Mad-vent Calendar

Yep, Christmas is coming. And I don’t just know that because the kids extend their Christmas list during every ad break from Peppa Pig (there is now not a single thing they don’t want for Christmas. In fact, last week Son Two told me he wanted the plane from the Cilit Bang advert, and I didn’t have the heart to tell him that Christmas lists are kind of limited to things he can find in the Argos book, why shatter his dreams?), or because I have heard “Last Christmas” three times a day on the radio for the past three weeks (and how is it that I never tire of it?). No, there are certain things that, for me at least, mark the beginning of advent far more meaningfully than opening a little cardboard door on a Power Rangers calendar.

Firstly, my list making begins to snowball. I love lists anyway, but as Christmas draws ever nearer the number of lists begins to multiply, present lists, food lists, to do lists, to buy lists, costing lists… In fact my Christmas list making begins in September, when it feels like I have all the time in the world to create a Good Housekeeping worthy Christmas. September lists are full of gorgeously twee ideas, things that I think the kids will really appreciate and show people how much I care:  hand make all presents this year, order polystyrene balls to make funky tree baubles, talk to butcher re: free range turkey (incidentally I have never talked to a butcher in my life, unless you count being chatted up in a bar by some guy who works behind the deli counter in Asda, but it seemed like the kind of thing Kirstie Alsopp would do), felt for calendars. You get the idea.

Then, in November, when I still haven’t managed to tick anything off my September lists, I make a new list, still with the twee ideas, but now fashioned in clipped demands, with added exclamation marks for emphasis on importance: make presents!!!, card blanks!!!, balls!!!

Then we get to mid December, where we are now, and this is when I truly know the festive season is upon us. Because it suddenly dawns on me that I have wildly over estimated the amount of time I have available for all the wholesome stuff that I wanted to do (I don’t have enough time in a normal day to get everything normal done, so on what planet exactly was I on when I thought I could crank out one hundred and fifty handmade cards and matching envelopes?) So things start to slide. In the case of Christmas cards for example, September list: hand make all Christmas cards, (Christmas list making is suspended in October due to the multitude of Halloween lists) November list: buy and write all shop bought Christmas cards, December list: write cards back to people who have given one to me, Mid December list: Dispense with cards all together and plan a nice Christmas day Facebook status apologising for lack of Christmas cards (say it was an eco friendly decision or some other lame excuse) but wishing good will and glad tidings on everyone I know.

Gone also by this time are the other gorgeous but equally insane festive plans. Talk to butcher  becomes go to Tesco two days before Christmas, pick up a frozen Bernard Matthews and curse the damn things for taking up precious fridge space for the next three days as it defrosts. Make all Christmas presents becomes ask everyone what books they want from my free bookshop and make own baubles  turns into pull out the remaining dented three baubles that survived last years month long Bauble Footy Tournament courtesy of Sons One and Two.

The other reason why I know Christmas is upon us is that I am absolutely knackered. I have no idea whose idea it was to call Christmas a “holiday” because it is anything but. I feel exhausted, I look exhausted, I have a cold sore, and I am forever sitting bolt upright in the night shouting “school play tickets!” and scribbling things down on my list which I don’t understand the next day.

The other day I made 71 mince pies for my bakery business, and a fondant Santa cake for Son One’s Christmas Fayre (yet again no bloody certificate for “Best Cake”, when will I learn?), I then realised in sheer panic at 6pm that I had exactly one hour before I was due to leave for my NCT Christmas Dinner and I had to have handed in Son One’s nativity king costume by the following morning. So I went to Tesco, fully prepared to do battle with the other harassed and exhausted “bad mummies” over the last king costume, only to be met with a stripped bare display, the only things left a lame sheep and a suspiciously satiny and bejewelled Mary dress (do we think Mary really had sequins sewn to the waistband of her shiny dress?). I ended up buying a Tesco Value hand towel and manically sewing it onto a red fleece I had in the loft to make an ermine cape (I learned my lesson last year, when my “cleverly constructed costume” consisted of a purple towel with glued on cotton wool and black felt to make the ermine, after a number of school rehearsals the cotton wool had all but fell off and during the actual show poor old Son One was left desperately clinging onto the last remaining strands of it, adversely affecting his arm movements during the performance of “Little Donkey”), in amongst a days worth of washing up and Expensive Cat repeatedly leaping for the spool of cotton.

But just as I was rushing out the door to have the first of many rather badly cooked pub Christmas dinners with friends I wish I had seen more during the year, I kissed Son One on the head good night and he looked up at me and said “You do work really very hard for us Mummy. But you do make us lovely things.” Bugger, he would really have appreciated those handmade Christmas balls. Well there’s always next year (and that goes for the ever elusive “Best Cake” certificate too).

Social Hand Grenade

I like to consider myself a fairly social person and have been lucky enough to meet lots of different kinds of people over the years. I never tire of meeting new people, and there are always new opportunities to strike up new friendships. This year in particular has been full of meeting new people and starting new friendships, often without the safety net of having my kids around to blame for any social blunders I make, and that has given me ample opportunity to research how people interact with each other for the first time (oh, the things I do for you, dear readers).

In general, most people are pretty much the same, we all want to be liked and we all want to get on, and a lot of us are quite similar in how we approach a new friendship and how we go about interacting with people we don’t know. There are generally accepted ways of behaving. But meeting new people can be awkward and throw unexpected curveballs, because actually everyone is different, and occasionally someone comes along who doesn’t quite stick to the rules, leaving the rest of us to pick up the social slack

The Over Friendly Over Sharer

I am putting this one first because this is me. I am the person who will, within five minutes of making your acquaintance, discuss something others would consider highly inappropriate eg, the toileting habits of my children (sometimes even my own), religion, politics and money, I hug people on first meeting (see my posts on Social Kissing and over sharing), often getting a stiff as a board “we’re not quite there yet” response. My over friendly, over sharey ways come from an inner discomfort, I want to be comfortable myself and get to that level of ease with someone quickly, completely bypassing the awkward “don’t really know you so I’m on my best behaviour” stages. But more importantly, I want others to feel comfortable in my presence and want them to know early on that it’s ok for them to be themselves around me, and that I am not going to judge them if they accidentally say the wrong thing or a fart slips out (in fact, I often wish we lived in a world where bodily functions were are relaxed as they are to kids, obliviously wandering around with farts and burps falling out of them in an entirely uncontrolled manner (if you have ever been sitting in a lecture or meeting someone for the first time when you feel the urge, you will know the discomfort it causes)).

The Opinionated Debater

I used to be like this when I was in my teens, as I think a lot of people are, although many people grow out of it. I love a good debate, and there is nothing I enjoy more than a healthy discussion on, well, anything at all. I recently met a girl at the bookshop where I was working, and her approach to debate (between two people who barely know each other) was very different to mine. She is highly intelligent and a great conversationist, as she has a huge bank of knowledge on subjects I know little about. That is until our discussion turned into debates over things she didn’t like. She would make sweeping statements over elements of popular culture that she did not approve of (“I hate Big Bang Theory, it is just not humour, and it’s not funny, simple as that”) and this I found hard to swallow. I love that everyone is different, and love hearing other peoples arguments when they are different from my own, but in order for everyone to get along we all need to be conscious of other people’s views. Our debating reached boiling point when we had a heated discussion about Fifty Shades (do NOT slag off my Mr Gray). She said it was drivel, rubbish and badly written. My argument is that it is porn, pure and simple, and discussing it’s literary merits is like a book club hammering out the subtle nuances running through Big Juggs magazine (an argument I put forth when we did discuss Mr Gray at my book club), it doesn’t hold up to literary criticism because it’s not meant to be a literary work. But anyway, whatever the argument, my point to the Opinionated Debater is that sometimes you need to throw in a few “in my opinion”’s in order to help the other side see that you are open to their argument. Otherwise the debate ends too quickly and they come off as an arrogant twat (the girl in question asked me if I found her debates offensive, so, at her request, I made my suggestions and she gallantly took them on the chin).

Harsh Tongue

One of my friends has been affectionately given the nick name “Harsh Tongue” because, in the nicest possible way, she has a habit of saying exactly what she is thinking, and often it can cut like a knife and end a conversation in one fell swoop. She is one of the loveliest people I know, and means no harm to anyone, but her Harsh Tongue (like my over sharing) can be a little disconcerting to the uninitiated.

Underhand Harsh Tongue

These people give with one hand and take away with the other. “Oh my god, that dress is gorgeous, I’d never wear anything from Primark but it looks great on you”. This kind of person I find the hardest to cope with (being stupidly over sensitive and always reading far too much into these things) because I can never tell which side of the fence they are on. I’m sure that 99% of them are well meaning, but there is always an element of doubt as to whether they are friend or foe. And, being the trusting sort of person I am, I often find myself in conversations with people who say “Oh her, she is a right bitch” when I thought they were perfectly lovely. Or maybe I am just gullible.

Embarking on a new relationship means a lot of meeting new people. Once you have got over the initial hurdle of a first date, then comes the endless rounds of meeting, and making a good impression on, their friends, family and so on. And I’m scared. Actually, if the truth be told I am terrified of how I come across to people who aren’t used to my way of doing things, and friends and family are important people to make an impression on. But I know Mr P is a bit nervous too. He tells me his nickname is the Social Hand Grenade, as he is apt to say the wrong thing. But I think we are going to have a lot of fun together. Rocking up at social functions where someone has just died, him saying “hey, who died” and me hugging people I don’t even know. I actually don't think either of us have anything to worry about, as we both must have swerved the saying the wrong thing/over sharing to the point of being offensive or we would not have got to this point. I have a sneaking suspicion we will make a great team :-)

Cloud Number Nine

It's funny the expression "falling for someone". It really is like a free fall, jumping off a cliff or out of a plane with no idea where you are going to end up or if you are going to survive it.

In the very early days just after The Dad and I split, it felt like falling. And in some ways it was a nice fall, exciting and refreshing; after the comfort, security and sometimes stuffiness of the airplane of a 12 year relationship. But after a few weeks of free falling I was soon wishing that I could crawl my way back into the safety of the cockpit. But it was too late, my parachute and my reserve had failed me and without them, the crash land broke me into a million pieces. There was nothing left of who I was. I was convinced that I could never truly trust someone again, despite my desperate need to, and that maybe settling for something that seemed right on the surface was the best I could ever hope for. One of my closest friends kept reminding me that time heals, and he was right. Because, with thanks to time, and some interesting new characters (as well as some old faithfuls), I put the pieces of myself back together and ended up feeling happier than ever, and to those people I'll be forever grateful.

I have met nine men through internet dating in the last eight months, and countless more characters just through chatting online. There's enough material there for a whole series of books (with names changed to protect the innocent - and not so much - of course). I wanted to do the “Sex and the City” thing, and I did (as much as you can in a small Hampshire town with two kids in tow, New Look shoes not Jimmy Choo’s, a limited budget of cash, and an even more limited selection of eligibles).

I am very wary not to "kiss and tell" but one day, if only to entertain, thrill (and frankly, warn) some of you of the dramas of the 30+ dating scene, I will write those books. But for those of you clamouring for a sneaky peek, here’s a quick rundown for you.

There was date number one, a fantastic guy that made me realise that yes I can still "pull" and that god gave me these legs to put in short skirts, at least until I'm 40. But that maybe it takes a little longer than six weeks and a lot of laughing to get over a 13 year relationship. Date number one was super special, because I learned that things can start as one thing, and turn into something else, namely a much cherished friendship. Date number two who couldn't wait to tell me that he had my wedding dress ordered and the church booked, before we had even met (Date One had a laugh about that one). Date number three, who was like a recipe gone wrong, all the ingredients were there but they seemed to have been mixed up in the wrong order so the cake rose in the oven but quickly went flat. Date number four, an old flame, and while it was comfy to throw on a pair of old slippers and feel that security you can only get from someone you have known pretty much all your life, you kind of realise there was a reason it didn't work out the first time. Back to date number three for a second try, still no cake. Date number five, a lovely fellow, bad teeth (even worse dress sense). Date number six, one of the nicest guys you would ever meet, shame I just did not fancy him. Date number seven, again a lovely guy, just not very exciting. Date number eight, the Jeremy Kyle guy, high levels of drama and disappointment, very low levels of actual feeling.

By this stage I was becoming rather experienced at the first date thing. I had two first date outfits, one was a "I think I'm going to fancy you and want you to fancy me back" date outfit (high heels, short skirts – oh, I was so naïve), and one was a "really not sure what I'm going to make of you in person so I'll wear this high neck and cover my legs just in case you show up and I don't want to have to do the "sorry no chemistry" text”. I always went to the same pub for the first meeting (leading the bar staff to actually know “my usual”, like some sad old tramp propping up the bar at The Queen Vic) and always seemed to end up with the same taxi driver, who became the highlight of each date. We even had “in” jokes and catch-ups about his family, a bit like an old married couple. In fact, there were a few times I wished I was dating him (now that would make a good book).

Date number eight put me right off men, I thought, possibly, for good. But as much as the whole thing turned into a complete mess, I am very grateful to him, because he made me realise what I didn't want, and that finding someone you want to trust and someone you can trust at the same time is very tricky. The hideousness of date number eight forced me to do what I really needed. Take myself off the meat market, snuggle up on my sofa with a bottle of wine and my cats, to mourn the loss of my old life and get excited about the prospect of a new one.

After my four month man ban, I reluctantly got myself back out there (before I became crazy wine and cat lady), and while I was at it I threw away all my tried and tested first date methods, as they clearly didn’t work so well.

And that brings us to date number nine. The date was different, the approach was different, and from the instant I saw him in the flesh, possibly even from his first message, I knew he was going to be different.

I have been researching the number nine for this post and the number nine turns out to be one of the most interesting numbers there is. Nine is a good number in China because it sounds the same as the word for “longlasting”. There are nine forms of the Chinese dragon, a symbol of magic and power. There are nine major planets in the solar system. Cats have nine lives. Beethoven wrote nine symphonies. Being on “cloud nine” means feeling euphoric and happy. I like number nine.

Having reduced dates 1-8 to playful nicknames; Swindon, London, Crazy Cocktails, Ticks, The Mood Hoover, Farmer Guy, Harold from Neighbours (I refuse to reveal who is who for obvious reasons), I am reluctant to do the same for Number 9, as I desperately hope he turns out to be so much more than a number in my chequered dating history. So, if he becomes a regular character in my life, I will come up with a pseudonym more appropriate to how utterly awesome I think he is.

It’s very, very early days and I’m scared. Maybe I will crash land, and end up broken (and embarrassed for letting my finely crafted guard down), but you can never experience the free fall unless you are willing to jump out of the plane. So for now, let’s just say I’m on Cloud Nine. Free falling and happy to be doing so. 

Thanks Mum

There is a story in one of the papers today, stating that the UK is in the grips of a “nutritional recession”. The Guardian suggest that because people are so skint, they are relying on packaged, convenience foods rather than fresh meat and vegetables and as a result consumption of saturated fats and sugars has soared since 2010. I’m not saying the research is wrong, but I think the reasoning behind these statistics is perhaps a little out (probably because it was written by people who have money to burn on M&S ready meals).

I make no secret of the fact I am completely broke right now. And although this can be challenging and traumatic at times, it actually has some benefits, and one of those is that the kids and I eat far healthier than we ever did when we had more money in the bank.

When I was growing up my mum had an absolutely incredible talent which I really didn’t appreciate at the time. My dad was in a job that wasn’t particularly highly paid, but my mum was adamant that she wanted to stay at home to be there for us kids, and be a perfect housewife to my dad (a sacrifice I am so very grateful to her for making). But in order to make this arrangement work financially she had to be incredibly creative with cash. And she was very good at it. Somehow, despite not having a lot of money, we grew up in a lovely home, with absolutely amazing dinners every night (it is thanks to my mum that I had no knowledge of the existence of Crispy Pancakes until I had moved out of home and didn’t taste a Pot Noodle until the ripe old age of 21) and at least one good holiday a year. We may not have had the latest trainers and I didn’t get to go on the school ski trip (probably a good thing in hindsight, what puts me off is the ski lift, given my total lack of coordination I really can’t see myself having any success with something like that whatsoever), but other than that we wanted for nothing, all of the important stuff was there, and we also had our mum whenever we needed her. By today’s standards, it was idyllic.

I now have a paltry £17 a week food budget and a very hectic work schedule, but thanks to my mum’s successful penny pinching and the lessons I learned from her, I am managing that perfectly well. We have no control over the rising costs of gas and electricity, or that extra money is constantly being squeezed from everywhere you turn, but there are ways of buffering all of that, and one of them is in keeping our food costs down.

There was a long running joke in our house that my mum could make a three course dinner out of four left over chips and a tin of tuna. And I never really appreciated this sort of thing. Until now.

The Dad and I have had many conversations recently about having very little money. He was finding that he was over spending at the supermarket. I have stopped panicking about money now, as living in a constant state of terror is not much fun, and having lived for a good few months on my low budget I am still here, happier and probably healthier than ever. But The Dad does not have the benefit of all my mums chip recycling knowledge, so I have been trying to pass on some of the lessons she taught me.

When you are forced to be a little more creative with cash you come up with some amazing results. My kids love ice cream. And despite my tiny budget, I don’t like the thought of them going without anything so I made some of my own, using only four ingredients and found that it was incredibly quick to make, but more importantly cost only about 15% of the price of a tub of the “ice cream” they sell in shops (which mostly don’t even list cream as one of their ingredients, instead thousands of other ingredients which most of us have never even heard of, don’t get me started).

I am not a food nazi. And I allow my kids to have convenience foods as a treat when I can afford it, they get the occasional dinner of fish fingers, and I don’t buy posh sausages, but we eat well and keep it simple. And this is why I object to any research that seems to allude to the fact that poor people are forced to have poor diets. I am, in the financial sense of the word, poor, but we do not tuck into convenience foods on a daily basis, because that is an expensive way of living. And the reason I know that is because of my mum and her shielding me from Crispy Pancakes. Thanks Mum J

Junk (e) Mail

I moved into my house well over two years ago and I still get an awful lot of post for the previous owners/tenants. Now I wouldn’t mind this if they ever received anything exciting but it seems as if they obsessively signed themselves up to every mailing list on the planet because I am repeatedly receiving catalogues, “special invitations” and vouchers for places I have never been or products I have never bought.

I don’t need more stuff congregating around my front door for me to slip on thank you very much. There are quite enough things just lying in wait to surf me dramatically from my front door to dining room, usually a discarded piece of Lego or (as this morning) a headless dead rat courtesy of Expensive Cats, followed by a pile of cat sick two footsteps later (rat head obviously a bit rich for greedy Expensive Cat). But aside from the inevitable trip hazard that comes from junk mail it annoys me because it’s such a waste. All of this un-read paper is completely undoing my good work of recycling my Coco-Pops box.

But it’s not so much the paper junk mail that bothers me, I made my peace with paper junk mail years ago, after the Dad had the awesome idea of putting interesting things in the enclosed freepost envelopes and sending them back (an unused teabag may have been quite useful, but I’m not sure the person who opened the marmite sandwich was quite as excited), somehow this helped me feel a little better about junk mail and hopefully provided a smile to some poor work experience student who had to open the post in the office that day. No, what really bothers me these days is emails.

I am not particularly exciting and I don’t get that many interesting emails. And because of this I don’t really keep on top of my inbox and often miss the really good stuff that I do get, like proper emails from friends and invites to get-togethers, because it gets buried amid a sea of “daily deals”.

I thought I was pretty careful about who I give my details out to, but judging by the state of my inbox it seems I am even less discerning than the previous owner of my house. Bonny at Lovehoney is becoming a particular pest. Those of you who have ever ordered anything from Lovehoney and mistakenly signed up to their mailing list so they can order things using their loyalty scheme (guilty) will know that the amount of emails you get from Bonny after ordering one thing about two years ago, is verging on stalking (for those of you that don’t know (hi Mum) Lovehoney is like Toys R Us for grown ups). Anyway, Bonny (and I’m not convinced that’s her real name) sends me daily, sometimes twice daily emails alerting me to daily deals or special offers. And while I quite like a bit of a browse round Lovehoney’s virtual shelves, it’s not the kind of place I drop into daily, like Tesco. Tesco don’t send me daily deals coupons and special offers, I might get one a month offering me special deals on my holiday insurance, which would be great if I actually ever went on holiday.

As well as Bonny I also get daily offers from Heather at Printer Inks. I often feel a bit sorry for poor old Heath, because she shows up in my inbox with her boring old printer inks right next to Bonny with her all singing, all dancing pink glitter vibrators, and I think this, rather unfairly, makes Heather come across as far more boring than she actually is in real life (not that I know either of them personally of course).

Ok, so I could unsubscribe, and some thoughtful companies have a miniscule “unsubscribe” button buried somewhere amongst the text of the email, which actually does unsubscribe you with one click. But some of them (and I suspect Bonny might be one of them) take you to a page that is wholly designed to prey on the unsure of themselves, like myself. “Are you sure you want to unsubscribe” so I click yes, “but if you unsubscribe you won’t have access to our daily deals! Are you sure you want to unsubscribe?” Resolve is now weakening slightly and hesitatingly click yes. “We also send you occasional very special offers only available to our subscribers, are you absolutely, one hundred percent, stake your life on it, POSITIVE that you don’t want access to these once in a lifetime offers?” Oh, go on then. And that is the very reason why my inbox is so full and why I completely sympathise with the previous owners of my house. Besides, my inbox wouldn’t be the same without Heather and Bonny, in fact I think I would feel rather lost and forlorn without them. 

The end is nigh...

I’m only thirty four (yes, only) and I have been told that I look at least five, if not ten, years younger than my age. So why then, did a carpet salesman, who I would guess at being in his mid-fifties, think it was ok to ask me out while I was pondering the differences between “twist” and “berber”? Listen, I realise I am no spring chicken, and I have made my peace with the fact that I may never get to throw an amazing fortieth birthday party for the love of my life. But honestly, this guy was a good twenty years older than me, and this is what made me feel a bit icky and sleazed over. I understand that being slightly sleazy and overly flirtatious is an occupational hazard as a salesman (I speak from experience having been in sales myself), but it is far more easy and pleasurable to take from a twenty two year old. Coming from someone twenty years older wearing a Dad jumper for crying out loud (it was a nice Dad jumper, so nice in fact that I thought of asking him where he got it so I could buy it as a Christmas gift for my dad), it suddenly made my cool single life seem a little sad and depressing. Is this really what my life has come to?

Don’t get me wrong, this carpet guy was a perfectly nice chap, and I’m sure he’d make a great boyfriend, for my mum or one of her friends. But it was me he asked for coffee, then for lunch, then coffee again. I have a feeling I may have visibly recoiled with horror when he first suggested it, before recovering with a cheery giggle and a “ah thanks but no. So does this one come with free underlay?” but by the third ask I was getting less convinced that he was joking and/or trying to make a sale and more frustrated at not being able to use the “I’m spoken for” technique without being a big, fat liar. But fending off unwanted attention from men twice my age is actually only one of the reasons that I think it might be time to end my three and a half month long man ban.

I am incredibly comfortable on my own. Maybe a little too comfortable if I’m honest. I have lost all interest in keeping my body hair free, in fact I am actually using the cold weather as an excuse when my waxing lady asks me to remove my tights when I go in for a wax. “Those aren’t tights,” I say “they are my natural defences against the elements. So I am going to be cold after this, I hope you’re happy.”

I have just painted my room a gorgeous shade of pink, it’s like sleeping in a massive ballet slipper. It’s a proper girls room. And one of the excuses against getting a new man is the whole décor thing. I go to Homebase on a Sunday and see couples bickering in the paint aisle, while I sweep past and breezily pick up a pot of matt Pink Bunting, inwardly smug that I don’t have to deal with those trips anymore. I can go to Ikea and know that no longer does it mean massive rows, I can merrily pick up as many yellow bags and fill them with odd shaped kitchen implements that I will never use and thousands of tea lights, safe in the knowledge that it’s up to me and only me that decides what goes in my house.

But staying single just so I can have a pink bedroom is really missing the point of finding a soul mate. And the real clincher, the thing that made me decide that the man ban absolutely must end, was that the other day I seriously considered getting a dog. Not that much of a shocker on the surface, but I am not a dog person, at all. I get fed up with having to feed my cats, let alone taking a dog for a walk and spending half an hour each morning on a dog egg hunt in the garden. I have sort of the opposite feeling for dogs as I do for kids. Other peoples dogs are fine, and I enjoy spending time with them, but as for one of my own? No way. However, I had this thought that maybe a dog might be nice company for me in the evenings after the kids go to bed. And that is what did it.

So I am finally at the point where I’d be meeting someone new not because I don’t like being alone, and not because I need someone. Which makes me think I must be ready. But, given how busy I am, and knowing that the whole hands touching over the last pain de campagne in Waitrose is a complete fantasy dreamed up by myself in a time when I was less cynical of the mid-thirties dating scene, it does, unfortunately, mean going back to online dating. Which fills me with horror having learnt from experience that there are an awful lot of yucky men on there just out for a bit of excitement. So I set up a new profile (this one without any pictures) totally designed to stamp out any unwanted attention from marrieds, lying fuckwits or oddballs. My user name is of the Star Wars persuasion (obviously) and of course the first message I got was from a guy offering to show me his light sabre. Great. The internet is not immune to sleazebags. On the plus side, I am feeling optimistic, light sabre man may well have been a one off, as I have had a couple of nice messages from some really normal seeming guys, who have not mentioned their light sabres once, and there is not a Dad jumper in sight in any of their photos. Watch this space…

Time Simplification Programme (TSP)

With the clocks going back it is officially the end of British Summer Time, ha. Blink and you’d miss it. I totally get why we do the daylight saving thing. It makes so much more sense to have longer summer evenings. In theory. But in practise what is the point? It's not like we even get a summer anymore. Not like the summers I remember as a child which seemed to last for ages and you could actually wear a summer dress and not need to have a coat and gloves with you at all times. Why don't we just accept that it's winter all year round and be done with it? Spring is really just an afterthought of winter after all, tacked on to the last two weeks, the only difference being the trees are starting to grow their leaves back and we occasionally see the sun for five minutes before it pisses down again (or sometimes even snows, remember when it snowed in March a few years ago? See? It is still winter in March). And autumn, well it's just winter but people are still trying to prove a point by sloshing around blue lipped in wet flip flops and dripping maxi dresses. Even summer is never really Summer, all of us shivering in the garden, showing maximum goose pimpled flesh, determinedly drinking Pinot Grigio and eating burnt barbeque sausages in Baltic conditions, trying to pretend we have some semblance of Summer like southern Europe. But it's all just a fallacy, winter lasts all year long, deal with it.

Benjamin Franklin came up with the idea of daylight saving in order to switch an extra light hour from the morning, which we all miss because we are sleeping (unless you have children who decide it’s morning at around 3am), to the evening, so we would save electricity as well as have more light hours to do fun things (presumably in his day he was thinking of society balls and mixers, he clearly had never visited my town where the only choice of evening entertainment is a criminally expensive cinema, great if you want to spend two weeks wages on a single night out, and twenty five Chinese restaurants, each offering amazing deals on all you can eat buffets but charge a small fortune for drinks). So if I had more to do in the evenings maybe having that extra hour would be worth the havoc it plays with my body clock each time it changes.

Gaining an extra hour this weekend was wonderful, or it should have been, as I laid in until 8am, great normally but technically it was still only 7am. Last week waking up at 7am meant that it was pitch dark and reminded me of those times as a child when we used to get woken up at 3am because we were going on holiday. I quite liked it really, it felt very exciting, and you get to enjoy the sunrise which is one of the best times of day. This morning I woke up and jumped out of bed so fast I banged my knee on the wall because I was convinced I had overslept. Then I go and confuse my body even more by eating random things at different times of day (not Daylight Savings fault admittedly but the confusion my body feels at having toast and marmalade for dinner is certainly exacerbated by the fact that one day it's dark at six and the next it's dark at five). It feels like everything is mixed up.

Even Son Two, who is three years old and at that age where he kind of accepts everything with a shrug, is confused. Last week he was waking up every day in the dark, finding me in the shower at seven fifteen and saying "mummy is it bedtime?" "No mate, it's morning, see you're still in your pyjamas" "Ok" and he'd toddle off to play with his Lego (a pastime that cares not what time of day it is, is there anything more ear ripping than being woken up at 3am by a child sorting through Lego?).

I just think that life is complicated enough and the daylight saving just adds to the confusion. Is there anyone actually organised enough to go round every clock in their house and change them all at exactly the right time? Maybe I'm the only one that spreads the changeover over a period of weeks, constantly having to remind myself that the kitchen clock is now on new time but my car clock still thinks it's last week so I need to be at work at 1045am instead of 945am, unless I am going by my bedroom clock which I did put back to remind myself that I could get up an hour later (didn’t help me this morning).

No, I think we should just simplify. Have one season a year (winter) and keep the clocks the same all year round. It's certainly not worth all this hassle. I am perfectly happy with it getting dark early, it means I can get the kids to bed earlier so I am well prepared for middle of the night Lego missions and I wouldn’t constantly be wandering around mumbling to myself Rainman style "kitchen clock is an hour forward, car clock is an hour backward, kitchen clock is right, car wrong". Or is it the other way around? See? Confusion. I vote for my time simplification programme.

Ohhhhhmmmmmmmm

I was really struggling with what to write today. But, totally determined not to leave it til the last minute as I have so often done these last few weeks and not at all procrastinating (honest), I started googling what to write in a blog post and came across something called Zen writers. Totally intrigued, I delved further and decide to download one called Ohmwriter. I installed it, not really knowing what it was (Big Bro often complains when he goes on my laptop that its full of all manner of tat, extra search bars, random programmes making the whole system struggle, I do get a bit one click download happy). So anyway, I downloaded it, clicked to open the program and all of a sudden my entire desktop was gone, replaced with a snowy scene, plinky music and nothing but a simple blinking cursor. Wow, what a revelation. No distracting Chrome icon at the bottom of my screen just begging me to check Facebook, no myriad of buttons on Word whispering silently  "click me click me, you know you want to know what I do" (invariably drawing a massive arrow on the screen or deleting everything), and no clock at the bottom of the screen reminding you of what you should be doing right now (or worse still that it's 745pm in the evening, you're 34 and watching the Crystal Maze with more than a touch of nostalgia, you're 34 for chrissake, and this is 2012 not 1991). Word has much improved since it got rid of that annoying paper clip popping up every five minutes to say "Hey! It looks like you're writing a letter, can I help you with that?" Well yes I am and no thank you I'm not a moron, now eff off. But still there are things about it that are distracting. Bright red lines alerting me to typos, and green ones that say a sentence doesn't make sense, when clearly it does (argue all you like but grammar is subjective, I am allowed to use colloquialisms, ok?). I would rather just be able to get on with the job in hand rather than be repeatedly alerted to my shortcomings. Word can be rather judgemental. So I am loving my new Zen Writer, it could be a new thing for me (just need to force myself to switch off The Crystal Maze and I'd be all set). But I really wish we could get a similar thing for all other areas of life...

Zen Driver, totally capable of wiping out all noise and movement from the backseat, as well as the distractions of other drivers. No kicking seat backs, no "are we there yet?", no annoying twats driving so far up your bum they may as well hitch themselves directly to your tow bar and definitely no "Mummy, he looked at meeeeeeeee!" . Just a nice peaceful driving environment, bliss.

Zen School Run, available for both morning and afternoon runs, attaches all necessary bags and boomf to each relevant child before leaving the house in the morning (thereby avoiding the “Mummy you forgot my kit and I had to do football in my plimsolls” whine), and extricates random sticks and weapons without said child noticing and therefore avoiding an entire school run of "but I neeeeeeeed my light sabeeeeeeeeeeer". Similarly Zen School Run would also be capable of unpacking the two week holidays worth of luggage at the end of the day, while simultaneously dealing with stereo cries of "I need a drink",  "I need to make something",  "My foot hurts" and the ever present "he looked at me". Just allowing you sixty seconds of peace in which to have a wee and stick the kettle on.

Zen "it may look like I'm listening to you but really I'm replaying Friends The One With The Candy Hearts in my head" complete with automatic "mmmhmmmms", head nods and serious face where appropriate.

Zen Life, only for hardcore Zenists. Completely and entirely wipes out all of life’s extra "noise" as in news we don't need to hear about, things we don't need to know about but invariably are told, but more importantly random thoughts that plague our every waking moment, usually about things we don't need to be told and news we don't need to know about. I have had been suffering more than a few mental wrangles in recent weeks over the Jimmy Savile saga, do I really need to know every detail? Why does news really exist? Do we really need to know all this? Does it help the victims that I know about it? Does it help me? If I don't need to know about it why is it all over the news and why am I listening to it? I have spent many a long night recently thinking about this very question. Surely I should really be asleep, or the very least worrying about things that really do affect me such as what I am going to feed the kids tomorrow and I really need to buy more toilet paper or we're back on the kitchen roll again.

There is so much noise in our daily lives, and it comes at us from all angles. Our kids, the media, family, friends, if only there was a way to get peace when we need it and only focus on the stuff that really mattered, maybe we would all be a little less stressed.

Yep I'm loving my new Zen Writer, I just wish I could flip a switch and have some peace in other areas of my life; when the kids are driving me insane, be able to have them curled into me all sleepy and sweaty, not caring about the news or the lack of bog roll, just focussing on how gorgeous they are.

Final edit: having written this post completely on my new Ohmwriter, I am convinced. Although there is a sound of a drip at every keystroke which initially was enjoyable but has made me need a wee, and I have got so into writing that the Crystal Maze has now finished. Bugger. 

Commitment Phobe

So I’ve been checking my finances and I’m at the point where literally every penny counts. The last time things were this tight there were just the two of us, living mortgage and virtually bill free in Spain and happy to live off the free vodka we got at work and the odd baguette. Clearly I cannot feed my kids on free vodka (even if I could get my hands on it) and bread, and I no longer live mortgage free, so I need to find some way to add to the funds or me and the dudes will be eating out (and by out I mean out of the in-laws freezer) for the foreseeable future.

Before someone pipes up with “why not just get a job?” I have two arguments against that in my circumstances. One, the job market is bad enough for those who have been in employment constantly, and this does not bode well for a graduate who has been technically unemployed for ten years. Two, and most importantly, if I wanted a boring old job where I did the same thing every day I’d be doing it right now. (Besides, I don’t want anything interfering with my volunteering at the bookshop, I have found something that really means something to me and when you find something that enriches your life to that extent, no matter that you don’t get paid, you don’t let it go. Kinda like this blog I suppose).

I have known I wanted to write since I was five years old and I found the tiny wing of some poor deceased creature (probably a fly, but I believed it came from a fairy) in a bunch of grapes and wrote a book about it. By book I mean five pages of an old exercise book, self illustrated, with finger spaces. But I have also always known that until I do a JK Rowling or EL James (which will happen one day I am sure of it) I need to make money some other way.

The trouble is, I’m not short of ideas. There was the spray on bra idea that I came up with The Dad about ten years ago, after I’d spent yet another fruitless shopping expedition looking for the perfect strapless and backless bra to go with a dress I had planned to wear. The idea is you put your arms in the air (or stand on your head or lie down depending on which way your boobs look best), someone sprays the stuff on you, which dries like a firm second skin, when you put your arms down your boobs stay in place, then when you have finished with it you simply peel it off and throw it away. A genius idea in theory, the answer to the prayers of many women all over the world, but we had no idea how to go about formulating the stuff (funnily enough neither of us have any knowledge or experience in chemical plastics or textiles) and didn’t know where to go to get it started. So we got as far as handwriting a non-disclosure contract (a contract which I am technically now breaking I suppose, whoops), before going back to our normal lives. For the record, if someone now brings out a spray on bra, I want it to be noted that you heard it here first.

Then there was the lottery. A three way syndicate where we each put in fifty quid and asked for one hundred and fifty lucky dip tickets from the bemused lottery assistant. We had a big envelope stuffed as full of hopes and dreams as it was lottery tickets. The big night arrived and our numbers came up to the tune of one hundred and ten pounds. Refusing to cut our losses and run, we “reinvested” our winnings and lost the lot. It was a washout, but had we won, we’d have been very smug millionaires (to be fair, I expect all millionaires are pretty smug).

These were just two (of the tamest) ideas I have come up with over the years to make money. I don’t want much. I don’t want big cars, and I love the house I have. I don’t need expensive holidays and I like getting stuff second hand, there is nothing like the buzz of a bargain. But what I do need is time. I just need enough money to buy myself time to write and bring up my kids. I don’t even care about being famous, I just want enough money to give me the time to do what I believe I was put here to do.

So anyway, despite my creative cup runneth over with ideas that I have no doubt could make money in theory, I have never followed through with any of them (except the lottery, which had a one in 14 million chance of winning, I don’t have the maths to say how much we upped our odds by buying 150 tickets, but I’d say not enough to make it a safe bet). And the reason why I never followed through with them is because I am a commitment phobic.

I just never had the guts to take one idea, just one, and run with it. Because I always worry that a better idea may come along. On top of that, there are always plenty of people to say “Oh that’s impossible”, “normal people don’t do things like that”, “you couldn’t do that”, “you’ll change your mind and have another idea in two days” or (and here’s the biggie) “It’s destined to fail”.

But I can argue against every one of their reasons: I like a challenge, I’m not normal, I can do anything I set my mind to thank you very much (except maybe win the lottery), yes I will have another idea and there is nothing stopping me doing that one too, and none of us like failure. But I would far rather be the person who tries and fails than the one who never tried at all. So why am I not a millionaire by now?

Fortune favours the brave, and my commitment phobia stems from a simple lack of balls. And I can't afford to stay ball-less any more, it’s time I grew a pair. So I am going to start committing to some of my ideas and you never know, one or two of them may well take off. If anyone wants to develop a spray on bra, get your people to call my people, I’ll commit.

Retro Repost: Miss/Mrs/Ms? Just say Ma'am

Having laptop issues today, and yet again incredibly disorganised and haven't got a post in the bank ready, so here is a repost from about a year ago (ever so slightly tweaked) which kind of fits for me today. I am now volunteering in a free bookshop and never quite know what to call people, Sir? Madam? Or as is my usual way, avoid using any form of personal address whatsoever and just chat to people as if I know them: "Closing up now guys" I'm sure this is as irritating for some as the use of Ms is for me, but I'd feel far more awkward saying Sir or Madam, which I suppose explains why so many people don't bother these days...

Miss/Mrs/Ms? Just say Ma'am

I was having some problems getting into my PayPal account the other day, so I reluctantly phoned them to try and get it sorted.

Before I could speak to an actual human being I had to get through the dreaded talking menus (“Do you need to speak to an operator?” “yes!” “Did you say… No?” “No, I said y…e…s.” “I heard… No. Is that correct?” “No!” “Did you say… No?”), I usually stay quiet not only out of principle but inability to get the damn thing to understand me. I got through the first few levels of menu with no problem; it then said “Please state your issue”. I was so thrown by having to describe my problem in a sentence that an inanimate object would understand that I got quite muddled up “I can’t log into Facebook… no eBay… no I mean PAYPAL, for Christ sake you’re not going to understand that are you?” I then had an agonising 10 seconds of Flight of the Bumblebee (seriously, could they have chosen a more infuriating piece of music?) before I was transferred to a lovely American man who said “The computer says you can’t log into your PayPal account, is that correct Ma’am?” So the computer understood me after all, that’s pretty impressive.

Thumbs up to PayPal because not only was my problem dealt with swiftly but I found the repeated use of the word “Ma’am” quite refreshing. Too many companies these days insist on first name basis, which I utterly despise. If you don’t know me, and are taking my money, please find the most respectful way of addressing me, at least by second name. “Ma’am” is a nice way to avoid wading through the Mrs, Ms., Miss minefield.

A couple of years ago the European Parliament caused outrage when it requested all staff to use Ms. in place of Miss and Mrs. People were highly offended by being forced to use Ms., I don’t blame them, being forced to precede your name with such a horrid sounding syllable would piss me off too.

When we bought our apartment in Ibiza, the deeds referred to The Dad as ‘Don’ and me as ‘Doña’. It is a basic polite form. The Dad took great pleasure in the fact that he was ‘The Don’. I just liked that I didn’t have to address whether I was married, unmarried, divorced or whatever anytime I filled out a form.

It’s alright for men. They have it easy. They start off as Master, then at age 16 (or sometimes 18) it’s automatically Mr. Their marital status doesn’t even come into it, it’s a far more dignified process.

I don’t understand why it is different for women. Years ago, Mrs and Miss worked in the same way as Mr and Master. It was an age thing. Derived from the term Mistress, (nothing to do with the current more provocative meaning) Mrs denoted the woman of the household, Miss was the daughter.

I have stubbornly hung onto the title “Miss” for my entire adult life. I’m not married, I don’t plan to be, so why change it? But now I am well into my thirties I would like a more distinguished title, one that doesn’t make me sound like a wrinkly old spinster from a Charlotte Bronte novel.

I hate the word Ms with a passion. Not only does it sound horrid (Mzzzzzz) but it has weird connotations. They may as well put the dot in the middle and replace it with a question mark because Ms automatically makes people suspicious, is she a Mrs or a Miss? Why is she using Ms.?

Anyway. I’m not planning on getting married any time soon, although I am the ‘mistress’ of the house. It’s all so flipping complicated. So I kind of get where they were going when then brought out this Ms thing. I just wish they had come up with a word that didn’t make me sound like a defective bumblebee.

Of course, someone could always buy me a nice title like “Lady” for Christmas. I've heard you can get them on eBay, which I'm sure is as official as it needs to be. I think "Lady" suits me and has a nice ring to it.

A Day For Everything

Hurrah! You probably don’t realise but it’s Global Handwashing Day today (and if it weren’t for me, you’d have missed it tut tut). How bad must our hygiene as a planet have become that we need to have a day dedicated to washing our hands? And I’m all for greater awareness of personal hygiene but is a “day” really the best way to approach it? Admittedly I have been washing my hands more vigilantly today so it must have some effect.

But there are days, and often months, dedicated to pretty much everything and nothing these days. Some of the weirder ones I have encountered in researching this post include Get A Different Name Day (which could be potentially confusing at register time at school: “Fred” “I’m Bob today Miss” “Er OK, Charlie?” “No I’m Aloicious today”, just doing the register would take all day, genius), Barbie Day (I’d be first in the queue with my leotard and legwarmers), Chicken Month (er?) and tellingly, Make Up Your Own Holiday Day, which leads me to wonder in the first place, who comes up with these things? Can anyone just throw their arms wide and shout “I declare today to be International Toilet Paper day, dedicated to the appreciation of having something to wipe our bums with”? And then what? Should I give out free toilet paper? Offer lessons in bog roll origami?

The trouble with all of these days lies in not just a lack of awareness of the day itself but also, not a lot of clarity about what we are supposed to be doing with that day. Global Handwashing Day, I presume we are all supposed to wash our hands today more than any other? And given that tomorrow is World Food Day, does that mean tomorrow we’ll be less clean than today (sod the handwashing, that was yesterdays news, I’m stuffing my face with hors d’eurves using my grubby, unwashed hands).

Some of the days titles make their purpose fairly obvious eg. “No Smoking Day” (appreciate the sentiment buuuuuuut…), Bring Your Dog to Work Day, International Steak and Blowjob day (come on guys, don’t be greedy, that’s what birthdays are for). But others are just plain ambiguous: Namesake Day, Women’s Day, Environment Day, Juneteeth (this is to celebrate the abolishment of slavery, I would have had no idea what “Juneteenth” were for had it not been for Google), Different Colored Eyes Day (purely for people whose eyes are different colours on each side, pretty divisive if you ask me). No, I like the days that clearly pinpoint it’s exact purpose in the title; Everything Covered in Chocolate Day and Gin Day to name two.

I started to compile a list of day’s that I would like to propose (first person to say I have too much time on my hands gets a slap), but then I discovered already existed:

World Stay In Bed Day

Which this year fell on the 23^rd September. This is to raise awareness of people who are bedridden due to illness and not, as the title would suggest (and would have been my reasoning), to encourage laziness on a worldwide scale.

World Egg Day

A day to appreciate all things egg related. Unfortunately we missed it for this year as it falls on the second Friday in October (why do I not get to hear about these things sooner?), but next year I fully intend to have some eggy fun.

Tell The Truth Day

I thought I was being terribly clever in coming up with this idea. I tell the truth without even thinking (sometimes even when it would have been better to lie) but some people could certainly do with some help in that department. It falls in July, I could certainly have slapped a few Tell The Truth Day orders on lying twits over the years.

Random Acts of Kindness Day

OK so this should be everyday but it would be nice if some of those miserly people who wouldn’t help out their own granny could have a day where they were forced to be nice.

There are also a couple of days that don’t already exist (shockingly) which I would like to propose; Children Stay Silent Day, Everything is Free Day, International Shut up, Bring Me Chocolate and Stop Complaining About my Choice in Telly Day and my personal favourite, World Sex Toy Appreciation Month (to handily coincide with Steak and Blowjob Day, well, there needs to be something in it for us girls eh?).

Chaos Thoery

Suddenly realised it’s been over a month since I last worked out. I’ve been winging it the last few months, munching my way through all manner of naughty things, not seeing a difference on the scale and therefore thinking that somehow my body has miraculously found a way to process chocolate in the same way as salad. I am by no means fat, but I fall in the slim but squidgy category and if left to it’s own devices for too long my body starts to look like it’s wearing skin that’s two sizes too big. So with Halloween looming and a potentially revealing costume on the dressmakers dummy, I need to firm up after my weeks of decadence, and need to find a way of getting my ass back up to where it should be without having to suffer the indignity of ass bra pants. But although I have previously had spells of high energy, getting up at 6am to work out now that the mornings are getting colder and darker is not something I feel I can do with any enthusiasm.

So I need to find a way of working exercise into my day to day life. And I’m not just talking about walking more. I need to get the equivalent intensity of one of my Turbofire or Insanity workouts into my day (because frankly, any less than that and I’ll have to order the ass bra). So I have started doing bursts of running on the walk to and from school (tried this a couple of times, weird how the Son’s love to run away from me, but as soon as I do it to them they start crying and complaining of having no energy), lunges at the washing machine, butt clenches at the kitchen sink, pelvic floors in the car and plenty of arm workouts while I’m working at the bookshop. And there’s no reason why this won’t work. Generations of people managed to keep in shape without lycra, workout DVD’s and hideously expensive gym memberships.

Then it got me thinking. I could do this with lots of things I never get around to. Little and often gets the job done apparently. Housework could be the next thing on my list. If I managed to spread all these jobs across the day I would soon have a very calm and ordered existence. And there lies the problem.

I have come to the conclusion that I am happiest when under pressure. This might sound weird coming from someone who hates exams, had weeks of sleepless nights before her driving test and has hideously disorganised cupboards (not to mention drawers constantly spewing clothing like a drunken tramp after a bottle of meth). But I have spent many, many, many years beating myself up about how chaotic I am, desperately trying to become the calm and unruffled person with the organised and ordered home that I long to be. But I have learned that trying to fit yourself into a hole that is the wrong shape is hard. And although I maybe flappy and dizzy and messy and living in a perpetual state of chaos, it suits me because living this way makes me happy.

I have had a run of days where I just don’t see how I am going to fit everything in, and when that happens, as always the first thing to be left out (for me anyway), is the housework. It is far more important to me to get the kids to their play dates, get myself to work and my evening with friends and catch up with people who need a chat than it is to get the house tidy.

And it’s not just housework either. My whole life; my finances, yet another piece of household paper work through the door screaming “action me” and thrown carelessly atop the teetering mountain that is my filing system and mummy duties so often seem to end up feeling like a big tangle of necklaces that need to be unravelled. But like a tangled ball of necklaces and bracelets, when you sit down to attempt the impossible, with a bit of effort you manage it, bit by bit. And with the neat pile of necklaces laid out in front of you comes the biggest sense of satisfaction (no matter that they will get tangled again the minute you turn your back). And it’s that sense of achievement, satisfaction and adrenalin rush of getting something done that I am addicted to.

It must be bloody boring to have a really ordered life. Where is the satisfaction? Where are the adrenalin rushes? Without the struggles we can never really appreciate life. And that’s how I feel about my chaotic life. I love it feeling like a tangle because of the satisfaction I get from untangling things. I appreciate my home all the more when it’s clean and tidy because it means I have sorted it. I appreciate the moments when my to do list is a happy page of scribbled out notes because I can see that I have got things done. But if your home and your life are always neat and tidy, if you somehow manage to work a decent exercise routine into your day, every day, week after week, year after year, I don’t see how you could ever get a buzz from it.

I like my chaotic life. And I can’t imagine anything worse than having an ordered life. I like waking up in the morning and not really knowing who I’m going to be that day. Messy or neat, flappy or calm, you decide. But I have to be organised and get this exercise in for the next two weeks at least, because I really don’t want to have to wear an ass bra.

Old Skool

I don’t often use this space to have a moan. And I do like to retain my positive, sunny disposition but having spent more time in recent weeks trying (and failing) to find a single children’s DVD in my house that isn’t cracked, scratched or covered in jam (or other unknown sticky substances) than doing housework and writing put together, I decided it was time.

Correct me if I’m wrong but isn’t the whole point of progress meant to be that things get better as time goes on? Why then, pray tell, do so many good things disappear while the new stuff is just crap? Take the good old VHS for instance. So you would have to stand around for all of five minutes waiting for it to rewind (instant is not necessarily better), and it made some clunky noises (noises which I find rather satisfying these days, electronic items have got so quiet that I am forever burning my ear on the side of the kettle trying to find out if the thing is actually working) but other than that, they did the job. And the best thing about VHS is that the cassettes are verging on indestructible. Even if a small child works out that if you stick a pen on the button on the side the tape is revealed and can be unwound, you can always wind it back up, the picture may go a bit fuzzy in parts but it’s still watchable. Not like DVD’s, one game of frizbee (sadly a common occurrence in my house, and there is no point putting them on a high shelf, this is just another opportunity for Son Two to practice scaling bookshelves) and the bloody thing won’t even play any more. If you get it to play at all you could be halfway into it when it suddenly decides it doesn’t like it anymore and skips a few times before giving up completely. The Dad and I did some sorting out in the loft of doom the other day and we found two DVD players, both less than two years old that were inexplicably broken. And I have two TV/DVD combi’s currently in use, which are now just telly’s with useless extra chunks of casing. I had a TV/VHS combi that was still working when I passed it on after ten years of faithful service.

I long for the old days when, apparently, you could pop along to your local shop with a basket over your arm and ask for half a pound of cheese (just “cheese” not a million different varieties), a dozen eggs (again, just “eggs”) and a pound of sausages (yep, just sausages), and the process of shopping took maybe half hour, tops. Apparently things were more expensive. But you did not walk out of the shop two hours later with an extra hundred pounds spent on a TV/DVD combi (that will break after two weeks), a dazzling array of different flavoured sausages and a Peppa Pig ball pool. If you were to go to the shop and ask for something exotic like say, pasta, you might have a choice between macaroni and spaghetti. The pasta aisle at the supermarket now is a perfect example of how ridiculously overwhelmed by choice we have become. Not only can you get pasta in a million different shapes and sizes, but you are also faced with those millions of shapes and sizes in many different brands and levels of “luxury”. I do not see this as a good thing at all. According to WRAP (Waste and Resources Action Programme) we throw away at least third of all the food we buy (that’s nearly half a ton per household per year). So, having access to all this choice does not mean that we are enjoying the lower prices of the supermarkets, any savings made are literally thrown away (or being spent on Peppa Pig ball pools).

A few years ago, in a fit of nostalgia, I put Guess Who? on my Christmas list. When I finally got it out of the box, excitedly rubbing my hands together, it was crap. The boards are flimsy, you have to spend half an hour putting it together before you can even play it, and the flip up faces are flimsy card pictures barely held in plastic frames, the cards get lost, the frames fall off and get sucked into the “missing things” vortex and it is frankly a shadow of what it once was. Son One does not understand why I think Guess Who is so good, he never experienced the glory days of Theo, Fran and Hans, when you could turn the board over and flip all the faces with one flick of the wrist (try that now and half of them fall off).

Thankfully, while in the loft, we also found a VHS player, still working, despite languishing up there for many years, and it now has a place in the Sons bedroom. There were some baffled looks from them. Son Two kept saying “Wha’s tha?” while pressing his scratched Wallace and Gromit DVD into my hands. “That is a piece of history. Just you try and destroy it.” I am waiting for them to ask for an Xbox in their bedroom. They’ll be getting an Atari and will be happy with it.

Smells Like Teen Angst

Science boffins have spent years trying to work out why the most evocative of all the senses is smell. And if you’re looking for an answer here you’ve come to the wrong place. But I was reminded of just how strongly scent and memories are linked yesterday when I was meandering down the washing powder aisle of Tesco, behind an old man who was wearing beige slacks and a Marks and Spencer sports jacket, and was suddenly overwhelmed by passion and feelings of hormonal angst. Not because I have a thing for old men in M&S jackets, or washing powder for that matter, but because the elderly gent (and source of my racing heart) was wearing the aftershave of a boy I went out with as a teenager. On reflection, that either says that the boyfriend had a questionable taste in aftershave, or that the old dude had a young spirit. Judging by the slacks, I suspect it’s the former of the two. However, I was positively consumed by how strongly all those feelings of pubescent angst, desperate insecurity and awkward fumbly snogging sessions came back to me in a split second. It was almost like I was right back there, and it’s not often that I truly remember things so clearly. It’s easy to remember how things looked, sounded or tasted, but very difficult to remember feelings as time passes and memories get diluted by time.

Smell has a wonderful, almost magical capacity to transport us to another time and place. The smell of stale alcohol always takes me back to working in a bar, the smell wasn’t just in the bar but it would permeate my skin and follow me home. And whenever I smell that smell I am reminded not just of where I was and who with, but of how I felt; happy, excited and part of something really cool, then arriving home, swaying slightly, eating a massive boccadillo and trying to sleep when it was broad daylight.

Smells can invoke joy and comfort, or can jar you back to a time and place you would rather forget. There have been many studies done on how childhood memories are anchored in smell and even in my limited experience I can understand why. Thankfully, most of my smell memories are pleasant ones. Mum (who now lives at my Nana D’s house) gave Son One a sleeping bag, and even after washing it, it still smells of her house, to the extent that Son One said “I love my sleeping bag, it smells like Nana”. It’s Max Factor make up and old school lemon bathroom cleaner, the smell of my Nana D and now my mum, is a very comforting one and when I smell it, I drink it in and revel in its soothing effect. Mum’s perfume (Alliage) always reminds me of the excitement of staying up late with my grandparents because she would save it “for best” and only wear it when she was going out with my dad. And the smell of Dad just home from work; fags, day old polycotton shirts, those old blazers (that looked like they were made out of Shreddies and had leather elbow patches) and car interior reminds me of feeling small and safe in his arms.

But of all the most wonderful, most comforting and beautiful smells there is, there is one that completely overtakes all others. And that is the sweet, damp smell of my sleeping sons. They say boys smell (and they would be right), boys are gross but, to me, my boys smell delicious (even though they are gross). And I hope that that smell stays with me forever.

Looking at a picture can remind you of a place you’ve been before, hearing a song you’ve listened to with someone, touching or tasting something, all have the power to invoke memories. But scent somehow has an almost apocalyptic strength, eradicating everything you are doing at that moment and taking your entire being back to where it was when you first experienced it.

Slowing to a stop behind the elderly gent pondering the distinctions between Persil and Ariel (you can ponder all you like Sir, you will never work it out), the initial feelings of passion began to subside and were replaced by the bone crushing heartache caused by the original object of my desire. And with that I narrowly avoided asking the old dude his name so I could rush home and write it on my pencil case.

A totally unrelated note…

Happy birthday to Son One, six today! Love you little man xxxx

It's Happening

I had a bit of a wake up call this weekend. The Dad came round on Friday night to help me and Mum with the Star Wars Party prep (yes I succumbed to the party monster and went all out with a Star Wars themed party and it was ace, what girl would not want to be Princess Leia for a day?), and we were all sitting around making masks, wrapping pass the parcel and sneaking sweets out of the piñata when One Direction popped up on the telly with their song “Live While We’re Young.” And whoops, out of nowhere I said “Oh pur-lease” I even shocked myself, I had no idea where this grumpy old woman came from, but it really grated that it sounded like they were saying that they didn’t think you can “Live While We’re Older”. One Direction are cool and young, just like me, aren’t they? Why do they irritate me so, why do I care? Then it dawned on me. I am getting older and therefore my tolerance for young people jumping around having a good time is weakening, I am no longer one of them.

I was noticeably shaken by this event and tried to put it behind me but I soon started seeing clues to my aging everywhere…

After nearly three hours of sitting on a hard floor cutting out 40 eye holes in Darth Maul masks, and hundreds of black shapes (for the kids to stick on) The Dad and I eventually stood up with a vast amount of creaking, groaning and seized back rubbing, then settled gingerly on the sofa with an “aaaaaaaahhh”. Sitting down with a sigh is another sign of aging, you don’t catch kids sitting down and going “aaaaah that’s good”. They launch themselves at a sofa (usually from a great height) and plop down in a tangle of gangly legs and arms. Not like us oldsters who sit down slowly so that nothing pops or jars. And come to think of it you never hear them say “Oooh I’m gasping for a cuppa” either. Kids might want a cup of tea, but they never convey quite the same urgency or need for it as us older folk.

When I was about 8 I remember my Great Auntie V refusing a cucumber stick at a family buffet, “Ooh I couldn’t, cucumber repeats on me” she said gravely, I had no idea what this meant, but it sounded serious. Then about two weeks later my Nana D said exactly the same thing, again of a cucumber stick. I still didn’t know what it meant but I was beginning to approach cucumber with some caution. I soon started hearing of things repeating on all sorts of people, my parents, aunts, uncles, their friends and now realise that things “repeating on you” is another sign of aging. A kebab on Saturday night “repeated on me” for some time afterwards, it was not a pleasant experience. Maybe that is why I have never seen my Great Auntie V tucking into a doner.

I have been looking for some new boots to wear on the school run (along with a coat – yes it’s that time of year again, but that’s a whole nother story), and I have become rather addicted to adding things to my watch list using the eBay app on my phone. I quickly realised that every single pair of boots I was watching was flat, boring and without any of the exciting, “trendy” features I would have looked for in footwear as a youngster. Because frankly, I no longer want to wear heels during the day (special occasions only), and I want my feet to be warm and dry and free of aches and pains (and capable of propelling me at speed if I need to chase after an errant child). Flat boots and a bright pink rain coat are an obvious mark of someone dressing for substance over style. But style can come with substance as I discovered yesterday. I was throwing out some clothes and got Mum to try on some jeans and was really pleased to see that a few pairs of jeggings fitted her nicely. She was very concerned that she would look muttony, having got used to the flowy clothing of a respectable older lady, but I think they look fab on her (as long as she doesn’t couple them with pointy shoes, sequins or anything neon) and after wearing them for a few minutes we realised that they also provided a nice bit of support for her knees, which is a pleasant bonus that I wholly empathise with, having recently succumbed to a knee injury after standing up from a kneeling position. You know you are getting old when just standing up poses a notable risk to joints.

I may have a while to go before I’m actually old, but all the signs are there that the process is well underway. And you’d think that I’d be depressed about it, but quite the contrary. Being of a certain age has some massive advantages that many people forget; always getting a seat on the bus, having young people help you with your shopping, being able to say absolutely anything to anyone and getting away with it, and my favourite, having perfectly straight, white teeth that you pop into a glass of water at night and will remain perfectly straight and white whatever you eat and drink, even if it repeats on you. Now that is what I call living.

Part-Timer

My mum has been staying with me this last week and she has been less than complementary about my choice of telly. But when I stayed at her house recently she said that it was her house her rules and that her Freeview box was far too full to allow me to spend telly time watching frivolous things like X Factor. She had to get through her massive list of dramas: police dramas, spy dramas, period dramas (I don’t know how she follows that many different characters, one episode of Dallas and a fence dispute between Paul Robinson and his latest Neighbour per week is quite enough drama for me). So when she’s under my roof she has to watch my telly, and is forced to sit huffing and puffing her way through my selection of cookery programmes (“why is she doing it that way?” “Urgh, I hate ginger”) and reality shows (“I don’t know why you watch this stuff, Downton is so much better”).

Anyway, one of my all time favourite programmes is Sister Wives. It’s a reality programme about the polygamist Brown family in the US. For those who don’t know the background, husband Cody has four wives (one recognised by law, three “blessings” through his church). They were living in a massive home in Utah, each wife had her own wing which were joined by a central living room. Cody rotates his time around each “family”. They have since moved to Vegas where they could not find a home big enough so each wife has her own house.

At first glance, it’s a bit alien to the “normal” way of living. But scratch beneath the surface and for the women (yes, I said the women) it must be an idyllic way of life. When I was “married off” I had a number of single friends who steadfastly refused to give up their single lives, and I couldn’t understand it, surely they were missing out? But I now totally get it. I am pretty protective of my independent lifestyle, my evenings are my own, I can do what I like, when I like, I can put my furniture where I want, and I am getting more and more confident with “jobs” around the house (I fixed a long broken radiator the other day with nothing more than a few minutes on Google, a claw hammer and a screwdriver) and I love having my massive bed all to myself (except when the kids come in with me which is mostly lovely although Son Two has got a mosquito bite at the moment so it’s like spending the night with a large flea ridden dog, scratch scratch). Every day I wake up and know that my happiness is entirely my doing, and my path is entirely of my own making. Bliss.

But there are times when I miss having a man around. It would be nice to have a cuddle every now and then, and sometimes, as much as I hate to admit it, I need a man’s strength to help me get some massive piece of furniture down or up from the loft, and those are the times when I really miss it. Having a part time husband seems like the ultimate in luxury.

The wives get to run their own lives, they only have to be wife for one or two nights a week. Imagine that, you would know exactly what nights you needed to shave your legs, the rest of the time you could relax in your own house; all your own, not tripping over men’s stuff. And one of the best things is that these women are all the best of friends. One of them stays at home and looks after the kids while the others go out to work. I can’t remember who said it but there was a career woman who once said, I don’t need a babysitter, cook or a cleaner, I need a wife. A polygamous marriage would solve that. Shared responsibility for child and husband care, the rest of your time is your own.

Doubters try to say that these women are restricted. But when you watch it you quickly realise that it’s the women that are empowered. Poor old Cody lives out of suitcases, and is more downtrodden than any husband I know, having four women to nag him and is constantly trying to keep everyone happy.

There was one episode when the wives were asked whether they would consider taking on more husbands, and they all looked at each other uncomfortably, shifting around in their seats, explaining that having multiple husbands was not part of their religion. But I think the reason why they were reluctant to go there is because they secretly realise that they have it cushy.

Women have got wise to the fact that ultimately a husband is a massive responsibility and I think being a Sister Wife would be a great way of sharing that responsibility. I love having my freedom but I would happily take on a husband on a part time only basis. Kind of like a job share.

Ask any man if more than one wife would be good for him and he will immediately say it’s a great idea, a perfect way to satisfy his “high sex drive” (incidentally men, just FYI, you all have “high sex drives”, there is no need to advertise it on your dating profile or make sure you tell us on the first date). But ask a woman and she will immediately say “no thanks”. Because we know that more than one husband just means more work. And, as far as the sex drive goes, it’s just like fixing the broken radiator, we don’t need a man to do it for us (although occasionally having someone else to wield the hammer would make a nice change).

Three Steps to Happiness

The most common answer to the question “what do you want out of life?” is “to be happy”. Happiness means different things to different people but the many wishes (a good job, more money, a nice home, family etc) one could make, all lead to the same place for the wisher, happiness. But how do we get there?

You all know I love self help books (I can hear you groaning, shut up), and I briefly mentioned The Secret in one of my previous posts. A documentary about “The Law of Attraction” and how to change your life by following it’s principles, The Secret promises to unlock the power of the universe to give you everything you ever dreamed of. Now, I love self help books, and will devour them at every available opportunity, but I know I’m in the minority here and loads of you will not be convinced by what I or anyone else says. However, if a self help book can help someone be happier, more successful, healthier etc it can’t really be a bad thing, whatever you think of them.

I have been living by The Secret for two weeks and I’m happier than I’ve ever been. But I’ll be honest, there is no real secret to “The Secret” or any other self help book. In fact, having read possibly hundreds of self help books, I feel I am qualified to tell you a secret of my own, shhhh, they all say the same thing.

The words may be different but the messages are ultimately repeated over and over again. So, to save those of you who aren’t quite convinced about buying a self help book and taking the time to read it, or who just don’t believe they can work, or anyone who’s feeling a little down in the dumps today, I can sum up the principles of happiness, and therefore all self help (more money, better body, healthier life, success) in three easy steps, one blog post, maybe ten minutes of your time.

Step One – Gratitude

Before you all shout “boring, let’s get to the good bit” this is the most important step and if you skip it, you will never self-help yourself. If you have the money to buy a self help book, the eyes to see the words, the education to read it, the friends to gossip about it with, the car to go to the shop and buy it (or the internet) you are already better off than millions of people. Once you start looking for things in your life you can be grateful for you can find them everywhere (last week I had a particularly ecstatic moment being grateful for the return of Dallas, true story). It is only 11am and already today some things I have been grateful for include: my bed, my house, my kids, a great shower, cup of coffee, Raisin Wheats (made a nice change from plain Mini Shredded Wheats), my Hunter wellies, Radio One, the rain (because it’s watering my new container plants which I would normally forget about and end up throwing the emaciated stalks into the bin, wasting money and feeling crap for not being able to look after plants), central heating… I could go on and on. Everyone is different and will be grateful for different things, but we all have something to be grateful for, most of us have many.

Step Two – Positive Thinking

If you think it’s crap it will be crap. If you think negative bad thoughts, you will feel negative and bad. I have read countless self help books and have had two bouts of professional counselling and they have all taught me the same thing: positive thinking is a massive stepping stone towards happiness. And it’s not new-age bullshit either: “What we think, we become” (Buddha), “A joyful heart is good medicine, but a broken spirit dries up the bones” (Proverbs 17:22), “There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so” (Shakespeare), “The pessimist sees the difficulty in every opportunity; the optimist sees the opportunity in every difficulty” (Churchill). The ability to put a positive spin on anything is a valuable skill that can be learned (simply through practice) by anyone.

Step Three – Action

Do something. This one sounds like the hardest one but steps one and two make it easy. Just do it, whatever you ever dreamed of doing, do it, try it, start it, write it, draw it, make it, change it, don’t waste time waiting until you have more money, a better body, a nicer house, the kids grow up, what is really stopping you from doing it right now? Is it a genuine excuse or just fear? If you follow step two you will discover there really are no excuses. And by the same token, if something you are doing makes you feel bad, stop doing it, it’s that simple.

And there it is. Happiness summed up into three easy steps.

But let me get one thing straight. I will never, ever stop buying self help books, or saying how wonderful they are, because they have brought me comfort in times of need and helped me see all the great things in my life. You may think self help is a load of codswallop, or it's too new-agey, simplistic, preachy just plain icky for you, but it’s simply someone suggesting you be grateful, positive and take action. Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it J