Author Archives: An Ounce of Me

The Fate Of The School Fete

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We are going to be a bit spoilt this year with Bank Holiday’s, thanks mainly to her Madge and the forthcoming Jubilee celebrations. Bank Holiday’s are a bit of a double-edged sword in our house, as hubby being a City Copper normally means he has to work them if there are any activities occurring in London! But this week he was able to spend Bank Holiday Monday with us, so with the weather forecast unsurprisingly leaning towards wet, we had to find something to do.

With grandparents on board for the day, along with my 4-year-old niece, we decided to head down to Hubby’s old primary school as they were holding their annual Fete. It promised a “family fun day” with the added treat of a classic car show along with shows of Karate, majorettes and children’s entertainer, plus a Pimms Tent and BBQ. So with all age groups covered and a £1 entrance fee, we debated it would suit us as a cheap day out.

Arriving at the school on yet another drizzly day, we were directed into a cramp hall by a group of soggy but still over-enthusiastic Scouts. The helper on the door explained that the field was too water-logged for the car show so had been cancelled and the weather had put a stopper on any outdoor activities so everything was taking place in the 2 assembly halls. We paid our entrance fee and squeezed our way into the first hall, laden down with our picnics previously prepared with an outdoorsy day in mind.

The first hall was crammed to bursting with various stalls selling local crafts, but mainly tombola stalls which were decorated to entice the children to spend their pocket-money with a promise of “everyone’s a winner!”. Even though prizes were along the lines of a tin of butter beans or a bottle of Yardley’s perfume. There was a mob of pensioners at one end of the hall crowded around the garden stall and before I knew it, my Dad was elbowing his way to the front like an autograph hunter at a concert. As we followed, protecting the children from the stampede of gardeners, a friend’s Dad explained that the plants were so cheap that a lot of people just come to these Fete’s for the garden stalls alone. We squeezed past, leaving my Dad to haggle for a Raspberry plant and into the rain-splattered playground.

We found a corner of the playground with a bench and with our ‘Blitz Spirit’, regardless of the “fine rain” in the air, we laid out our picnic so we could gain some strength to enter the “entertainment hall”. After the usual pleading and bargaining that goes hand in hand with feeding my 4-year-old twins their lunch, we decided to check out the now ‘indoor should have been outdoor displays’. My 8-year-old had met up with a friend and fleeced his grandparents for money so had gone back into the tombola hall. Me, hubby, grandparents, my twins and my niece headed into the entertainment hall, squeezing past majorettes trying to avoid being poked in the eye with a twirling stick, via the Pimms table (not really the same as a Pimms Tent) to where the children’s entertainer was setting up. I placed the 3 little ones at the front (pushy mum syndrome) and retreated to the back and noticed some chairs in the ‘Bingo corner’. I asked the Bingo lady if I could borrow 3 chairs for the children’s show, she paused to eye me up and down while expressing a long sigh. She reluctantly agreed as long as I promised to not go too far with them and bring them back straight after the show for the Bingo would be starting then. I assured her I wasn’t planning on taking the chairs and carrying them around with me for the rest of the day, but was literally moving them 3 metres in the direction of my relatives and promised to return them immediately after. The kids loved the show, although trying to explain to three 4-year-olds that Mr Custard can’t make balloon animals for every child isn’t the easiest argument to win! So we promised them a go on a tombola stall to make up for their lack of balloon poodles, that is if my eldest hadn’t run up too much of a debt in there!

I returned the chairs to the crowds of Bingo fans waiting for them (NOT!) and we squeezed past the Karate Kids and Brass Band members on our way back to the other hall. We thought we’d try our luck at the drinks tombola as there were a few bottles of decent wine up for grabs, unfortunately once we had purchased our 4 tickets for a £1 noticed that there were also bottles of ketchup and shower gel as prizes too. So with all adults having a go, we ended up £5 down with winnings of a fruit shoot, a bottle of bitter lemon and a small bottle of Belgian beer, bargain! We surgically removed our eldest from the chocolate tombola and headed out the exit before the cake stall came into the children’s line of vision.

It was a funny day out but certainly not cheap, though it was for a good cause so didn’t mind too much. The children had fun which was the main thing and my Dad was victorious in his Raspberry plant battle. I have a feeling my parents will be attending more Fete’s than me in the future though, now they have wind of the plant stall bargains.

 

Escape to Ibiza

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So here I am back in jumpers, wearing waders on the school run, washing stacked up on the radiators. To think only 3 days ago I was laying on a sun lounger in a very posh villa in Ibiza!

It all began last December, a very dear friend of mine is involved in the hiring of luxury villas in the islands of Ibiza and Majorca. And by luxury, I mean the type of place Kylie and the cast of Made In Chelsea hire for a few days in the sun, at the cost of £10K a week. Huge palatial homes set in the mountains with infinity pools, countless bedrooms and bathrooms, places familiar from the pages of OK! magazine shoots! My friend and his partner are very old (as in length of friendship not age group) and very best friends of mine and as a treat from the villa owners thanking him for the wealthy year he provided from hiring out their villas, he was able to make use of a villa for free! So me and my best friend gladly offered to accompany them on a long weekend to Ibiza, I’m supportive of my friends jobs like that!

So last Friday, the two fellas were already at the villa and me and my bestie were headed to Stansted to commence our journey to the sun. Now, flying is not my favourite type of transport to say the least! From the night before a journey, I am already imagining all sorts of disaster situations. Once at the airport, fully dosed up on Kalms and St John’s Wort, I am dreading the moment I have to set foot on that plane. I don’t think it helps nervous passengers like myself, that at your gate you have to walk up a long corridor which seems to get narrower the nearer you get to the plane like something out of Charlie and The Chocolate Factory.  Once on board the stewardess helpfully points me in the direction of “straight down” towards the seats, I may  have the manic look of a scared rabbit but wasn’t planning on sitting on the pilot’s lap! My bestie is very supportive, plying me with trash magazines and the promise of a chick flick DVD and wine once airborne, distracting me from the hoover type noise coming from the engine as it starts to trundle towards the runway. I am pleased to hear the Captain’s voice on the speaker introducing himself and his staff. And bizarrely am always comforted if he has a double barreled surname and sounds like a posh RAF pilot as I can imagine him to be extremely capable in the event of a crash situation, paranoid I know!  Take off is the worst bit for me as I look around at the passengers casually reading their newspapers, I fight off the urge to shout at them “Do you know where your emergency exit is? Are you watching how to tie up your life jacket cos I won’t help you!”. And after a few bumps and a suspected dislocation to my bestie’s hand courtesy of my nervous clenching of it, we are airborne, only 2 hours and 37 minutes until I can uncurl my toes, but at least Matthew McConaughey on my bestie’s laptop and a plastic cup of Chardonnay will assist me.

But the ordeal of flying is worth it as we leave the torrential rain back in Blighty and step off the plane at Ibiza greeted by blue skies and warm sun. I instantly feel my shoulders start to drop in preparation for the next 3 days of kid free relaxation.

Our GBF’s (gay best friends) are regulars on the island as they used to live there when they owned a bar and now with the villa business they are part-time residents. They meet us at the airport and whisk us off, via the wholesale drinks supermarket, to our luxury villa in the mountains. And Wow, the villa is out of this world! From the minute we unpack the car and open the front door I already feel like a Hilton offspring embracing the luxurious surroundings as if I’m used to such expense. We check out the rooms like excited kids, squealing at “amazing sofas” and “gorgeous rugs”. With 12 bedrooms, 4 bathrooms, 3 living rooms and 2 kitchens, I may just move every night because I can!

With our GBF’s having stocked up before our arrival we get down to the important stuff of opening the wine, changing into something more suited to the pool and feasting on Alioli (garlic mayonnaise) until the lizards outside are squinting at the garlic odour emitting from our group of 4.

The next morning, typically of our luck, we are greeted with heavy cloud but still warm in temperature. Most of the morning is spent with us discussing cloud formations, sounding more knowledgable then Michael Fish, reassuring each other that “the sun will burn through the cloud, that breeze will blow the clouds away.” And my particular favourite, the very English “you can still get a tan with heavy cloud” as I lay on the lounger, arms rigid by my side waiting for the glare of my white skin to fade just a bit in order to wear my new dress later with bare legs. But it did warm up and the clouds parted just enough to cast a tan mark and after a few Iclenadic dips in the non-heated swimming pool we got ready for our “big night out” in Ibiza town.

My GBF’s have a lovely group of friends who are all very friendly and welcoming and have very interesting backgrounds. Mostly English, they are all well-travelled and seem to live idyllic lives on the sun-drenched island. One of the party doesn’t speak very good English and I don’t speak very good Spanish, so occasionally when we were left alone, we both had to endure limited conversation of “nice bar”, “si bueno” and “warm weather”, “si bueno” until someone bi-lingual rescued us.

We had a lovely dinner at the harbour and once filled up on complex carbs and plentiful wine, we head off to a bar called Rock. I have been to Ibiza quite a few times and with the summer season kicking in around May/June, choice of bars are quite limited in April. However, this isn’t such a bad thing as the bars that are opened are very lively and atmospheric. And the Rock certainly delivered on both counts and although the cost of drinks are not dissimilar to London prices, the measures certainly are! After ordering a vodka cranberry, it was presented to me in a long glass with 3/4 vodka which the bar man ‘topped up’ with cranberry and ice. After a couple of sips, a few winces and one or two stamps of my feet I was able to climatise to the vodka/mixer ratio but could see my lightweight status making an appearance earlier than planned. After we had bar crawled a few places, literally as the vodka kicked in and my heels became increasingly difficult to lift in front of each other, we thought we’d try our chances at the uber trendy Pacha nightclub. I’ve been to Pacha a number of times in the past, my GBF’s and their resident friends have no problem getting in for free as they are known faces so I was quite surprised when we rocked up to the entrance and everyone was allowed in except me and my bestie. They said we would have to pay the not so cheap entry price of 30 euros but was reassured we would get a free drink (bargain)! We politely declined and asked why we had been singled out and was informed that we were too overdressed and looked like obvious tourists! Now, me and bestie had put on nice dresses and heels but we were hardly wrapped in mink fur and dripping with diamonds. We could take it as a compliment but instead we both felt like 18 year olds on our first holiday abroad. Our group of friends were not that casually dressed but I suppose we were a little more glammed up. After sulking for about 5 minutes we weighed up the fact that it was 4am and “we’d done really well to stay out this long”. So with a bit of self-esteem soothing we removed our heels and hailed a cab back to our heavenly hideaway.

Our last day was a very relaxing affair, “feeding” our hangovers and risking hair of the dog remedies. The sun was definitely out and we made the most of our beautiful surroundings by just lying about in different parts of the house and gardens. Before we knew it, we were packing our bags for the flight home. I was sad to say goodbye to an amazing home and absolutely loved spending time quality time with such important friends of mine, but I missed my hubby and kids more than expected and was gagging to see them all again. We were all booked on the same flight home and after we exhausted the end of Muriel’s Wedding by shouting goodbye to everything in an Australian accent we were homeward bound.

See Ya Ceefax!

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I think it is a sign of getting older when you find yourself using the phrase “Modern Technology” in any conversation, as it normally suggests that you don’t understand the technology type conversation you’re involved in.

I have recently acquired my first I-phone, which my 8-year-old son tells me “was long overdue an upgrade”! I don’t own an I-Pod or an I-Pad, I borrow my husband’s work laptop and each new mobile I do get (always a freebie with a contract), I immediately ‘file’ the instructions, as I really cannot be bothered to learn about all the interesting (yawn) things my phone is capable of.

I completely ignored all the advertisements surrounding the recent digital switchover as we are customers of SKY TV/Broadband/Phone/Blah/Blah…. it shouldn’t really affect us should it? When my Mum asked how she operated the switchover on her bedroom TV, I suggested she call the helpline, how helpful of me???!!

My kids take technology completely for granted, surfing games on the internet with a fast connecting Broadband, or playing on their Wii or Nintendo DS, which I then have to surgically remove in order to get more than a grunt as an answer .

It is so different from when I was a child and my brother owned a Spectrum computer, it was a scientific marvel to us and our friends. It was connected via a tape recorder which loaded each game at an agonisingly slow speed, accompanied with an ear piercing wheeeeee noise to show us it was doing something. When it finally loaded and we started our badly pixellated version of Space Invaders, it often crashed and then we’d have to go through the torturing load music again. We loved it though. Following this we branched out on a Playstation 1 where we played Mario or Sonic and eventually Lara Croft until our thumbs bled. My particular favourite gadget was our Gameboy, similar in size and weight to a brick, the keys actually hurt after an hour of building black and white walls of Tetris.

With the digital switchover, I was very sad to hear that Ceefax has also died along with analogue TV. My eldest son looked at me blankly when I tried to explain that Ceefax was like Teletext but a bit rubbish, although very important to pretty much everyone before the Internet was born. It was the main source of football scores for my Dad as unless you tried to tune into a pitchy radio station on AM or wait until Grandstand, there was no other way of finding out the score. With the help of a dodgy graphic flashing sun you were able to check the weather, as long as you could wait about an hour for each page to change and get to your part of the country. I used to go on the Channel 4 kids pages as a junior school kid, the home of the very addictive Bamboozle. It was also home to finding pen friends which was a very big hobby in the 80s. We would make our mixtapes to accompany our letters written using our special birthday stationery, where we would discuss exciting subjects like my nice smelling rubber (erasers!) collection and whether George Michael will marry me one day (no-one knew).

It is exciting that technology is moving on. When I was an office bound worker in the media industry, being up-to-date on the latest systems was paramount. But I still remember fondly one old-school newspaper Editor asking me whether he should photocopy his document before faxing it, ‘in case it didn’t come back down again….’

As a person who works from home, I would imagine I would need a crash course in computer systems if I were to return to an office. But I will try to keep up with “Modern Technology”,  if only for the sake of helping my children with their homework and to understand what they are talking about!

 

Pig Poo And The Reluctant Easter Bunny Of Devon

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We all love a bargain and when budgeting for 2 holidays for a family of 5 we were prepared to take a chance on trying something new. After booking up our Sun Holiday for the first week, hubby found a very reasonable chalet for 5 in the Devon countryside “surrounded by breathtaking scenery and a short drive to the picturesque beach of Seaton”.  It was a private hire through Ebay and the pictures were very promising. The accommodation looked spacious, the views from the windows were lovely and it offered a secluded play area for the children. The chalet is on a private resort with no facilities other than a shop at a petrol station next door and after a busy and noisy week at a caravan site, it sounded like a very relaxing alternative. Can you feel the catch coming yet??

As the Sat Nav directed us through quaint little villages we finally came upon the quiet and pretty seaside town of Seaton, the kids were giggling with excitement as the Joanna Lumley-esque voice informed us that we had “arrived at our destination”. We pulled into the petrol station and almost choked on the appalling smell that was seeping into the car. As the kids all accused each other of being responsible for the potent aroma, to our horror we saw that the entrance to the chalets were smack bang opposite at least 4 fields of pig farms! Hubby went to fetch the key as I explained to the kids that the piggies were very smelly and that we may have to grin and bear this smell for the rest of our holiday. They all pretty much begged to go back to Dorset, with daughter point-blank refusing to leave the car. As hubby produced the key and by only talking on out breaths, we exited the car and walked through a gated entrance to a small field of about 30 chalets. As the thoughts of “could I swing a cat inside” popped into my head, the smell was enough to make us take shelter inside as quickly as possible. The completely wooden shed sorry… I mean chalet was a bit of a Tardis and housed two fairly spacious bedrooms, a double (woohoo) and a family room that sleeps 3. There is also a large bathroom, living room and kitchen. Totally liveable just with a damp wood smell but compared to the pig smell outside it was heavenly. Eldest son christened the toilet much to the complaints of my daughter so I instructed him to open the window for the sake of our noses. Unfortunately by doing this we were engulfed with the smell of pig poo again, tough call on what was worse but we closed the window and dug out some air fresheners from the kitchen cupboards.

I am not a holiday snob, admittedly I would like money to be no option so we could rent or even own a gorgeous country cottage by the sea for our holidays or jet off to foreign climates whenever we chose too. But with a young family, caravan’s and chalets are the norm for us so that we can afford to holiday at least twice possibly three times a year. I don’t really mind and have learnt to adapt to blow heaters and damp towels. But what I can’t bear about chalets, especially dark wooden ones like our pig poo one, is the human to spider ratio. I seriously think they are on holiday too as there are too many visiting us for my liking. I’m not far off an arachnophobia but feel I line myself up for an encounter by staying in places such as this.

Amazingly, after a day or two we had adapted to the smell of the pigs, not enjoyable but bearable. I no longer had to wear a polo neck over my nose to get something from the car and I even did a washload and hung it on the line. I have instructed my parents to make sure that we don’t stink of pigs on our return though, as the smell may be too ingrained for us to realise now!

A main reason for our destination choice of Devon is that hubby has a lot of family in the West country so we have been visiting aunts and cousins a lot during our stay. They are all a lovely welcoming family and it’s a good opportunity for my kids to experience the hours of grown-up conversation that I had to endure as a child when I had to visit my great-aunt and great-uncle in Richmond along
with my parents and older brother. During my Richmond visits, we were force-fed trifle laced with sherry clearly unsuitable for children, while me and my brother were instructed to “amuse their dog” which was a toothless poodle who was intent on trying to attack us by sucking us into submission. Thankfully, our kids were brilliantly behaved without one complaint, though I’m sure I will be paying them back in Easter eggs for the rest of the week!

With April showers really kicking in this week making a laughing-stock of hose pipe bans, we were finally rewarded with a dry sunny day and after perusing a stack of “places to go” leaflets settled on a botanical gardens promising lots of fun activities for kids along with an Easter Egg Hunt! The gardens were gorgeous and after finding our first few clues settled into a picnic on the grass with the kids. Eldest son started complaining of feeling sick and not wanting to eat his lunch. Now my kids take it in turns to be fussy eaters, some days they eat anything and other days the sight of a cauliflower will send them into quivering wrecks. I don’t have a great deal of patience for it, especially when time isn’t on your side and there’s an egg hunt to complete (bit too competitive for my own good sometimes). I quizzed eldest son about the reality of this queasiness as he had done the traditional Easter Sunday thing of eating chocolate after breakfast earlier that morning. He reckoned it was youngest son’s sick bug which I’m still convinced was a chemical reaction to the food colouring in the slush puppy. I firmly begged through gritted teeth that I needed him to have a go at eating at least half a sandwich, I even tore it up and helped pass/feed it to him much to his disgust. Next thing he is white as a sheet hissing “bag bag” at me. I emptied the rest of the packed lunch on my lap to free my plastic bag which he then projectile vomited into, all in front of quite an impressive audience of picnickers. Afterwards he felt completely better so I was convinced it was due to over-indulgence of easter eggs, fellow parents are not privy to this information and are instead shooting me the filthiest of looks that would suggest I am force-feeding my child to the point of vomit! We quickly headed off to continue our egg hunt, which seemed ludicrous in the recent events of the vomit lunch but I like to see things through and eldest son had bounced back.

As we headed to the next clue we saw a 6 foot “Easter Bunny” in full white bunny suit reluctantly waving as a stream of kids headed in his direction. My 3 clocked him and gave chase as he quickened his pace, he gave them the briefest high-five and then practically sprinted off into the distance. Me and hubby had to reassure (lie) the kids that he was very busy checking the whereabouts of the eggs and didn’t
want to give anything away so that’s why he ran away from them! When we were on our final clue, we saw him again, it was a quieter part of the gardens, relatively kid free so he didn’t seem too pleased to see us turn the corner (which was a body language assumption as he was wearing a false bunny head). As our 3 surrounded him, hubby quickly snapped a photo before he made a run for it again, poor guy is probably the caretaker that had been roped into doing it.

The holiday is almost over and we have had a lovely break. It has been a wonderful opportunity to spend quality time with the children even with the fussy eating, bedtime refusals and occasional whingeing. As we prepare for home and the mountains of washing to look forward to, I am ever so slightly pleased to be heading back to a larger living space, central heating and a hard water area so that my hair can stop looking like something Kate Bush styled in the 80s!

 

Vomit and Credit Card Fraud in Dorset

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With two weeks off school for Easter, 3 kids to occupy and thankfully my hubby with plenty of annual leave to use up, we decided to be ambitious and organise 2 holidays back-to-back. First up is a 4-day break in Dorset courtesy of The Sun Newspaper holidays. We were able to choose an area and then it’s a bit of pot luck on accommodation, but for 4 days it’s worth a gamble considering it’s value for money.

We were allocated a caravan in Sandford which is a great part of the country between the New Forest and the Jurassic coast. The holiday park was fine, it ticks all the boxes with the indoor swimming pool, overpriced randomly stocked supermarket and cringeworthy evening entertainment with Pied Piper inducing kids club.

As a family of 5 they had not so helpfully placed us in a 2-bed caravan with a pull out bed in the living room to suit our needs…? We could pay an extra £60 for an upgrade but decide to embrace the blitz spirit and muck in with the living room/bedroom situation much to the immense pleasure of our eldest who had been rewarded with the double bedroom, while the twins took the aptly named twin room. We pointlessly unpacked our suitcases and crammed our clothes onto the shelves provided wondering why they never seem to have enough  storage space or even a coat hook or two in these tin can accommodations? However, the kids love it and hubby and I have found advantages to having a bed which reaches the kitchen so we can refill our wine glasses in the evening without having to actually get up.

First morning, we chanced a bout of verucca’s to try out the on-site swimming pool which was a hit with the kids, though I did feel uneasy passing through numerous warm spots of water mainly surrounded by groups of children. To deter our kids from dragging us into the massive amusement arcade, we decide to get out and about and explore the local area. First excursion was to Corfe Castle where as a half-term treat there is a medieval display from a local battle reenactment troupe. They are demonstrating bow and arrow combat and coaching volunteers in the art of archery. Both boys were keen to learn so I accompanied them to the Robin Hood clad archer who greeted us “Good Morrow fair lady and young archers, let us commence.” It took every being in my body to not point out that it is actually 2012 and it isn’t necessary to be so ‘into the role’. The boys were a captive audience though as he demonstrated his ability to shoot an arrow, I wasn’t convinced he would fair well in a real battle situation but at least he had the teeth to look convincing of the period.

The days following were action packed with a steam train ride, a hailstone storm on our day out at the beach and an overdraft busting entrance fee to Peppa Pig World, all of which put smiles on the kids faces. Bedtime was its usual holiday mode of too excited to sleep and as the twins don’t normally share a room at home they upped the ante keeping each other awake way beyond a reasonable hour.

One night while I was balancing on my wafer thin mattress and me and hubby were sleeping in formation to cope with lack of room, younger son came stumbling into our “bedroom” to inform me he had thrown up in his bed! Sure enough the little twin bed he inhabited was decorated with a post illuminous blue slush-puppie. Hubby cleaned the bedding while I cleaned our boy and then we played musical beds, hubby in with eldest and youngest in with me. Our daughter was most disappointed she had missed out on all the fun when she awoke the next morning.

The end of the first holiday was drawing to a close, on our last night we rewarded the kids with an evening of kids entertainment at the club house (minus slush puppies) so I could make use of the free Wifi and hubby could have a sneaky look at the football on Sky Sports. While I used the slowest broadband known to man, I could hear the synthetic saxophone from the party classic Superman, “comb your hair, fly a kite”. The royalties that band must make as I remember that from when I used to go to parties as a child! When I finally logged onto the internet, avoiding glares from football fans as the only table available with a view of the children was by the screen for the football, my bank
website informed me that I had used my card twice online the previous day to the value of £90 to pay an obscure company. I phoned them and discovered that a hacker had cloned my card and used it on gaming sites. During a conversation with the fraud department of my bank I strongly denied paying for such a terrible waste of money, secretly praying that one of the kids hadn’t signed me up to something virtual while playing Angry Birds on my mobile!

The money has been refunded thankfully and we headed off to holiday number 2 in Devon. Only trouble is, halfway to our new destination hubby realised that he hadn’t emptied his shoe cupboard (one of the few cupboards available) so had left 2 pairs of trainers and his beloved Timberlands in Dorset! Looks like any excursions in the week ahead will have to suit his remaining shoewear of flip-flops and work boots!

Devon holiday blog to follow soon.

 

Bright Lights, Big City – Episode 2

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So in the words of The Four Seasons, “Oh what a night!”

Hair was a flop, attempting the curly-do thing that a hairdresser had once made look so effortless was much harder to replicate than expected! After spending half an hour unsuccessfully curling my hair I had ended up with a dreadlock effect so then had to spend half an hour straightening it back out again! Skater dress was a bit too short.I wore thick black tights with it but still felt that it barely covered my behind, which was fine when walking along the road but up escalators and on windy platforms I felt like I was doing my own mini Burlesque show for fellow passengers!

Unperturbed by my appearance I headed up to Oxford Circus to meet my friend and onto the nearest cocktail bar adjacent to the restaurant we were dining in. The über glamorous door lady, or Concierge or whatever pretentious  title she awarded herself, showed us past the nice tables that were reserved by Made In Chelsea extras and to the non-reserved area which was basically a couple of carpet tiles at the end of the bar. I offered to buy the first round of Mojitos, the barman mixed a couple of measures of rum with mint leaves, sugar, lime and lots of crushed ice, we waited excitedly for our drinks and as I took my first sip of the delicious mix I was stung with a bar bill of £17! Seriously, £8.50 a drink, I glanced at the bottle of rum to make sure it wasn’t lined with gold and reluctantly passed over my debit card. With raised eyebrows we drunk our very expensive drinks, literally sucking the mint leaves dry as they were probably worth a £1 each of liquid.

Onto dinner which was an Indian restaurant in a very fancy setting. We opted for a set menu, both of us starving and was presented with a starter that I think was meant for an Oompa Loompa judging by its size. Still, it was delicious and even though the main course was only marginally larger, it satisfied us as we had eaten so much of the crushed ice from the Mojitos in an attempt to suck up the last of the cocktail. The silver lining was that the set menu came with half price cocktails, so feeling slightly less ripped off, meant we could go for two each guilt free!

Following dinner, we took a walk through a very bustling Soho, people crammed on the streets soaking up the last of the warmish day. It’s a great area and if you can take a small loan out beforehand, a great place to bar hop. We found a bar off the main drag so we could get a couple of vodkas for the bargain price of £4.50 each and relaxed into our people watching and reminiscing about Telegraph days and nights out.

We headed our separate ways about 11ish, my friend North London bound and me out to Essex, which involved a quick tube journey to Liverpool Street where I braced myself for the overhead train, otherwise known as The Vomit Comet after 11pm on a Friday night. I scanned the seat options for my 35 minute journey home to see who looked least likely to vom, or in fact talk to me at all. Due to lack of funds, I was feeling surprisingly sober and not up for any inane chit-chat with a group of drunken Romford brokers. I opted for a seat opposite a couple my parents age with theatre programmes, safe bet with an empty chair beside me. I exchanged smiles with theatre couple and engrossed myself in The Evening  Standard.

Arriving at Stratford a very odd, freakishly tall man got on, he scanned for available seats, ignored the empty ones behind me, took a long stare at a couple of young giggly office girls then laid his eyes on me and to my horror sat down beside me. He folded his legs into the small leg area much to the annoyance of theatre couple and proceeded to widen his legs to squash me up against the train wall whilst giving me a leering look. I hid myself behind my Standard and tried my best to not allow his leg to rest next to mine. Theatre woman leant forward as a bit of support giving pervy man a menacing look on my behalf, he seemed to enjoy this attention and continued to steal obvious glances my way, I exchanged uncomfortable looks with a sympathetic theatre woman, trying to work out if I could climb into the overhead rack unnoticed to get away from him. The next stop was the not-so-leafy Forest Gate and thankfully it was his stop, he got up by squashing me even more against the wall with a last little nudge and was gone. What a relief! Theatre woman told me “she had had my back and was keeping a close eye on him”. I thanked her and said I was glad I was no longer hemmed in by the weirdo. A young girl then sat in his place and theatre woman said I was able to relax for the rest of the journey now. And as she said it, right on cue, a trombone gave out an enormous noise and a Romanian band had boarded the train. The band consisted of a trombone, a trumpet and a man with a drum who doubled up as a singer. Unbelievable. I started to think maybe the Mojito’s were stronger than I first thought as the band squeezed through the seats playing their unique version of The Saints Go Marching In. Or as he sang “Oh wen the says go-a marshing in”.

I was glad to get off the train and back home to near normality. A great night with fab company and apart from Train Perv, one I would be happy to repeat.

 

 

Bright Lights, Big City – Episode 1

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New dress – Check. Roots done – Check. Kids and hubby’s dinner organised – Check. What does check mean anyway?

I have a rare night out tonight, with a grown up, where we will be eating dinner in a fancy restaurant and drinking cocktails in London Town!

Will shortly be dusting off my heels and teaching myself to walk in them again. Attempting a complicated hairstyle which invovles curling my hair with my straightners…might have to start that one a bit earlier than planned. Have bought a new skater dress in glorious red, not sure if I’ll look more Torvill than Dean but hoping to look a bit trendy without playing the part of “Mum that doesn’t get out much”.

Friday night, Oxford St, I know the area well as I worked there as a Publishing Assistant at the age of 19. So why do I feel a mixture of excitiment, nervousness and a little bit of I can’t be bothered…. I’m not a total hermit but my nights out are so infrequent now I do get that country mouse feeling when heading up to the big smoke.

The old friend that I am meeting is also a Mum now and was my social buddy when we worked at The Daily Telegraph together many years ago. We always had adventures so hoping tonight will be no different, if I can stay awake past 10 that is.

Episode 2 to follow tomorrow, wish me luck!

 

The Wotsit Plan

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My best friends and I are heading to Ibiza for a girl’s weekend at the end of April. As expected I am feeling an overwhelming excitement with the promise of 4 lazy days in the sun in our posh villa with a swimming pool and NO KIDS (bless them). However, with this feeling of bliss also comes the feeling of dread as I rifle through last year’s swimsuits and bikini’s, contemplating baring the flesh without the use of a toddler to hide the flab.

With almost 5 weeks till we jet (escape) off to our weekend away, I have decided it would be nice to leave 8lbs of body fat behind as well. So, this week I have embarked on my bikini diet, which I will try and achieve sensibly with not too much effort. It seems most celeb bikini diets I have perused in magazines recently, must be down to liposuction if you see the before and after photos, there is no way weight can be lost that quickly without drastic measures? Kerry Katona surely must have a live-in surgeon by now?

Diets are a fairly new phenomenon for me, as a teenager I could eat anything and not put on a pound, some may say how lucky I was but by earning the nickname Twiglet at school I didn’t see it that way. I craved curves and compensated by wearing baggy jumpers and backcombing my perm that bit bigger. Since having children my body has changed quite a bit, especially after carrying twins my figure took on a hippo like quality, thankfully having twin toddlers is good exercise so I did lose a bit of the baby fat. However, the back sand bags that your body kindly develops for storage during pregnancy are still there and my stomach is so far down the other end of washboard it is depressing. I would like to jump back in time and shake my 19-year-old self, wearing hipster combats and teeny tiny tank top, and say look how flat your stomach is, appreciate this!

 According to research, the average UK woman goes on 61 different diets from the age of 16. I am confident that having a fairly fast metabolism, a mixture of healthy eating and exercise should do the trick for me. I don’t relish the thought of  going down the route of Gwynnie and Madge by becoming ‘macrobiotic’ as it sounds far too clinical, no sugar, no alcohol, no carbs, no fun!

After consuming my measured portions for dinner last night, having drunk 4 pints of water during the day, fruit for a snack, why did I sit in front of the TV with an overwhelming urge to eat chocolate and drink red wine. Don’t get me wrong, they are 2 vices of mine that it doesn’t take much encouragement for me to partake in, but I can generally take them or leave them, especially if I’m on my own. But there I was last night, hubby working a night shift, me biting my nails, fidgeting, unable to focus on any programme, dreaming of the wonders of Galaxy in my fridge. The woman on the Galaxy advert isn’t helping either, she has hidden hers in a box under her bed and sneaks it out to eat it, are they trying to convey the message that I’m turning bulimic if I give in? And she clearly doesn’t have any podginess around her belly so why is she hiding it in the first place?

I decide after consuming half a family size Galaxy bar in record speed, that I will look into other snack ideas. Skeletal Posh Spice recommends freezing grapes individually so if you fancy a treat, you can take one out at a time to act as a gobstopper! This is the woman that says her absolute weakness is Roasted Curly Kale, now I like my vegetables but could never agree that my ‘weakness’ would be a bitter tasting cabbage, wouldn’t we all like her a little bit more if she said “Ooh my weakness is a Chicken Korma and Onion Bhaji”. Never going to happen though!

Other alternatives are Beyonce’s quick fix diet of mainly consuming water and maple syrup for short bursts, can’t be good for you. More run-of-the-mill diets seem to just get confusing and more demanding , Slimming World’s red day/green day, Weight Watchers points system, The Cambridge Diet (sachets as a meal replacement-eurgh!), Cabbage Soup Diet (one for Posh), or my particular favourite the Body Shape Diet – are you an apple or a pear shape, a circle or an inverted pyramid? My god!

While sitting in the hairdressers last week, every gossip mag I picked up had a photo of Scarlett Johansson in a bikini on the beach, it was obviously a sneaky pap shot as she was clearly oblivious to any attention. She looked great, particularly as she looked normal, bit of cellulite on her bottom and thighs, little bit of a belly apron over the bikini bottoms and not particularly pert bosoms. But still a very beautiful woman. Every headline was of a contrary opinion, taking nasty jibes at her “orange peel skin”, “fat belly” and the biggest shock “her bottom actually wobbles when she walks” which I presume without that ability would be a bit of a useless bottom? Personally, I’d rather have a bit of a padding for when I’m using it to cushion my seated position.

The upshot is, I need to cease purchasing chocolate, red wine and stop eating the kids leftovers. I don’t want to go back to the days of the Twiglet me but something curvy and not too wobbly would suit me fine. I’m kickstarting my exercise regime, by avoiding the metabolic calculation of my age on Wii fit and will do my best for Ibiza.

 

The Dog Days

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Since becoming a Mum of 3 and with childcare costs beyond affordable, along with my eagerness to be there for my little cherubs, I have to be fairly resourceful when looking to earn extra cash. Luckily for me, hubby has a job where he can take overtime so the pressure for me to earn isn’t a priority but with 3 children, every day expenses are neverending, so extra cash is always welcome.

I do a spot of freelance writing for websites, a bit of childminding for friends, I dip my toe in a bit of secret shopping, but my main source of pocket money is gleened from dog walking. Now I’m not one of those extra’s from a Parisian setting in a foreign film with 6 poodles pulling me down the street, I have just the 2 dogs that I exercise, a Cockapoo and a Springer Spaniel, both girls, both well behaved apart from their extremely regular bowels, it also serves as a great form of exercise for me.

I read somewhere recently that in posh areas such as Kensington and Chelsea, dog walkers are referred to as “Danny’s” so you have your Nannies for your children and your “Danny’s” for your dogs!

I started this endeavour as a favour to 2 friends who work and wanted their dogs exercised and also I’ll admit it was handy for the money too. But I’m not alone, as on more than one occasion I have come across another Danny, but this is a professional Danny, he has a fleece with his dog walking company logo stitched in the back, as well as a holster type contraption attached to his belt for leads, poo bags and other essentials. We walk the same streets and whenever we pass by I do feel like an extra from High Noon as he has obviously sussed, even without my obvious Danny regalia, that I am competition.

Recently, when he was walking a rather overweight golden retriever and I had both my bi-atchs with me, we came face-to-face on opposite sides of the street. He slowed down and squinted his eyes in my direction adopting a Clint Eastwood personna, I slowed my pace and smirked with a slow and gentle nod at his dimunitive ability of having just one dog compared to my two dogs. He glanced over at my dogs as his retriever wheezed, he patted his holster probably wishing he had a matchstick to chew on for effect, smirked and dragged his reluctant canine away. I look forward to bumping into him, he never smiles at me but just eyes me suspiciously,  although I do make sure he doesn’t see where I collect my dogs from, wouldn’t want him to try and undercut me.

I do enjoy it and life doesn’t get more glamourous as a Danny when a few weeks ago I was called to the Cockapoo’s address by a mobile vet asking me to let her in as the owner was concerned about her health (the dog’s health not the mobile vet). Before I knew it, I’m spending my Tuesday morning restraining a dog while the vet checks her “damaged glands” (hurl). In my capacity as a Danny she must think I have skills in dog’s health and wellbeing by describing said ailment in all it’s glorious “seepage, bulging, weeping” detail. When asked if I’d like to take a look, I kindly refused as I’m pretty sure I can go through life without ever knowing what they look like. I’ll happily just stick to the walking, poop scooping and intimidating other Danny’s, in future.

The Lurgy!

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I woke up this morning with that dreaded feeling of a sore throat, swollen glands and blocked ears…. great another cold. I’m not surprised I’m under the weather as all 3 of my children have been on a conveyor belt of illnesses in the past few weeks, it was pretty inevitable with the amount of coughs exploding in my direction that the lurgy would drag me down as its latest victim.

It’s funny how we have our own similar explanations, whichever season, of what is the cause of our cold’s.

Winter: Weather is too cold and that mixed with central heating, it must be causing a breeding ground for germs.

Spring: The onset of hayfever, the pollen count feels higher every year, it must be causing a breeding ground for germs.

Summer: Weather is too hot, dehydration, sunburn, it must be causing a breeding ground for germs.

Autumn: Weather is a bit rainy, ending up wet a lot, temperature changing must be causing a breeding ground for germs.

In the eyes of our children, we are medical experts. I shamelessly use my children’s cold’s to push more fruit and vegetables onto them, “as this is the medicine you need to get better, all Doctors recommend eating broccoli when you’re ill.” My children actually consider our Doctor to be a superhero as his name is Doctor Flash (really).

I overheard an amusing Mum diagnosis in the playground the other school morning between two Mum’s. Mum 1 notices Mum 2 has a child dressed in non-uniform in the playground.

(And for the purposes of non-parent readers, some playground Mum’s either completely ignore each other or find it completely acceptable to ask pertinent questions to a relative stranger.)

Mum 1: “What’s the matter with your little girl?”

Mum 2: “She has a temperature, she was burning up last night, red-hot bless her.”

(And for the purposes of non-parent readers, some playground Mum’s have to use very descriptive explanations when referring to their children.)

Mum 2: “Aw, any other symptoms?”

Mum 1: “Not yet, just the heat.” (holds hand to child’s head for effect)

Mum 2: “That’s the temperature virus. My son had it. Like a furnace he was, illuminous red but no other symptoms.

Mum 1: “That’s strange, must be the same virus.”

Mum 2: ” She’ll be fine in 24 hours.”

Mum 1: “What a relief. Glad I spoke to you.”

It  seems it is easier to assign the word ‘virus’ rather than just say it is ‘a cold’ as it sounds more serious. It reminds me of when my children were babies and literally any ailment you complained to a health professional about was blamed on teething. Don’t get me wrong I think Midwives and Health Visitors do an amazing job, but they can’t be expected to know our children and in those paranoid early months when you are searching for answers for any tiny symptoms your precious bundle of joy is showing, you will accept any diagnosis given.

You shouldn’t take chances with your child’s health though as I have found out first hand. Last summer we stretched our holiday budget and took our clan to Spain for the children’s first holiday abroad.

Having re-mortgaged the house to pay for passports, flights and accommodation for the 5 of us, 10 days prior to take-off my twin son went down with Chickenpox. Eldest son has had it, as have I and hubby but my twin daughter hasn’t and with a week’s incubation period she should be right on schedule to have it for the holiday.

So, while painting a second coat of Calamine lotion on my twin son I check out our options. The budget airline we had booked with hold the policy of non-refundable, non-exchangeable and non-helpful regarding our situation. While becoming increasingly concerned about our holiday prospects, sure enough 5 days ahead of take-off the first blistering bump pops up on twin daughter’s back, then front, face, ears, everywhere. She is covered.

Day before take-off, Dr Flash gives our daughter the non-contagious seal of approval as her spots have crusted over but have not, in any way, diminished. Just need to convince the airline and fellow passengers now.

Day of departure, it’s a hot August morning, boys are in shorts and t-shirts, daughter is wrapped up in long trousers, hoodie and hat. I have rehearsed my “she suffers terribly with eczema” back-up speech in case I feel the word Chickenpox is going to incite panic. As expected from a 3-year-old, she removes hat and hoodie at the check-in desk and while I quickly consider caking her in my foundation the check-in staff don’t even look in her direction, although my Sudocream (eczema prop) is confiscated.

It’s the walk through departures that rouses the most suspicion. With my daughter sitting in her buggy, oblivious to the attention her spot-ridden face and arms are receiving, passengers look on with horror expecting some FBI agents to be chasing us before we carry the deadly virus overseas! Still, we made it to Spain and the sun and salty sea water was just the ticket for curing the pox.

I’ll have to hit the Lemsip today and eat my broccoli. I need to keep my strength up as I have heard that the “Temperature Virus” is airborne. Beware!