Talk Is Cheap

I love talking, I love listening and I love questions, both answering them and asking. Bob Hoskins said “It's good to talk” (those of you who don't remember that are too young to understand the delicate nuances running through this blog). I love talking so much I used to talk in my sleep according to my parents. I always had "talks too much" on my school report. I'm the one who never shuts up, overshares, and desperately fills every little silence with words, words and more words. I feel like if two people aren't talking there is a void filled with, well, nothing.

I like it when people talk. It makes me feel comforted, at ease and that I can trust a person. You find out so much about a person from what they say and the questions they ask. Someone who talks a lot must be trustworthy right? They say it’s the quiet ones you should watch out for.

But the truth is words are so easy to say. They are the lazy person’s choice, sometimes even the deceptive person’s choice. It's easy to say I love you, I'm sorry or I'd do anything for you. You can say it from the comfort of your sofa. You can text it from your phone. You can click "like" on Facebook. You don't actually have to do anything at all.

My life, indeed all our lives are a constant quest to make sense of the world, and find the best way to express ourselves. As a writer, words have always been my expression of choice, surely there is no better way to communicate?

But I have begun to realise that sometimes what we say doesn't necessarily match up to what we do. And the very fact that it’s easier to say than do, means that what we do says far more about ourselves than what we say ever can.

You can lie with words, but it is very difficult to lie with actions.

It's very easy to say "I'm sorry" but it’s much harder to show someone you're really sorry with your behaviour.

It's very easy to say "I love you" but much more complex to prove your love by doing.

And it’s very easy to say I'm a good friend but it’s only through our actions that friendship is proven beyond all doubt.

They say actions speak louder than words and as I grow older I am learning this is one old adage that rings especially true. Just because someone says something doesn't necessarily mean that it’s the truth. You have to look at what they do in order to see the real person underneath.

The truth is talk is cheap. We can all rattle on about how we love someone, are sorry, would do anything for a person etc but only through our actions do we really speak what is in our hearts.

We are all busy and have little time, and as a result, we are getting selfish with the time we take to show people we care. But there are some people in my life that consistently say far more with their actions, the things they do, than the things they say. Being there when you feel lonely says “I am here for you” more than a phone call, and a cuddle says “you can trust me” more than a text. We need to focus more on what we do rather than what is said, to show people how much they mean to us.

I don't like to consider myself needy, but like most people I like to give and receive "proofs of love", little markers that tell someone they are special, or cared for, whether that is a friend, family member or lover. I have always listened to the words, feeling they are most important, but as I grow older I am realising that it’s the actions that give the greatest proofs of love.

Talk is cheap. Silences don't need to be filled, and a quiet moment is not necessarily a void. A quiet moment can include a touch, a look or an embrace, and it’s those things that really speak the truth of what is going on inside.

No Lies - The Truth About Motherhood

I’m at the age where all of my friends seem to be having babies. It’s lovely really, photos of brand new little people seem to be popping up on Facebook daily. But along with thinking how cute they are, I can’t help but look at them and their innocently blissful new mummies and think "if only you knew the truth". Everyone knows that having kids is hard. But no one tells you quite how hard. Here are some of the things your mum conveniently forgot to tell you (probably because she knew damn well that if she did she would get no grandkids).

No Sleep

You are totally prepared for lack of sleep with a baby. Everyone talks about sleepless nights, you know it’s going to need to eat and crap round the clock, that’s a given. But no one can prepare you for how that lack of sleep actually feels. And, more importantly, no one tells you that it can last years (nearly 6 years and counting for me, and apparently doesn't get much easier). And still no one tells you that when and if your kids ever do (miraculously) sleep through the night, your sleep pattern is so fucked you wake up every two hours anyway. Just like if you do happen to get the chance of a child free lie in, it just means you’re wide awake in bed cursing at 630am on a Sunday morning instead of wide awake preparing breakfast and changing nappies (and cursing under your breath).

No thanks

Kids are not grateful for being born nor are they appreciative of the sacrifices you have made to give them life. Don’t try to get them to understand or empathise, a ten minute monologue about the amazing life you had pre-them (complete with a “look how good I looked in my crop top” trip down memory lane with the photo albums) will be greeted with a blank look and “can I have a KitKat?”

No rules

You WILL turn into "one of those" mothers and you WILL break all of your own self imposed rules. The “I’ll never bribe my kids” rule goes out the window pretty quick when you child is having one of those “my child will never behave THAT way in public” moments.

No escape

Just as you are happily telling everyone you got no stretch marks whatsoever in your pregnancy, you finally lose the last of the baby weight and suddenly your tummy looks like a family of snails has crawled all over it. And no, fake tan does not cover stretch marks. Trust me.

But despite all this there are also good things that no one tells you, and they can (almost) completely cancel out the crap stuff.

No expectations

Especially when they are little, kids can be surprisingly appreciative of even the tiniest acts of love. Son number one said he wanted a surprise when he woke up the next day. I said OK, planning on wrapping one of his long forgotten toys in shiny new wrapping paper and presenting it with a ta-da (which probably wouldn't have worked with him but would have worked with son two. Kids are totally gullible up to the age of three after that they are so shrewd and observant they can spot fake enthusiasm a mile off). Anyway, me being me completely forgot my promise and in the morning son one burst into my bedroom demanding his surprise (they also have an elephantine memory). Bleary eyed (after two hours sleep) and hostage in my bedroom with no tools at my disposal besides my phone I quickly scrawled a cute drawing on Sketch Draw. This may seem a little tight as surprises go, but I’m regularly presented with a drawing on a scribble pad as a "surprise". And so proud was son number one of his surprise that he insisted I print it out so he could put it up in his bedroom. He even made me a thank you card the next day.

No really  bad times

Even when things are as bad as bad can be, a cuddle with your kids can make everything OK, if only for that moment. Their cute little bodies all curled into yours and their smell (even the little boy smell is comforting in miserable times), is like all the best feelings in this life rolled up into one snuggly little package. Gangly legs and arms and little pot bellies that on an adult would look out of proportion and unhealthy but on kids just looks cute. Stroking those pot bellies (and hearing the ensuing giggle) is better than Prozac.

I like to speak the truth, and this post was really just an act of public service. And it’s not the whole truth (I don’t want to be responsible for single-handedly ending the human race). Congratulations (and best of luck) to all the new mummies out there.

A Girl's Gotta Eat

As you may have noticed I haven’t written a blog for two weeks now. Events happened which turned my life into something straight out of an episode of Jeremy Kyle. Which is wrong on so many levels: I have regular dental check ups, I don’t even have my ears pierced let alone masses of gold hoops and thankfully, there is absolutely no question about the parentage of my children, or me for that matter. Anyway, when all this happened I tried to write my blog, really I did, but every time I sat down the only thing that came out of my fingers was “aaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrggghh” or a rant that sounded like I should be sitting on one of those blue chairs wearing a white puffa jacket, badly applied makeup, leggings and high tops. And I knew that nothing at all was better than that. But I’m back now.

Amongst all this, I decided to stop internet dating, because maybe I wasn’t ready for a relationship or even dating so soon after such a life changing event. As Big Bro said, I needed to work out who I was before I could even think about or know what I needed from a relationship. But in the last few days I have been getting a bit bored and, dare I say it, lonely.

And there it is. Lonely. The word that no single person likes to dare utter, lets bury it in the simple joy of painting chairs and fabulous girls nights out.

Don’t get me wrong, there are some great things about being single. Not having to share the TV (or worse still sitting in separate rooms, knowing that you should really be putting in more effort to watch Fringe rather than cookery programmes, because lets face it, you would have done at the beginning of the relationship – I was sort of seeing a guy recently and agreed to sit and watch the entire Alien trilogy with him, such is the need to show a new man how fun an exciting I can be, thankfully I never did have to do that, anyway, I digress), not having to listen to another persons snoring or snuffling all night (except of course when the kids come in with you), and your pretty dresses are no longer wedged into the wardrobe between a ten year old suit and a million unworn shirts.

But my return to internet dating is not born out of a need to watch sci-fi or share wardrobe space, rather than a need for some male company, getting dressed up to go on a date, and that excitement and distraction from life’s day to day dullness that comes in the form of a cheeky text message from someone you have yet to learn everything about. I really don’t expect to find “the one” on a dating website. I like to believe I’ll meet him when we both reach for the last pack of all butter croissants in Waitrose (despite the fact that I’m rarely in Waitrose and when I am I’m usually wild eyed and stressed, accompanied by two sticky, screaming children, if Mr Right did see me he would probably surrender the croissants and skidaddle). Sometimes though, just the thought that I could meet the one is enough. Because, in my darkest moments when I begin to worry that I could end up alone and single forever, with the standard millions of cats and piles of unread newspapers around me, that thought alone is enough to get me back on the dating website quicker than you can say “single persons supplement”.

And the crux of it all is, well (sorry mum) but a girl’s gotta eat. Not just in a (sorry mum) sexual way, but in all the other little ways that having a date or the early stages of a relationship enriches your life. Discovering someone new and exciting, watching TV you wouldn’t normally watch and those early morning cuddles that start your day with a smile.

OK so maybe I haven't, and never will, come across my fantasy dream hunk (wow, that’s a phrase straight out of a 1980’s edition of Just17) on a dating website. But you have to ask yourself, is a real date with someone who seems kind of OK looking and nice company better than no date at all with your fantasy dream hunk? Am I better off sitting at home with my TV remote to myself, looking at my nicely not squashed dresses, trying to work out who I am and what I want (how exactly do I do that I wonder? there is probably another blog post in there somewhere) rather than getting out there and having a pleasant evening with someone who I might feel a bit “meh” about right now, but in reality could turn out to be amazing?

It’s a tough one. You can tell very little from a few lines of a profile and the standard age, location and “do you have pets” check list. I have had dates where the person has clearly stuck their head on someone elses body and vice versa. And I have had dates where the person seems to tick all the boxes on paper (or screen) but in reality something didn’t fit. Until you actually meet someone you can’t know.

I’m far from desperate. There are a million pieces of second hand furniture in my house that could do with a lick of paint, and I have yet to board the eHarmony single girls bus to that fabulous night out with my single friends (all two of them), so I’m in no rush to meet Mr Right. But it’s those early morning cuddles I miss the most. Time to spruce up my profile.

Plenty of Fish

The last time I was single I was 21. I met men by hanging around in a car park in my beloved Peugeot 205 Gti (yes guys, it was a 1.9) with music blaring, back end weighed down with three mates in the back seat and a sub made from MDF in the boot. That car was a man magnet. I didn’t have to do anything else to draw them in, except drive and sit in that car. The approach was all sorted and it’s always getting that initial approach that’s tricky. I met some great guys with that car (the man included), and have a huge number of long standing friends as a result.

These days, hanging around in a car park is not the greatest way to meet men. Sure there is a new generation of “Kevs” hanging around in the car park, although the cars are more technical and the sound systems more sophisticated than they were in my day. But they are unlikely to be interested in a thirty four year old mother of two. And a beat up old estate car with two child seats (complete with apple cores and the obligatory cheerios crunched into the footwells) in the back does not a man magnet make. The men in my age bracket tend to drive family saloons rather than beefed up XR3i’s (showing my age there) and are probably only hanging around in the car park waiting for their Mrs and the kids to get back from Blockbuster. So I knew if I was going to get myself out there and meet men I’d have to try more age appropriate methods.

So I signed up for a free dating site that some of my friends have had limited success with in the past.

Within an hour I had received my first message, and over the next 6 weeks I got nearly 200 messages from different men. It was so exciting to suddenly have all these men at my fingertips, no awkward approach required. I quickly learned that while you can meet men sitting in a car park or by going to a local bar, the internet dealt with the approach to literally thousands of men, all shapes and sizes, from all walks of life, almost a man supermarket if you will. Sure you can pop to the corner shop for a loaf of bread, but if you go to the supermarket you have access to a lot more choice, value for money and you can also get those posh seeded breads and exotic sounding ‘pan de campagne’ which you probably won’t find in your local Spar.

Of those 200 men, I replied to the few who most interested me (I started out trying to reply to them all, just to say thanks but no thanks to the ones whose opening lines were things like “Hey baby, you’re sexy.”, “Do you like DIY?” and many times, things far too forward and inappropriate to quote here). I went on to have some great conversations with really wonderful guys (and some less wonderful if I’m honest) and had a few interesting dates, which was what I was looking for. I wanted a Carrie Bradshaw style dating experience, and for a few weeks at least, I kind of had it. OK the dates took place in crappy pubs that often didn’t even stock cranberry juice let alone know how to make a Cosmo, but it was still kind of exciting.

But as I’ve said before “dating” in the UK doesn’t really work. I was messaging a few men for a while and it just got confusing. I was getting them muddled up, my phone never stopped bleeping and it all became a bit of a chore. The problem with internet dating is there is too much choice. You meet someone who seems great, and spark a brilliant messaging conversation with them, but in the back of your mind you are always wondering if someone better might come along (and you know that they are doing exactly the same thing). It makes you both kind of greedy.

There is always the danger of getting the timing wrong too. Meet them too early and they’ll be a string of other people you need to meet and rule out before you can “choose”, leave it too late and you could suddenly find yourself in the “friend’s zone”, messaging has told you everything there is to know about them and you have used up all those sparky, excited feelings that you should have when you first meet.

Then there’s the way the UK dating rules seem to turn one date into an instant relationship, so the “exclusivity discussion” must be had, and sometimes even what feels like a full on break up.

I’ve now hidden my profile on that dating site, although I’ve met some great guys through it. I’ve even met someone who I think will be a friend for life and also a potential boyfriend so I can’t knock it. But in reality, when I was playing the field, I missed those days of cruising round town in my 205, and having a sexy stranger knocking on my window. They were simpler times. I love Pan de Campagne, but at the end of the day bread is just bread and it doesn't matter where you buy it.

New Beginnings

I wasn’t going to write a blog today. Just say I’d eaten too many eggs and my fingers had got so fat I couldn’t type. Give myself a day off like the millions of other people out there. You’re all probably too busy eating eggs and hot cross buns and watching repeated films on the telly to be reading anyway. But I just couldn’t do it, because apparently creativity never sleeps – at least not when it’s coming from my brain. Just as I was about to go to bed last night and have my first early night in what feels like this decade (and I need it, Beryl the elephantine gland is back, her size seems to be directly related to the number of fags I smoke and the lack of sleep I have) my mind started blogging in my head. Hate that. So here I am for the few of you with me on this Good Friday.

Easter. What’s it all about? Eating eggs? Watching the same old films they roll out on telly year after year? Sort of. But while none of us can deny the pure fun and excitement of secretly eating all the Easter Eggs (sorry kids, the Easter Bunny must have got peckish) then replacing them with slightly misshapen, battered eggs found in the reduced section after Easter (a bargain at 50p each), and rewatching Monsters inc for the millionth time, Easter is about new beginnings. It might just be the beginning of a new Easter Egg or pack of Hot Cross Buns… but even those are pretty special in themselves.

Whether or not you are religious, Easter is a great time to enjoy a fresh start. It’s all about rebirth and new possibilities. Easter is one of the few times in the year we can wipe the slate clean and start again (apart from New Years Day, first day of school terms, first day of the month, Mondays… ok, we get quite a few chances for new starts, but bear with me).

There is nothing more exciting than a new start; a new baby, a new school, a fresh new word document just waiting for me to fill it with letters and words and thoughts and stories.

New starts are damn scary though. Because when something is so new and delicate, it’s quite natural worry about how it might end. That clean white virtual page is terrifying, because I don’t actually know what is going to be at the end of it; will it be something worth the time I spent on it, will it be as wonderful as I hope? But sometimes is best not to even think about it (easier said than done I know), and just go for it, balls out, and deal with the consequences later. If you always think about the end and what might go wrong you leave little room to enjoy the beginning.

Always a worrier, I am not good at going with the flow. Well I do, but I do it with so much deep thought and analysis that I quickly find I am not necessarily enjoying the ride. But I have really been trying to go with the flow recently, when something feels good don’t look for its flaws and when something is going right, don’t search for ways it could go wrong. Now I’m trying to go with the flow and not worry about it, I’m finding that the ride can be exhilarating.

I’ve had my fair share of endings over the years. There have been a few milestone moments when the rug has been ripped out from under me (or even ripped the rug out myself) and my world has toppled down around me. But the truth is, each ending has brought a new beginning, and given me something even more precious than what was there before; the birth of the sons, a career change or a new relationship. When something ends it’s normal to be sad, but with every ending there is a new beginning, and any new beginning, however it might end up, is precious and special.

So I for one am going to enjoy my new beginnings this weekend. And my first new beginning is eating the eggs I got for the kids Easter Egg hunt. A hunt for two eggs is just as good as a hunt for eight, right? And if not, there’s nothing wrong with a few battered eggs and a tardy Easter bunny later in the week.

Happy Easter everyone, enjoy your new beginnings J

Save Ferris

Every Wednesday son number one has a swimming lesson with his best friend. Despite it being a weekly source of stress I always look forward to it because not only can I see how quickly son number one is learning (and prove to myself that it’s worth the twenty five quid a month because he can now jump into the pool with only a slight look of apprehension), but it also means half an hour with my friend (mum of best friend). Although, both of us have two years olds to keep an eye on as well as smile and clap at the rights moments for the older ones swimming, so the time goes really fast with barely a chance for us to talk at all.

Every week we say to each other “Goodness me (or words slightly less Pride and Prejudice but to the same effect), it’s Wednesday again!”

In one of my favourite books, The Happiness Project, Gretchen Rubin makes a very good observation; “The days are long, but the years are short.” It’s so true that some days can feel like they are dragging, children whining like a cheese grater to the brain, more cleaning, more work to fit in, more uneaten lunch boxes to empty and wash up and all you want is for the work to be done and the day to be over. But despite these long drawn out days, when I feel like maybe the day will never end, the weeks fly by and before I know it I’m at the side of the pool again, trying to prevent son number two from throwing himself over the balcony of the viewing gallery and make him understand why drinking out of the gutter in the changing room is not a great idea (I always succeed at the former, thankfully, but fail at the latter… small victories).

I’ve been burning the candle at both ends recently. This is nothing new for me; I’m just burning different candles these days. I have gone from stay at home mum to someone with three jobs, quite a transformation. I love to be busy and have a lot of things going on, because it makes me feel like I have really captured everything out of this life that flies by so very fast. But the pay off is that by being so busy, I have even less of a chance to enjoy it.

Ferris Beuller famously said “Life moves pretty fast, if you don’t stop to look around once in a while you might miss it.” OK he wasn’t a real person, and hardly Aristotle, but we should all listen to him. This was why he took the day off school in the first place, to have a look around.

But once you get past a certain age/have kids/a job, it’s not that simple. As much as we would all love a duvet day every now and then, life goes on, you can’t make everything stop, and the danger of getting fired/children getting botulism or drowning at some point in the future is too perilous to risk on a day in bed or going round art galleries in a car stolen from a parent.

Maybe we can’t have a Ferris style day, as much as we’d like to. But that just makes it even more important to squeeze all the juice out of every day, and sometimes, if only for a second, take stock. Notice those stolen moments of perfection in every day and use them to help us get through until the next one.

The kids and their cheese grater whining, and all the extra work that I have taken on means, simply, that I am needed (even if at that moment it is only to change the telly channel from Cbeebies to Nick Junior). And, stressed as it sometimes makes me, I need to remember that being needed is a lovely feeling indeed.

It’s tempting to do nothing, or as little as possible, in a bid to slow time down. But life just doesn’t work like that. Even if I could afford to slow things down I wouldn’t. I would far rather my life goes by quickly and fully, than slowly and emptily.

Ferris days are rare, but all days, stress filled ones included are just as special. And there is light and happiness in every second, even if we have to really stop and look to see it.

Ultimately, we should enjoy the fact that time is flying, because it means that we are, really and truly, having fun.

My Secret Pleasure

My favourite time of day is dusk because of the limitless opportunities for looking into peoples homes and seeing what they are lives are like. You don’t get to see into other peoples houses too often, except maybe when watching Location, Location, Location.

Everyone loves to people watch, and those that say they don’t must be lying, because by nature, humans are inquisitive. I neglect to say nosy, because the truth is, I’m not that nosy. I don’t care what people are actually doing, I just like to imagine what they might be doing. I could happily watch people for hours and hours (as long I had a steady supply of water and fags to keep me going), spinning stories in my head, feeling myself walk in their shoes. How does the world look if you’re that tall; does everything look really far away? Ooh I wonder what’s in that bag; a half eaten sandwich or the remains of a dead cat? Where is that person going; off to meet a secret lover?

Dusk, when people have their lights on but curtains open is the ultimate time for people watching, extreme people watching if you will. You can actually see what their house is like (that wallpaper was clearly a mistake) and how they are living (sausages and mash for tea), if only just for a split second as you walk past. Note, I say as I walk past, I am not hanging around outside peoples houses like a peeping tom, I reserve that strategy for young hot men only.

The other day I decided to head away from the usual banal shopping experience of my local town to the bright lights and big shops of the big town about half an hour away. I knew the train would save me on fuel and parking costs, but it was also a perfect people watching opportunity. Trains at dusk are the best house watching lookout, giving you countless imaginary lives to live in the space of seconds. Houses whizz by, giving the merest glimpse of people, some of them doing their washing up, some of them watching TV; but all with their own hopes, dreams, disappointments and worries. I wonder how it would feel to be sitting in that sofa, drinking that cup of tea (is it tea?), are they happy, are they sad, are they lonely, or overwhelmed by life? The possibilities are endless and that feeling of wonderment is one of my favourite feelings ever. Ever.

But this was a daytime shopping trip so everything was up close and personal, giving even more fuel for the senses. A gang of lads, clearly on their way to a stag party, reeking of booze and testosterone in equal measure, loud and foul mouthed, filled the air with that slight feeling of nervous anticipation that can only be felt when lots of men get together and drink with such a resolute purpose.

I then witnessed an argument between a bald old man with a hearing aid trying to get some sleep (I don’t really understand why he didn’t just turn the hearing aid off, surely that’s a bonus feature of a hearing aid? Maybe someone can enlighten me on this one), and a noisy American tourist hell bent on talking very loudly on his phone. The old fella jumped out of his seat, jabbing at the “quiet zone” sign angrily with his finger, while noisy guy raised his eyebrows and continued with his call. When he finally hung up he said “Happy now?” with a smug smirk. The other man, now puce with rage, started squaring up to him, “Don’t you smirk at me,” he shouted, “I’m trying to sleep”. There was an exchange of “Come on then’s” “Yeah, what you gonna do about it?’s” at which I didn’t want to seem like I was looking, so I tried to arrange my body to look like it wasn’t interested even though my eyes were glued to the action. The row quickly fizzled out but it was exciting as a witness with nothing else to do but sit back and enjoy the show (I was on the side of the old guy, but thought he could have been a bit more diplomatic in his approach).

On leaving the station I came across a man on his phone, covered in tattoos, Special Brew in hand (why are all these people drinking in the middle of the day? It just makes me feel like I’m missing out on the fun), I heard him say “No… I’m not saying that, just listen, no I’m not saying that… oh, just F*CK OFF!!!” I wound an elaborate fantasy in my head that he was arguing with his ex over money. I could imagine her at home, fag in hand, Jeremy Kyle on the telly, run out of nappies for the bare bummed baby she was holding, just trying to get a tenner out of this guy who obviously had nothing better to do than drink Special Brew at 2 o’clock in the afternoon and shout profanities over the phone.

But the world is not just my giant TV screen, so there must be times when I am the subject of other people’s people watching. What do they think of me? Some days I expect I look relatively sane, not particularly interesting to look at. But occasionally when I’m stressed, can’t think of anything to wear and have that “covered myself in glue, rolled around in my wardrobe and emerged wearing what stuck” look, wild eyed and exhausted, I could probably be pretty interesting. But it doesn’t happen often enough. So I plan to start carrying around a suspicious looking case and concocting some interesting sounding fake phone calls, just to give something back to all those people who give me so much pure, unadulterated pleasure.

Summertime #2

Well it’s another Manic Monday after another manic weekend, and yet again I haven’t found the time to write a shiny new blog post for you guys. But the weather has been gorgeous, so here’s a rewrite of a post I did last Summer, just to remind you of all the fun we are about to have…

Summertime and the living is… dead flies, hairy armpits and unreliable weather

Happiness abound, the Summer appears to have come early here in the UK. So we can start to enjoy all those wonderful things that we wistfully dream of in the cold winter months, the smell of freshly mown lawns, barbeques etc.

Summer gets romanticised in this country (because we get so little of it), however everyone is so busy extolling its virtues that we come back to earth with a bump when reminded of the crap stuff. Despite my positive outlook on life, there are some things about summer which are just rubbish whichever way you look at them. These are my top 5 summer snags.

1. Flies, wasps and other winged things

My house isn’t that messy or dirty, nor is it filled with rotting rubbish, animal corpses or other unsavoury things that flies are meant to be drawn to. So why then, does it become overrun with huge flies the size of small dogs, constantly buzzing and bashing themselves against the windows the second the temperature gets into double figures? Spray them with fly spray and hoover up the bodies before son number two has them as a crunchy snack, or swat them against the window leaving a bizarrely large smear on the window and a big red blood stain on the cover of last months Glamour magazine? Tough call.

Trying to enjoy a picnic in the sun? The second you open a packet of crisps a swarm of wasps will start flying threateningly around your ham sandwich, guaranteed. And I don’t care how many people tell me to stay still and they won’t sting, it’s a basic fight or flight response to run around wildly flapping my arms and screaming. You can’t argue with science…

Note to mosquitoes and “other biting insects” – I need my blood, I’m not that tasty, and could you please find someone else to munch on that doesn’t want to wear a mini skirt at the weekend?

Anything with wings spells trouble, and in the summer they seem to triple in volume sooner than you can say “cold glass of pinot blush on the patio”.

2. Unpredicitable weather/what not to wear

Winter dressing is easy: layers, layers and more layers. Summer clothes are far trickier, flipflops and boob tube (to avoid strap marks) are great when the sun is out, but not so when you get outside you find the wind chill is minus one and the kids are getting hypothermia in their vests and shorts. Then, just when you think you are beating the system “Ha, it might look warm but you got me with that one yesterday, I’m wearing my winter coat and dressing the kids in their thermals” you get outside and find it’s sweltering and everyone is melting.

The early summer excitement of getting your summer wardrobe out quickly turns to disappointment when you discover that all those maxi dresses and floaty tops you thought had magically materialised in your loft during the winter consists of one pair of capri pants (circa 2001) and some flip flops with a perfectly formed foot shape embedded in grime on the insole.

And if you wake up to blue skies and sunshine you can’t even trust it, because no sooner have you got dressed there will likely be sudden torrential rain of epic proportions. Squelching and flapping about in wet gladiator sandals does not a happy me make. Not to mention spending numerous hours every day putting washing on the line then retrieving it when there’s a downpour. I do have better things to do with my time.

3. Dirty Windows

As soon as the sun comes out everyone walking past my house can see that I haven’t had my windows cleaned since Christmas.

4. Holidays (Or Not)

Summer holidays with kids are stressful, packing enough stuff to survive without CBeebies on tap takes weeks of preparation and military precision. Not to mention the complaints (“this doesn’t taste like a normal sausage”) and crying for some random toy left languishing in the toybox at home that hasn’t seen the light of day for months but suddenly is the most important thing in the world. Hardly a relaxing getaway. This lack of motivation to spend a thousand pounds on a week where everything is just as stressful as it is at home, but without the usual things I use to keep everyone calm (kids telly, the naughty step, work, a childminder…) is why I often think I’m the only person not busily planning my summer break at this time of year. So I know, in a few months time while everyone is swanning off to some far flung corner of the globe to get all tanned and wrinkly in the sun, I will still be at home getting washing on and off the line.

5. Constant pressure to have toenails painted, legs waxed and fake tan on (and/or avoid unsightly strap marks)

In winter no one could ever know that your legs resemble an unmown lawn, or that your toenails have six month old grown out nail varnish on them and are so long they snag every pair of tights you try to put on. There is no constant fear of dodgy strap marks (if you accidentally wear a vest top in March on a hot day, you will be ‘wearing’ it until next summer). But less clothing in summer means more upkeep. Maintaining a respectable level of personal grooming is so much less time consuming when you don’t have to shave your armpits every day.

Hey, I love summer as much as the next person. But let’s be realistic here, it’s not all barbeques and mojitos. Enjoy the sunshine everyone!

Praise you

As far as social blunders go I’m pretty much up there with Frank Spencer, Boris Johnson and that bloke from Something from the Weekend who always breaks the gadgets and seems to think mumbling words with no inflection whatsoever makes for good TV (which somehow it does, I hate that). I often feel like I’m a walking disaster area, going through life from one banana skin to the next just waiting to crash to the floor, take out a priceless vase on my way down and break something really embarrassing (like my ass bone) in the process.

But I don’t think I’m that different to most people. We’re all socially awkward in our own way, the difference with me being I obsess over it. I’ll do or say something I later consider stupid, then allow it to roll around in my mind over and over, until it has snowballed into this massive thought knocking out all other thoughts that threaten to get in its way.

After my teenage years when I felt like nothing I ever did was cool or right, and more sleepless nights than I can remember obsessing about how crap I was, I started to censor myself to avoid as much social embarrassment as I could. Over the years I thought I was delicately honing this personality that didn’t come out of the toilet with her knickers stuck in her tights, never had home hair colouring disasters and always knew the right thing to say. In short, I tried to become a cool, sophisticated, breezy person a million miles away from who I felt inside. I don’t think I ever actually achieved that persona, but it helped to have something to aim for.

But the fact is, you can only censor yourself so much. And now that I’m a grown woman, not a shaking wreck of a fifteen year old, I can finally, finally give myself a break. Because I now know that I’m not the only person that gets it wrong sometimes, and worries about it. There are millions and millions of us out there, feeling insecure, wishing we could go back and change some small inconsequential thing that we’ve done. So we might say or do the wrong things and want to kick ourselves in the head but that person that you are thinking you said the wrong thing to? They are probably kicking themselves in their head about something they said or did to you that you didn’t even notice. And if they’re not, well good for them. But growing up has taught me that those of us who do obsess and worry can comfort ourselves in the knowledge that it’s not because we’re crap, it’s because we care.

I can be a bitch sometimes, like everyone else. But it doesn’t happen often because I have an unquenchable thirst to please people, making people happy is what I like to do best in the whole world, and I think that’s true for most people. There was an article in this months Glamour magazine saying that we should all be complimenting each other more, because it makes us feel good. Erm, hello? This is not news to me. I love to praise people, because I know only too well how hard it can be if you are an over thinker, and I don’t want to give anyone any more cause to obsess and worry than their own brain already does for them. It’s not about being dishonest, it’s about seeing the good in someone, in something and everything, and telling them how really good that thing is.

I don’t want to go through life simply not upsetting people, I want to go through life making people feel great and helping them see how utterly brilliant they are. Maybe that’s not my job but I do it anyway. Always look for, and point out, the best of everyone and everything. It’s just a shame that sometimes my own mind won’t let me praise myself. But maybe that’s my pay off. And I’m hoping that if I can see the best in others, they might, just might, be seeing the best in me too (and not notice, or at least not mention, that I’ve got toilet paper stuck to my foot).

The best advice ever given

My mum rang last night to hear about my weekend shenanigans. Mums have a habit of handing out advice even when you haven't asked for it and don't need it anyway. But this time, she uncharacteristically said “Well I’m not going to say anything today”. It turns out she read my stars this week and the universe thinks I must ignore any advice from a loved one. Thanks mum, surely telling me to ignore advice constitutes advice?

Anwyay, people just love to give advice don’t they? What advice have you been given that has worked or failed? Here are a few little nuggets passed on to me over the years…

Good advice: Follow your heart

Your head may be pretty competent but your heart has the monopoly on your true feelings. When you’ve got your heart going one way and your head going another it’s all too easy to play it safe. But life is for living, rules are for bending, and hearts are for breaking. A life without heartbreak is a life unlived. Follow your heart, then deal with the pain and anguish by eating a huge bar of Fruit and Nut and having a three hour natter with your best friend. It makes everything better.

Bad advice: If you can’t be with the one you love, love the one you’re with

Well there’s a recipe for pain, heartache and/or disaster if ever I heard one. If you can’t be with the one you love… mourn the one you love until you are truly over them. Don’t drag other people down to mask your heartache. Admittedly “if you can’t be with the one you love, sit at home alone crying in your pyjamas eating Dairy Milk and looking through photo albums for months on end until you’re ready to go out and meet someone new” does not have quite the same catchy ring to it as the original (covered by many) versions of the song, but it would make for a far more useful pop song.

Good advice: Don’t over think things

Note to self: Listen to this advice. Enough said.

Bad advice: Having a plan makes everything run smoothly

But having a plan also means extra time taken to make that plan, stress caused when unforeseen circumstances result in straying from the plan, and massive rows over ones rigidity in sticking to the plan: “shut up about the plan woman” (which can all add up to a miserable holiday/day out/life for all). Good advice in theory but in practise, having a plan can ruin the fun.

Good advice: Never say never

Be flexible, keep all doors open, don’t limit your opportunities; are all sound advice in my humble opinion. In fact, I said a few months ago I’d never wear a crop top in public again. The fact that I’d used the word “never” played heavily on my mind so I wore a crop top just to prove to myself I could, and got a massive confidence boost from the reaction of a bunch of young, fit lads (admittedly far too young and fit for me but still). Best. Day. Ever.

Bad advice: Just once won’t do any harm

Just one fag can get you addicted, just one glass of wine can spiral into a drinking binge of epic proportions, just one bite of the kids dinner at dishing up time can result in hungry children and extra pounds on the scale (and not being able to wear a crop top in public). Take it from me, just once can do a lot of harm.

Good advice: Don’t wash with soap

The main ingredient in soap and shower gel? Sodium lauryl sulphate, which is also used to clean engines. Seriously, how dirty can you be? I just wish water smelled nicer, coming out of the shower smelling of, erm… water is not as nice as coming out smelling of rose and jasmine. OK, don’t wash with soap may be good advice as far as the condition of your skin is concerned but bad advice if you like to smell nice (which I do, just to stop the soap dodging comments flooding in).

Bad advice: That spot/scab is ready…

Really? OK go on then. Great, now I have a huge hole in my face three times the size of the original spot, weeping pus like the mouth of a drooling baby. The spot is ready? Stick some concealer on it and leave it the fuck alone.

But the best advice of all time is never, ever give advice. Or at least always issue a warning/disclaimer with it.

Disclaimer: All advice is taken at your risk, don’t come crying to me if you get your heart broken, the spot gets infected or your friends don’t want to sit next to you because you don’t smell of rose and jasmine…