don ice skates and be held in ungainly poses while plastering on their air hostess smiles. The most recent addition to the reality market is with the celeb diving reality show Splash. This Saturday night filler my eldest son unfortunately persuaded me to watch with him the other week. We tuned in to see the celebs in training, with the tautly toned OlympianTom Daley launching Ab Fab actress Helen Lederer into the water on a gym mat, as if he was releasing a marine animal back into the wild. Back to poolside and the live show, Vernon Kaye minced about in shorts and t-shirt while the celebrities danced (really) around the pool to their designated diving board. There seemed to be no rule with the dives with some older podgier celebs belly flopping off the low board next to younger fitter celebs somersaulting off the top board. I had to feel sorry for Helen as her make-up streaked down her cheeks and she hunched next to the perfect figure of Jenni Falconer who was making lycra look comfortable.

Well done Helen!

Well done Helen!

Whatever your view of reality TV is I don’t think it is going anywhere just yet. And although it is cheap television and often leaves you feeling unsatisfied afterwards, there is often something intriguing about it as well. And just think if we had no reality tv, there would be no Simon Cowell, Dermot O’Leary and Bruce Forsyth on prime time TV. Actually perhaps we should switch it off!

Thank You For The Memories!

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I have just received the following report concerning the amount of readers that my blog has reached this year. A big thanks to everyone who has supported me. I plan to continue my weekly blog this year so please keep reading and tell your friends so I can try and beat my reader numbers in 2013.

THANK YOU FROM AN OUNCE OF ME!

The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2012 annual report for this blog.

Here’s an excerpt:

600 people reached the top of Mt. Everest in 2012. This blog got about 3,400 views in 2012. If every person who reached the top of Mt. Everest viewed this blog, it would have taken 6 years to get that many views.

Click here to see the complete report.

Farewell 2012!

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At some point today we will utter to each other, ‘Hasn’t this year gone quick?’ as we do so every year. For some of us a New Year can herald a sense of relief, a chance to turn our back on the year that is almost over. For others, we may feel sad that 2012 has been the best year yet and feel anxious that 2013 might not be as fortunate with its unlucky digits. But before you start dragging out last year’s ill-fitting gym kit and investing in overpriced Nicorette patches to aid your New Years Resolutions, I would like to take us back through my (not personal) highs and lows of 2012.

2012-celebration

This year gave us the wettest weather report ever recorded, with many towns being flooded across the country and people loosing their homes. This also meant that the much anticipated Jubilee weekend was almost a big washout. However, thanks to the blitz spirit of her Maj’s loyal followers, huge crowds of people took to the banks of the River Thames like soggy cats to watch the old dear celebrate her 60 years on the throne. I watched it from the warmth and dryness of my sofa and although I was mainly trying to see if her Maj was rifling through her handbag to sneak a Quality Street, I couldn’t help feeling a little bit moved by the drenched choir singing ‘Land of Hope and Glory’.

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The Coalition Government dropped kicked us through a year of budget cuts all in the name of ‘helping our economy’. I’m not convinced they’re asking the right people for money, however, the saving grace on us not hitting a double dip recession was apparently the increase in sales following the massive literary (ahem) hit 50 Shades Of Grey. The trilogy that was dubbed ‘Mummy Porn’ had so many readers hoping to morph their husbands into Christian Grey, that the sales of ‘naughty goods’ rose by a whopping 400% giving our economy a much needed push.

With many families strapped for cash this year and the bill for the Olympic’s seemingly going through the roof, many Londoners, me included, grumbled about how it was a waste of money, wouldn’t be any good anyway, team GB won’t get any golds. How wrong we were? In true Worzel Gummidge form, I sat down to watch the opening ceremony with my ‘cynical head’ firmly on. But then I started to enjoy it, it was actually really good. Each segment was about feeling proud to be British and by the time David Beckham was on his speedboat I was almost standing. Then the countries starting arriving and I dropped into a semi-coma, seriously some of those countries must be made up. The games were great, team GB did really well and as a nation we all became hooked. My children, especially my eldest son knew all the names of our winners, Bradley Wiggins is now a cast iron hero in our house along with Mo Farrah and Jessica Ennis. Forget The Spice Girls spouting on about girl power, take a look at our female athletes. Nicola Adams becoming the first British female to win a gold medal in the women’s boxing even though she looks like she would be too nice to raise a fist at anything. The Paralympics were just as worthy for the first time ever, with my son and parents attending the finals which was gladly a sell out. Apart from a rather too lengthy closing ceremony, a partial career revival for Sir Paul McCartney and The Spice Girls, it really was an Olympics worth watching.

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We have also had our fair share of royal scandal this year. Butter wouldn’t melt Kate Middleton had topless shots splashed over the front pages of gossip mags throughout Europe. We were all shocked and appalled, felt that she had been betrayed, although some of us thought that maybe she should be more careful considering her status in the Royal Family. The British press refused to publish the photos and the Royal Family took legal proceedings to protect her honour. Then naked photos of Prince Harry emerged in the press, he had ended up nude following a game of strip billiards (so posh). The Sun newspaper along with many others printed the photos on the front page, we all affectionately shook our heads at the mischief that Harry gets up too. He didn’t try to cause a fuss, wasn’t interested in any sort of injunction and followed the scandal by appearing backstage at a show in Las Vegas surrounded by bikini clad beauties. What a difference a direct line to the throne makes.

However, my personal wow moment of the year was when Felix Baumgartner casually decided to jump 128k from space, through the Earth’s atmosphere and back down to the ground. Dressed in an astronaut’s suit, he emerged from his little space pod, looked down at the edge of the planet and matter of factly said, “I’m coming home now” as if he was just ringing his wife on the train home from work. He plummeted to Earth spinning as he went, then somehow remembered to pull the cord to his parachute and floated to the ground. No matter how many times I watch the clip on You Tube it forces the hairs on the back of my neck to stand up while making me feel a little bit sick, it is truly amazing. And Felix’s reasons for taking the jump, he says, “Everyone has limits – not everyone accepts them”. I can handle a few limits thank you.

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Whatever your plans are to see in the New Year later tonight, whether you will be cheering or commiserating come 12 o’clock, no-one will be as happy as Tulisa for seeing the back of 2012.

Happy New Year!! X