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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!

 

The Beautiful Game

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And The Winner Is….

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

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

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

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

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

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

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