Please take your space debris home with you

Somewhere, right now, there is a room full of boffins tracking a satellite the size of a bus as it plummets through our solar system at a rate of 5miles per second, heading for somewhere on Earth. But not, apparently, America. Oh that’s OK then.

I was listening to the radio this morning and they said that there is a 1 in 3000 chance that someone will be hit by a piece of the decommissioned satellite. Just dropped it into the end of the news like it was nothing serious. Chance of rain plus some falling space debris, make sure you pack your helmet as well as your umbrella.

I’m a little bit freaked out by the idea of something flying through the sky, Armageddon style and taking someone out. There is something like a 1 in 21 trillion chance of it being you. Chances of winning the lottery: 1 in 14million, maybe I should start buying a ticket.

One guy on the internet said that this is nothing new, over 400 pieces of debris fall to earth every year. And this is supposed to make me feel better how? Something I had never given a second thought to now apparently happens every day. I wonder what the statistics are for being hit but any piece of space debris, is it more than being struck by lightning?

Only one person has ever been hit by falling space debris, they say the person was unharmed. She must be making a fortune this week, I have seen quotes from Lottie Williams all over the internet. Her advice is to stay outside and look for it coming. As much as that appeals to me for twelve hours on a Friday night, I think I’ll take my chances on a bit of telly and bed thanks.

But this is all part of a bigger problem. The levels of space junk have now reached critical, and NASA have been called upon to start clearing it up. I don’t think it’s as simple as using a big hoover to suck all the crap out of the sky. Maybe they could just get a massive magnet, send it up there and see what sticks instead.

How can they leave so much rubbish up there? It’s like a bunch of messy kids not tidying away their toys after playing with them. It’s clearly men that are responsible, any woman would have factored in a cleaning up plan at the end of the use of the equipment (it’s tidy up time!), the men just wandered off and got distracted by the shiny buttons on some other satellite.

Apparently this is a kind of dress rehearsal for when a much larger satellite hits the Earth in November. This one will include a very large lens, don’t fancy getting a thwack on the head by that. But I think this will all become part of every day life given the amount of crap floating around up there. Pack lunches? Check. School run? Check. Took piece of decommissioned satellite found in garden to Household Waste Recycling Centre? Check.

So watch your back today. I just hope that whoever finds space debris is unharmed enough to milk the publicity for all it’s worth. Tut tut astronauts, when will you learn to tidy up as you go along?

Five Minutes Peace

We all love our kids but jeez don’t they come with noise, chaos and havoc? We’re all just hanging out for that delicious moment when kids actually fall asleep and the countdown to our bedtime begins (technically should be about half hour after the kids given how tired we are), when we all desperately try and fit as much as we possibly can into our few hours of grown-up time. Usually at the mercy of demanding V+ or Sky+ boxes or, in my case, the man insisting on watching a film because then it feels like we’ve actually ‘done something’.

This weekend I enjoyed a very rare few hours of quiet. The man and me went on an organised ghost hunt on Saturday night which mostly consisted of standing in the pitch dark holding hands with strangers. In silence. I didn’t want ghosts knocking and moving furniture around or wailing, not because I’m scared of ghosts, but because I didn’t want my long awaited peace to be broken.

From the moment I wake up in the morning (son number two pulling my duvet off me then heaving my head of the pillow with all his might) to the second I fall asleep (with the telly on to silence my screaming thoughts) it’s nothing but Mummymummymummymummymummymummy followed by whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy or, in the case of son number two mamamamamamamamamamama for ten hours, whilst running around getting drinks, snacks and fulfilling any number of other demands. And I know it gets worse as they get older: “Mum he looked at me.” “Mum tell him!”

The man and me very occasionally, and always regret it afterwards, sleep in while the kids sneak about downstairs creating havoc. A few weeks ago we got up to find that one of them (or possibly both I can just imagine them gleefully encouraging each other on this one) had put bubble mixture in the cats drinking fountain, creating a small but elaborate jacuzzi which could have provided one of the small mammals slain by Expensive Cats a nice pre-death treat (thankfully the kids had not thought of that and the only thing found floating in the bubbles was a Toy Story pencil).

But I can’t just blame my kids for the chaos that is our house, Expensive Cats also enjoy a spot of early morning mayhem. Every day, before dealing with destroyed boxes of cereal in the dining room (why can’t kids understand the wording “slide finger under flap”) and after crunching through a sea of coco pops (that’s another two quid down the drain) I get to the kitchen to find any number of slaughtered creatures littering my floor. Some of them have been skinned, disembodied heads lie a foot away from other random body parts and sometimes just small piles of entrails remain. Step on some poor creatures innards barefoot every morning and you quickly learn to put your shoes on before you even come downstairs.

There’s a kids book called Five Minutes Peace, where Mrs Large (the matriarch of the Large family of elephants) tries to have a bubble bath while caring for her 3 children. Quite what she was thinking even attempting to have a quiet bath in the middle of the day with three kids around is beyond me. She even takes a tray of tea with her. I mean, really? I’m lucky if I get a chance to have a wee in peace without a small child  sitting bare bummed in my lap because he needs a poo right that second. Anyway, predictably she doesn’t get her peaceful bath and the kids eventually get in with her. She then leaves them to it and gets three minutes and forty-five seconds to herself downstairs. That’s where the book ends. It doesn’t say that her penance for those three minutes and forty-five seconds was a tsunami in the bathroom, emptied out bottles of shampoo and the most expensive ‘treat for mummy’ conditioner used to “clean” the shower screen floating in the remaining one inch of water that’s left in the bath (with a foot of bubbles on top which will take ten minutes to wash away), and 3 rolls of soggy toilet paper and an emptied out waste bin floating in the flood water on the floor. Was it worth it for three minutes and forty-five seconds?

So I really enjoyed my ghosthunt, if nothing else for the peace and quiet that I never seem to get in my house. But however much I wish for silence I know that there will come a day when I long for this mayhem, and I will miss CBeebies being on at full blast and having to clean marmite off radiators, whilst being used as a human climbing frame. No, really.

I ain't 'fraid of no ghosts

If there’s something strange in the neighbourhood, who you gonna call*? It’s me and the man on our first ever ghost hunt. It’s our anniversary on Sunday, 12 years of un-weddded bliss, and, not being able to face yet another boring steak dinner in one of the unmemorable pubs or restaurants in our local vicinity thought it was about time we did something a little more exciting. (Don’t get me wrong, a meal out is better than nothing – take note the man - but we hardly live in a gastronomic paradise, unless you count the 27 Chinese or Indian takeaways and a lonely chain Italian restaurant. 12 years is a long time and we are in danger of turning into George and Mildred. And if the secret to a long happy relationship is shared experiences, I want to make sure we have more than a few rubbery steak with crap chips dinners to talk about in our old age).

So I came up with this ghosthunting idea as something that would be more memorable and a bit more exciting. What could be more romantic than wandering around the ruins of a burnt out WW2 hospital at 2am? I have absolutely no idea what to expect. Will there be a Mystery Machine and a dog? The man could just about pass for Fred, but I think as much as I’d like to be Daphne, I’m probably more of a Thelma type.

In all my bravery and excitement at the time of booking it, I’m now actually quite scared. Ghosts have never bothered me, I grew up in a really old house which I believe was rammed full of spirits, but never felt in any danger from any of them. There was a fierce old man spirit, who wasn’t very nice, but there were a couple of lovely lady spirits and lots of children who made me feel safe. I loved that feeling of there being something “there” when I was home alone; it made me feel less lonely. I’m sure a scientist or psychologist would find ways of completely rubbishing what I think I’ve seen, heard and felt but there was a time that scientists believed the earth was flat and despite their know all beliefs, they still can’t explain how a bumble bee actually flies, so I don’t think ‘they’ know as much as they think they do.

I think it’s hard to say for definite whether or not you believe in something like ghosts, because the term ghost is very hard to define. What is a ghost, is it an imprint of time? Maybe our energy creates a kind of photograph of ourselves that is only visible at certain times. Life after death? If everyone who ever died automatically became a ghost we wouldn’t be able to move for spirits, it’s hard enough getting a seat on a train as it is. Maybe it’s people between worlds, either because they have unfinished business in this one or can’t bear to leave it? Either way I can’t say I believe in ghosts because I don’t actually know what one is.

In some ways I like that there is no definitive answer, the romance and mystery of not knowing. We know too much these days, so much can be explained away by science. There is fun in the fact that science is yet to find an answer. This is unfamiliar territory for me, someone who likes to know everything.

The man was away last night and I hate being in our house alone. It just feels empty to me. I have never felt anything here at all, and I usually get quite a strong sense of a place the moment I move in. But we have lived here for a year and so far, nothing. I was talking to a friend about it recently and she said she thinks she is less sensitive to spirits since having kids. Maybe that’s what it is. Maybe our new house is full of spirits but I just don’t feel them because I’m concentrating on keeping children from eating entire jars of Marmite with a spoon.

There are lots of reports that say ghosts don’t actually exist, it’s all in the mind. If you’re in a spooky place, with a spooky atmosphere and want to see something, you will. Well I was trying to feel something last night, willing a chair to move a little, or to get a funny smell or a cold draft, just so I knew I wasn’t alone. But despite our creaky old house, full of cobwebs and a mystery past, I felt nothing at all.

Either way I’m looking forward to our ghosthunt with a mixture of trepidation, excitement and total terror. On the one hand I hope we experience lots of ghostly phenomena, but on the other I kind of hope we find nothing so I don’t embarrass myself by being terrified. Think I’ll take the Rescue Remedy just in case.

*Ray Parker Jnr. (1984). Ghostbusters Theme

Toppers, Samers, Downers... and Oversharers

Just dropped son number one off for his first morning at big school, which means he is now part of the big wide world and will finally be exposed to playground politics. Social politics don’t change as we get older, comments may get a bit more sophisticated (“you smell like poopies” to “new perfume? Lovely”) but the rules are more or less the same.

Thanks to the plethora of random TV channels offered to me by my V+ box I have access to an ever increasing selection of American talk shows (much to the mans dismay, he’s always complaining that I use up all our space with my “tat” and there isn’t enough space for his UFC). Recently on “The Talk” (Darlene from Roseanne, Sharon Osbourne, and a couple of American sitcom actresses sitting around discussing their home lives. More fascinating that you’d think - did you know Sharon and Ozzy are at it 5 times a week?) they brought up the theory of Toppers, Samers and Downers.

The idea is that everyone is either a topper (someone who always has to one up the other person), a samer (someone who agrees wholeheartedly with everything you say) or a downer (someone who points out the negative). I’m not sure whether or not it’s actually that simple, people rarely fit into such neat boxes, but it’s quite interesting to try and spot toppers, samers and downers.

As one whose finger is always firmly on the pulse of social etiquette (ha)I would like to add a category, if I may. Oversharers. I was born an oversharer but over the years have managed to carefully cultivate a pretty solid tact mechanism, with one exception. As soon as I get some wine into me (truth juice) I’m right back there making people squirm in their seats with inappropriate stories.

If I’m with BFF or the man there is no such thing as oversharing, we are all samers. We tell each other everything anyway, and a big part of any close relationship is knowing everything about one another, when you give so much of yourself to someone it can’t help but strengthen bonds. But often when I don’t know someone so well, or am feeling uncomfortable, or there is a gap in the conversation, I’m likely to come out with a detailed birth story or two (or worse). It’s not just about trying to make myself feel more comfortable but also others, although it usually does the opposite. I’m, somewhat naively, trying to create that closeness that I have with people who know everything about me. If you know someone really well it’s hard to be uncomfortable around them. But oversharing in the presence of stubborn undersharers can make us overs fell quite ungainly and inelegant.

I could name at least one topper, samer, oversharer and downer in my life (but I won’t, that would be oversharing), and I personally have gone through phases of each. When wine is not involved I’m a pretty consistent samer, I like to think I’m the same as everyone else and I’m not very competitive. Being a samer also increases social bonds, it’s nice when everyone feels like they are going through the same thing. There’s nothing like being able to say to someone “I’ve had the hardest day” and them genuinely knowing what you’re on about. We all like to feel like we’re in the same boat.

But it depends on who I’m in conversation with. If I’m talking to a blatant topper I can easily slip into topping ways myself, there are some people that can make even the least competitive person feel a bit ruthless.

Within the mummy circle the subject of sleep is a constant source of topping. “Aloysius had me up five times last night, I had to have an espresso this morning” “That’s nothing, I haven’t slept for two weeks AND I’m allergic to caffeine, I’m running on pure adrenalin” There’s something about motherhood that makes people competitive. From the “my labour lasted 106 hours” or, on the flip side “I was only in labour for 15minutes AND I had a fourth degree tear” (lots of oversharing toppers when it comes to birth stories), it’s no wonder that kids arrive in the school playground and start trying to top each other (my dad is bigger than your dad). They have watched their mums do it from birth.

I fully expect son number one to be a topper, I think it’s normal at his age. Although having had such an uncompetitive mum he might have some ground to make up.

Do you think that people fit neatly into one of each category? Which one are you?

Children's Party Hell

Most parents dread kids parties, whether planning one: what if it’s not good enough? What if child hates it? What if child says he wants a pirate party but then 24 hours before the party decides he wants a fireman party instead? Or attending: what if my child won’t play? What if they are rude about the food or entertainment? What if they won’t even go through the door – I’ve have spent many hours in village hall car parks coaxing son number 1 into a party he refuses to take part in because there are balloons, an unfortunate phobia for a 3 year old, thankfully we’re over that one.

Children’s parties are far more stressful than you would think pre-parenthood, on son number 1’s first birthday party we had 12 kids all with their parents (we served beer and wine to the parents to help them get through it – that was a controversial choice, possibly the rookie mistake of a first time mum) squished into our tiny flat, and I was so relieved that it was finally happening and going well that I drunk half a bottle of wine in an hour and was intoxicated and asleep before everyone left.

But I realise I have created my own party monster. Son number 2 was due a month before son number 1’s birthday. Heavily pregnant and needing a project, I threw myself into planning the ultimate pirate party for son number 1’s third birthday. The man, as the appointed MC, spent a week making a pirate costume to wear and I made a little pirate pack for every guest including sash, eye patch and bandana, with the pirate captains hat for son 1. Even son number 2, only a month old, wore a stripy sleepsuit and a little eye patch. It took a huge amount of planning, and was meant to be a one off. Make son number one feel loved and special while dealing with the transition from only child to big brother. But of course the following year he wanted a Buzz Lightyear party. I’d made the mistake of setting the bar too high. The man got his costume making hat on again and we arrived at the party as family Buzz, the kids in supermarket Buzz costumes, the man and me in slightly too tight white jogging bottoms and home made wings. I was terrified the man would take some poor kids eye out with his wings, fashioned out of motorcross body armour and a car undertray (mine were far more child friendly, made out of carpet tiles).

And then there’s the cake. For at least 24hours before every party I am stuck in my kitchen, sweating and stressed, coughing under plumes of icing sugar. For son number 2 I recently did Lightning McQueen. But I’ll let you in on a secret, neither of my kids even like cake. I do it because I love the artistic side of it, and the pleasure I get when people say, wow what an amazing cake! It’s all self indulgence.

Sometimes I wish I had just started with a nice simple soft play centre party and a supermarket cake. Minimal planning, no ridiculous costumes, no panicking because Lightning McQueen looks slightly boss eyed. Just show up, pick up the presents and go home. The kids don’t even mind. They always have a brilliant time at soft play parties. But when our parties are over and we can all relax at last and son number 1 says “Mummy, that was the best party ever in the world” I know I’ll be doing it all again next year.

The man says he doesn’t enjoy the big parties so much, it’s all too stressful. You could have fooled me when he’s up til 2am the night before making pirate boots out of an old PVC skirt he’s bought from the charity shop. He says he would rather just play on the soft play with the kids and he really doesn’t care whether the cake is homemade or not (which is a shame because he’s kind of the only person who actually eats the cake).

I said that this year I would do a MacDonalds or soft play party for son 1. Easy and simple. But before I got the chance to suggest it to him he said “Mummy, I want a Lego City party this year.” Yep, I’ve definitely set the bar too high. 

Fresh Start

The household was a flurry of activity yesterday as son number one is starting infant school next week and his term started with a visit from his new teachers this morning. I get nervous anytime I’m supposed to be making a grown up responsible, impression because I don’t actually feel very grown up or responsible (is it just me that finds it really hard to remember the appropriate term for bogey, fart and poo when talking to teachers and doctors?) While being nervous about my choice of vocabulary I also want to ensure that the house is spotless so son doesn’t have “dirty house” indelibly written on his school record.

I spent the entire day with a really clean and welcoming home in mind, 2 quiet and ironed little boys playing sweetly with a jigsaw puzzle when they arrive. And not screaming kids still in Coco Pops stained pyjamas simultaneously playing Xbox, watching cartoons and hitting each other with a door stop amid a pile of primary coloured plastic toys, as is the general norm in our house.

I had a head start on my cleaning mission because BFF and her boy came down this weekend to help us celebrate son number 2’s second birthday (at least I was able to offer homemade birthday cake to teachers, hopefully a nice big tick on sons report). BFF is a cleaning whirlwind so my house always looks like a How Clean is your House after photo when she leaves. I clean for 4 hours before she arrives, thinking it’s spotless, but no sooner has she put her handbag down, she is whizzing round the house merrily swishing and swiping at the sticky jam handprints on the cupboard doors while keeping a sideways eye on her little boy picking raisins up off the floor (by 10am everyday my floor resembles a buffet table). I don’t think she even notices that she’s doing it, it’s just as much part of her nature as leaving a trail of mess and destruction is part of mine. And I’m very grateful to her for it too, as she sees things I don’t, always good to have another pair of eyes and hands.

It’s not just the thought of the teacher visit that had me on a cleaning mission, but the beginning of the new term feels like New Years Eve. I can’t bear starting the year with lots of washing in the washing basket and always do a thorough clean on New Years Eve. I’m not sure where I’ve got it from (my mum says not from her) because the rest of the year I’m messy.

I remember the excitement as a child of the new term, getting in supplies and having everything laid out the night before. Being organised would only last a day, after that I would be running out the door with books falling out of my bag and always having to use the school lost and found PE kit because I’d forgotten mine (not much fun playing netball in the freezing cold wearing trainers of 2 different sizes and obscenely too small PE knickers flossing your bum crack).

I read somewhere that the new school year holds the same opportunity for change and resolution as January 1^st, but without the guilt of having to give things up, it’s all about new starts and new shoes. I like that. Any opportunity to make a fresh start is one I will reach out for with both hands. Son’s new uniform is ready and waiting to receive name labels (uncharacteristically organised of me to have ordered them in June, characteristically disorganised to have left it till the last minute to attach them).

So I went to bed last night happy in the knowledge that my house was clean and son will not have to live with “manky house” on his record forever more.

But typically they showed up ten minutes early while I was still washing up the breakfast things, the telly was blaring Cbeebies and a sea of Peppa Pig toys had to be negotiated before being able to sit down. And I actually used the word bum in conversation. So that report probably won’t be squeaky clean after all.

It's hard being healthy

So after a few weeks of going at the diet and exercise hard I decided to give myself a “cheat week”. It is son number 2’s birthday week, so the house is full of naughty stuff and I knew would be spending my time sniggering and tying balloons into the obligatory two round one long configuration and picking up fluttering Argos receipts, far too busy to work out or think about healthy eating.

But after only four days I began to feel sick, exhausted, and had indigestion straight from the fiery pit of hell. I discovered that weirdly, the things I considered treats were in fact not what my body wanted.

As the designated chef of three demanding males, I have a hard time cooking in my house. Son number 1 is a picky eater who is only just coming out of the “I’m not eating that, it’s white” stage (especially not cheese), has a verging on compulsive obsession with things being cut up or not cut up in a certain way, god help anyone who cuts his sandwich into 4 instead of 2 and don’t even get me started on the square versus triangle argument. I admit I have probably pandered to his random demands too much, but if your kid is going to scream the house down for ten minutes because you cut his cucumber into sticks instead of rounds you get to the point where bad habits creep in, just for a quiet life.

The man is a bigger version of son number 1, and doesn’t see the point in eating anything that he doesn’t absolutely love. So if a meal isn’t at least 85% meat it has to be covered in cheese to make up for it and I have a very narrow selection of fruit and vegetables to work with. Healthy versions of favourites don’t appeal, why have berries and honey on your porridge when you can have cream and golden syrup, don’t bother making me packed lunches this week because KitKat Chunkys and Hula Hoops are on special at the garage across the road and for goodness sake woman, is full fat mayonnaise too much to ask for? It doesn’t help that he is one of those infuriating people that has a criminally perfect body despite never working out or watching what he eats, so there is probably a sneaky element of sabotage in the fact that I am so willing pour double cream down his neck, just to see if it makes a dent in his rock solid pecs (it never does).

I regularly find myself cooking 3 different meals every day to suit all the complicated dietary requirements of the brood.

Why slave for 3 hours a day cooking a healthy and delicious meal for people who are happy with sausages and chicken nuggets? So I’m often forlornly eating my healthy meals alone and rarely justify the expense of making myself a fruit salad, which has had to be washed and chopped, washing up created, before it can be enjoyed. It all seems like too much hassle for just me. By day 2 I have a huge bowl of unappetising spongy fruit taking up space in my fridge and I’m reaching for the mans secret KitKat Chunky hidden behind the ancient box of Trex on the fridge door.

Why can’t they make healthy food more accessible, and more importantly cheap? Why is it that it works out cheaper for me to buy kids yoghurts with reportedly over a teaspoon of pure sugar in each pot than it does to buy plain yoghurt and add toppings to it (which I now do, although still trying to move away from jam and nesquik powder as acceptable toppings)? You can buy a ready made lasagne the size of a small continent for around £4, make my own healthy version and I haven’t saved anything except fat and maybe pride, but it’s taken me three hours to convince them that I haven’t added anything “weird” (slightly worrying that my family trust Tesco more than me when it comes to food). Even the Expensive Cats prefer supermarket budget brand cat food, not even described as any flavour, just meat. It’s a conspiracy I tell you.

I know we should all be eating healthy but picky eaters make it so flipping hard for us family cooks to provide a balanced diet that everyone can enjoy. I don’t blame people for eating ready meals and cooking less, I get such a head ache from banging my head against the unhealthy brick wall that is my family.

But sometimes, even for a healthy food lover, only chocolate will do.

“Mummy, what’s that you’re eating?”

“Erm… it’s a brown cheese bar. It’s new, want to try it?”

“Urgh, I don’t like cheese."

"I know."

"I thought it was chocolate.”

“Nope, definitely cheese.” It’s probably no wonder that none of them trust me.

Hallelujah, Praise the DJ

In my ongoing quest for spiritual enlightenment I always seem to come back to the Buddhist philosophy as the model which sits most comfortably with my inbuilt natural ethics. Not answering to a certain God but to yourself, doing everything with a positive outlook, ensuring your actions do not harm other people, animals or your environment, loving everyone regardless of race, age, religion or background (comment if I’ve missed any or got anything wrong here), are, in my opinion, a pretty perfect set of answers for any situation.

In my limited understanding, Buddhism is a fairly solitary philosophy, with wisdom and inner peace sought through quiet meditation and vows of silence. But I can see why more organised religions have taken precedence, there is something thrilling about lots of people with a common belief system coming together to celebrate a mutually adored higher power.

You can see examples of mass worship in the most unlikely places if you look at things in a certain way. Take a football match for example. The pitch is the altar, the stadium is the church, players are the gods. They even have their own hymns (football songs) and a lively debate about the sermon afterwards (breakdown of the match over a pint). Not being a football fan myself I don’t really get it, but you can’t deny the sense of euphoria in the congregation when one team wins or scores a goal.

We had our regular bi-annual child free party this weekend. It’s the only time when we get the opportunity to come together in the same way as before we became parents and sensible overtook silly as the default setting. As I was throwing questionable mummy shapes on the dance floor, seeing nothing in the black light but the grinning teeth and sparkling eyes of my most beloved friends, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of spiritual energy, connecting us all like a holy light. We were worshipping the God of bass or maybe music, at the altar of the decks, with a DJ minister presiding over, providing a path to utopia through some seriously uplifting music.

Maybe it’s just me but it’s in those situations when I feel a total affinity with the smiley happy-clappy people on telly, grinning and raising their arms and shouting “Praise the Lord!” Because, ultimately, finding spiritual peace is as much about a connection with other people as it is about finding that connection within your inner consciousness.

Research suggests that spiritual people are happier, live longer and have better health than their atheist peers, which are good a reasons as any to seek some form of divine understanding. And it is times like Saturday night when I’m surrounded by people I love, bathing in the light and glory of a truly breathtaking sermon (set) that I feel most at peace, blessed and likely to raise my arms in a gesture of praise.

Or maybe it was just a group of people teetering on the brink of middle age, dancing to old tunes and reliving the glory days of their misspent youth.

Either way it’s the closest I’ve ever come to spiritual nirvana. God bless you father DJ(s).

Inside the Mind of an Insomniac

11.07pm, that’s good. That’s acceptable. If the kids wake me up at 7 that’s nearly 8 hours sleep. The recommended 8 hours. That’s good, except it’s usually more like 6am. That’s fine. We can deal with that. Mmm, nice comfy bed, so tired, drifting… Is the window open? I need the window open.

Ooh must remember to get that new baby card and gift tomorrow. How can I fit that into the day? I could pop to the shops on the way to the play date, so I’ll go to that little Tesco on the way. But… a card from Tesco? Surely I can do better than that. Maybe I could just pop into M&S, could get a gift there too… No, stop this. It’s time to sleep, not to play out tomorrow in your head. Think about it tomorrow.

Right, stop thinking, clear your mind, empty it, clear it out… see now you’re just thinking the words. Stop talking to yourself in your head woman. It’s the first sign of madness (there have been other signs, you’re skating close to the edge here) no, don’t think about that now.

OK back to clearing, and we’re clearing, we’re emptying, clear and empty, empty and clear, there’s those words again, try thinking in pictures. Right, pictures. A house (ooh that looks like a Mr Men house, maybe Mr Greedy, or is it Mr Messy, definitely Mr Messy, wonder if there is any significance about the fact that it was Mr Messy’s house that popped into my head?) No, we’re thinking pictures, PICTURES. A dog, a cat (did I remember to give Expensive Cat his medicine?)

You’re thinking again.

OK let’s try relaxing. Start with the top of your head, and relax your head, soft head, relax your face, soft face, no that’s forcing, you don’t need to look like you’ve had a stroke, just smooth out the muscles, now the neck, ow ow cramp, OK stop relaxing.

Maybe I should just get up and do something else, OK let’s get up. No, you need to sleep. Get up. Stay in bed. Get up. No, don’t. Aaaargh.

Just calm down and try something else. The beach thing. You’re on a beach, listening to the waves. I can hardly remember what it’s like, has it really been five years since our last holiday? Really must address that issue, we’ve just spend £500 on a darn cat for gods sake I’m sure we can find a few hundred for a week in Bognor next year. So the beach thing didn’t work.

Mum always used to tell me to think of black when I couldn’t sleep. Right, black. Black. BLACK! Isn’t black a weird word? Stop it. Just think black. Amy Winehouse Back to Black (god is she really dead? Still can’t get my head around it) stop, we’re thinking black. Little black dress, black sky, Black Sunday (What was that? I’m sure it’s something I should know at my age), oh for goodness sake woman this isn’t a word association game, it’s a getting to sleep exercise.

Look at the man over there, snoring away. How can he be sleeping like that while I’m going through this turmoil? It isn’t fair. Maybe if I just give him a little kick he’ll wake up and keep me company. Or maybe an elbow in the ribs… Jesus, he’s a deep sleeper. I’m so jealous. Now you’re just getting angry, that is not helping.

Right what time is it? 1.07. Oh god, I’ve been at this for 2 hours? I’m exhausted. If I go to sleep now that’s 4 hours and 53… now 52, minutes. Ok that’s doable. If you just sleep now, now, NOW! That didn’t work either.

You clearly can’t sleep because there’s too much going on in your mind, so write it all down:

-         buy card

-         cat medicine

-         holiday???

-         Practice serene relaxed facial expressions in mirror

-         What was Black Sunday?

-         Buy some herbal sleeping pills.

That’s better. OK time to sleep. Mmm comfy bed. What time is it now? 2am. OK I can live on 4 hours sleep. When the kids were babies I lived on much less sleep, I did eat more cake in those days however. Oooh, cake. If I get no sleep I can totally justify eating cake tomorrow. Stop it, we’ve already cleared the mind, don’t start adding new things to the list.

Just sleep. Soft things, cloudy, soft pillows, nice and relaxed, floating, it’s working! What was all that nonsense about not being able to sleep? Mmm, drifting…

“MUMMY? It’s morning!”

Oh bollocks.

It’s time… to face… the “MUSIC”

The X Factor started again this weekend. Oh joy.

The ‘audition stages’ used to be my favourite bit of any talent show. Misguided people of all shapes and sizes prefacing their performances with “I wanna be a legend”, before being shot down by Simon Cowell saying they sound like a creaky ironing board. Fantastic singers reduced to a sob story to the same old sad song. But these last few seasons I have to admit even I am getting a bit bored of it. They can’t fool me with their new panel, it’s nothing new.

Apart from it being the same old, same old, I’m sick and tired of these programmes taking over my life. It feels like The Apprentice just finished (great for pseudo intellectuals who think that the X Factor is beneath them) which took up one hour of a fairly innocuous Wednesday night. But the talent shows take up our entire Saturday nights, sometimes dragging over onto Sunday night like an ill-advised hangover. I remember the days when Saturdays were meant for going out clubbing, meeting friends in the pub or at least sitting at home chatting over a bottle of wine and some music, made by people who got their break the old fashioned way. And Big Brother started this week, that’s another hour a day. I can feel any spare time I had being inhaled by the telly. And use of the V+ box is futile in this instance, if you don't watch it within 24 hours you may as well not bother because before you know it you're behind.

I have purposely tried to avoid the last couple of seasons of the X Factor but inevitably I get sucked in and within a few weeks I am shouting at some poor deluded person on the telly who has the gall to get up there and murder the crap out of any Adele number. Barely a murmur of conversation passes between the man and me, except to sing along to the sad story song (What about now? What about todaaaaaay), and joining in with the phone mime whenever a contestant is desperate enough to use it.

I love telly, but I am really starting to appreciate having the 200+ channels that our cable package provides me with. I can forgive the fact that they dedicate 10 or so channels to crime drama throughout the ages (double bill of Morse, followed by Midsummer, followed by Taggart, followed by Lewis, followed by Rosemary and Thyme, that’s some seriously samey programming) someone must watch it, having that many channels I can spare a few. But the original 5 channels just seem to churn out the same old guff week after week. It’s not like I’m tuning into BBC 4 every day (only on occasions when I’m feeling particularly intellectual) but I do like being able to watch random American talk shows and documentaries about people being buried alive under piles of their own rubbish. Thank god for the digital age, it came at just the right time. Can you imagine only having the choice between Strictly or X Factor every week?

OK if I hate it so much why do I watch it? It’s kind of like fast food. We all profess to hate it but can’t help but be lured by the aroma of a Big Mac as we’re wandering past and before we know it we’re addicted. I suppose they aren’t going to be getting rid of MacDonald’s anytime soon, so we shouldn’t expect anything less with talent TV. But like MacDonald’s, one occasionally is a nice treat, but have it day in day out and it starts to get cloying, and makes you fat.

I suppose it’s just all part of our greedy nature as a whole. We find something we think we like and feast ourselves on it until we are busting out of our jeans and can’t seem to stop. And the television companies, like the fast food giants, know just how to play us so we keep on consuming. Ooh there’s going to be a “new twist” on X Factor this season (like MacDonald’s limited editions), better watch it to find out what it is.

I mean, come on, even Simon Cowell is bored of it. Going off to the States to churn out his Got Talent franchise, in a feeble attempt to branch out and do something different. Come on Simon, we all know it’s the same flipping thing with the addition of the odd performing blind dog and a kids dance troop or ten.

So it's the usual bizarre mix of creepy old men, gobby teenagers and slightly scary middle aged housewives to weed out, then we can get excited about the real talent, before they are devoured by the industry machine, churn out a couple of predictably pants tracks and eventually fade in obscurity. But that’s another rant entirely. I'm not even going to attempt to avoid it this year, I'm kind of curious as to how things will go in the absence of Simon's cutting remarks. Somehow I don't think Gary Barlow is going to think up as good a put downs, but I'll give him an audition.