Riot Ranting

Apparently the riots were a protest against the cuts. The man said we have been overpaying for petrol for many years now and you don’t see scores of road users stealing massive tellies from Curries in protest. I am sceptical as to whether or not any of the ‘protesters’ knew what they were ‘protesting’ against, I mean, make your mind up kids, was it the shooting of Mark Duggan or having your youth club shut down? In my opinion, the answer is neither. The very fact that the riots spread to so many different areas of the country just goes to show how bored the ‘yoof’ of today are, pumped up full of pubescent hormones and looking for the next adrenalin hit. They are not content with what they have, because our society values possessions over principles and money over morals.

Maybe the police should have stamped it out the moment it started. But can you blame them after the death of Ian Tomlinson? We were all very quick to criticise them when an innocent man was hurt while they were protecting our country, how could they possibly guarantee that innocent bystanders would not be injured by rubber bullets or dry clean only trainers not ruined by water cannons (and lets face it, there were an awful lot of trainers on the street those nights)?

Being ‘poor’ is a delicate subject, it’s always easy to sit in a position of privilege and judge those who have less than you. But these people give those who are truly poor a bad name. I think it’s pretty strange that the ‘poor’ rioters were walking round in £100 jeans and expensive trainers, and come to think of it, how come they all had Blackberries to organise it in the first place? Are Blackberry’s even available on weekly payment options from Freemans catalogue?

 “There is nothing for young people these days”. Well the truth is, our current ‘yoof’ have more amenities and resources available to them than ever before.

Just take a look at your local library notice board. Groups, helplines, out reach projects, all for young people. I don’t see many “middle class out reach project” or even “wine appreciation society for mothers on the verge of alcoholism” (kind of describes my book club but still) notices, it’s all about the kids. Our parents, or even those of us in our thirties, didn’t have access to half the amenities there are today (the most exciting addition for my generation being the launch of Childline, a service I was fortunate enough not to need except in response to “you’re grounded” “I hate you. I’m gonna call Childline on you”) and you didn’t see us rioting in the streets, helping ourselves to anything we could lay our hands on.

I remember very well how hard it was to be young. Everything is boring (I’d give my back teeth to be bored these days). Hormones are off the chart (I know how that feels, but for different reasons these days) making everyday life uninteresting and you are constantly searching for the next big adrenalin hit, whether a snog behind the bikesheds or pooling your dinner money to buy ten B&H and a bottle of White Lightning at lunch time. So much of the ‘fun’ I had as a child involved being naughty in some way. But I would never, ever have considered doing anything like what has happened this week, bored or not.

Can we blame a lack of discipline? This is the first generation of kids whose parents were not allowed to smack them, is that some kind of coincidence? We all use the naughty step, and hang on Supernanny’s every word, but would our kids be better behaved if they got a good smack every now and then? One father said on the news that he couldn’t control his kid because he wasn’t allowed to tie him to the bed or give him a smack. I kind of see where he’s coming from, what’s he going to do? Put his 16 year old on the naughty step? Ooh I’m scared.

The reason why me and my mates didn’t do anything that naughty was because we knew that repercussions would stretch further than taking a ball out of one jar and putting it in another, or moving one space down on a reward chart. My mum wasn’t a smacker but my Dad was (“just wait till your father gets home!”), in the pull your pants down and smack your bum in the middle of the shopping centre kind of way. And when we  were too old for that, he’d already done the ground work so we understood the look that said: “I WILL pound the crap out of you and if that means taking you to the shopping centre I bloody well will, don’t test me.”

Real Men?

I asked the man recently if he would ever consider a hair transplant. He looked at me as if I had asked him if he wanted to wear a dress; despite bemoaning the demise of his hairline for as long as I can remember it seems as if a hair transplant would be going too far. Most men don’t like to look as if they have tried too hard. The man is very much a blokey man. As a mechanic he comes home grubby and sweaty and frankly there is no vision I like to imagine more than that of him topless, overalls tied round his waist and carrying a tyre, a la Athena poster circa 1989.

The rise of the metrosexual man has been well documented and is now creeping into the lives of ‘normal’ men. Where previously it had been women who were bombarded with images of perfection in the media, men are now starting to get a taste of it and are feeling the pressure to buff, polish and beautify themselves to keep up with current trends. But should men be men? Should plastic surgery, beauty treatments and Botox remain women’s domains?

Men and women’s roles have become more interchangeable in society, so it is inevitable that other lines are becoming blurred. And why shouldn’t men make more of an effort? Us women have been using beauty products and primitive forms of makeup since time began, going so far as to use toxic ingredients to create makeshift face powder and mascara, the danger of blindness clearly outweighed by the thrill of having long eyelashes to bat at potential suitors.

In the last twenty years we have seen a massive growth in the male beauty industry, with male grooming products seeing a rise of 900% in less than 5 years. So many men are clearly jumping on board. But having a neatly trimmed beard and using moisturiser is one thing, wearing guyliner and manscara is a completely different animal.

Ollie from Made in Chelsea is a case in point. He has enviably shiny, swingy hair, fake tan and wears more than a hint of foundation. And he is, for want of a better word, beautiful. I think there is something intriguingly sexy about him but I’m not sure I could relax around a man who is prettier than me. In reality, I like my men to be men, including a satisfyingly rough face and chest rug long enough to twirl round my fingers. If I wanted a smooth chest to stroke and someone to borrow my makeup I would become a lesbian.

I see nothing wrong in men looking after themselves. Moisturiser, body lotion and aftershave show that you care about your skin and smelling nice, I would even go so far as to say a bit of concealer to cover the odd spot wouldn’t detract from a mans innate masculinity.

There is however, a limit, and I think for me that line is with obvious makeup and excess plastic surgery, a little nose job I could handle but shiny foreheads from Botox, implants to increase the size of random body parts or wind tunnel facelifts are out.

But two areas of metrosexuality that I fully support are pedicures and man bags. In my experience a man with nice feet is as rare as the proverbial flying pig. Horny, yellowy toenails and random tufts of hair sprouting from misshapen toes, even my sons have gross feet and they’re only 2 and 4. But it’s nothing that a nice pedicure wouldn’t fix (if only the sons would allow me). And man bags are just good sense. How nice would it be to go out and not hear the dreaded words “can you put this in your bag?”, your tiny beautiful clutch only designed to carry a lipstick, a twenty pound note and a Tampax is now bulging with car keys, an extra mobile and a mans wallet. A man bag would solve all this. They could carry our lipstick and Tampax instead, and of course, their concealer. 

The Camera Always Lies

Years ago, before Venture and the more contemporary “make over” portrait companies became popular the man and me spent an enjoyable evening doing a photo shoot. We took thousands of photographs, even using fans to make it look more professional, and then spent time picking out the best ones and changing contrast, making them black and white and manipulating them until we looked, well, great (yes we had rather a lot of time on our hands in those days). I got a 9.9 on HotorNot with my best shot. But the truth is, the person in that picture wasn’t me, and I’m not stupid enough to believe that I actually look like that.

Many advertising campaigns have been criticised and even banned recently for using too much airbrushing. But do people really believe the pictures reflect reality?

Make up ads aren’t pretending to be snapshots. The idea is that they are glamorous and flawless and I think the people who pulled the ads are being pretty condescending to a public that has more brains than to compare them to real life.

The camera always lies, whether you use airbrushing or not. You pose, you make sure you’re showing your best side, and everyone looks better in black and white don’t they?

But we all lie to ourselves everyday about how we actually look. Hands up who has a mirror face? Those of you that don’t have your hands up now are lying. Eyes wide, lips pursed, abs tensed, you do whatever you have learned over the years that makes you look good. How many times in the day do you actually look like that? The answer is pretty much never (unless you very self aware and/or vain). One of my friends has a particularly distinct mirror face, and she never ever looks like that in real life (she is far more beautiful). But I am always interested to see peoples mirror face, it’s the look we would all want to freeze if we could. Like when your parents said if the wind changes you’ll stay like that, if the wind would only blow while we’re putting on our mirror faces eh?

I heard somewhere that many parents have started airbrushing their kid’s school photographs. I am torn on this debate. On the one hand as a parent I am outraged that anyone could deface photographs of their perfect angels and rewrite history, all kids are beautiful right? Well, no. I wasn’t. Airbrushing would not have been enough for my school photos, cutting me out entirely and replacing me with a picture of Kelly Kapowski from Saved By The Bell would have been the only modification that would have made me happy with those hideous portraits. Although had I grown up in a time when airbrushing school photographs was even an option I know my mother would have been annoyingly uncooperative.

Unless you are one of those lucky photogenic few, for us to consider a photograph flattering a certain amount of manipulation must be present, digitally through airbrushing or in flattering lighting or a certain angle. Whether these things are intended or simply a lucky shot, a photograph represents how someone looks in a microsecond. Not how they look all the time. Take a look through your Facebook friends profile pictures, some people have used their “modelling shots”, others have theirs in black and white, many have used a lucky shot and many more use pictures of their kids. But do any of these photographs really accurately represent the person you know?

Videos are far less forgiving, no hiding behind mirror faces or lucky angles. Maybe the still camera lies but a video is much harder to fool. For this reason I despise seeing myself on video, unless I’m shrouded in darkness and happen to sitting very, very still.

Surely airbrushing is just another way of making the best of a picture, like doing your hair and makeup, or a load of press ups or bicep curls just before the ‘click’ to make those guns and pecs really pop. I understand that some companies are taking airbrushing to an extreme level but what’s the alternative? Airbrushing is still a fairly new technology and like all new things it will be over used until it eventually finds a balance.

I’m sure one day they will find a way of airbrushing videos, or even real life airbrushing, and I’ll be first in the queue, mirror face at the ready. Now if only I could have a fan constantly following me around to blow my hair out I’d be good to go.

There's an app for that

Is there an app that shuts up screaming kids at 3am? Because I would really find that one useful and could imagine it getting a fair few downloads. I’m not sure what form it would take, possibly some kind of hypnosis that gets them to sleep through the night or at the very least settle themselves when they wake up and put their own frigging dummy back in.

I would also be ever grateful for one that stops me from saying the wrong thing to the man when he’s already in a bad mood. This one could be a real relationship saver. They could even call it call it that, it’s quite catchy. It could calculate the number of hours sleep the man has had and offset that with the number of calories he’s consumed, if the number is too low an alarm would go off and suggest that I either just keep my mouth shut or not attempt a conversation without handing over KFC first.

Next on my list would be an auto placator, type in something that I have said and get it to explain to me that I haven’t actually offended anyone. This would save the man absolutely hours and possibly dispense entirely with the need for the Relationship Saver.

There are an estimated 500,000 apps available in the Appstore and 400,000 in Android Market. That’s an awful lot of life sorting, mapping, organising and helping software. How did we manage before?

I have only had my android phone for two weeks and despite being adamant that I wouldn’t start relying on apps, I have become a bona fide app junkie and downloaded over 25 apps already. I am now reliant on my phone to count my calories (is that last KitKat chunky wise?), what the weather is like (no longer content with just looking out the window, I also need to know whether it’s raining in Tokyo or windy in Taipei) and to entertain me while sitting in the kids room waiting for them to go to sleep. I’m then awake half the night trying to kill pigs by catapulting birds into the air, or release a mouse from a maze of Lego. But it’s ok because I’ve also got a sleep hypnosis app to get me off to peaceful slumber afterwards.

Years ago we all presumed we’d be walking around in silver jumpsuits and have robots that would do everything for us by now. But I don’t think anyone could have predicted that we would be relying on our phones so much. Is it really such a bad thing?

The old fashioned gal in me wants to say what’s wrong with a pencil and paper? What’s wrong with the old landline? And you can see the weather on the telly. We have all become so reliant on technology that if we were stranded on a dessert island without being able to Google “how to dig a latrine” and “what species of exotic fruit are poisonous” we would perish fairly quickly.

But on the other hand the man and me have a saying: “use all your tools” which means that you should use everything available to you to make your life easier. As a mechanic he uses time and labour saving devices everyday so he can get a job done in the allotted time frame, and sometimes after a bad day when I’m wondering whether or not to take the kids to Asda coffee shop for their tea to save me cooking and to get us all out of the house before insanity sets in, he will text me and say “use all your tools”. Why make life harder when there are things available to make it easier?

I am addicted to apps. I have just downloaded a shopping list app, and next on my wish list is a to do list. I have become a serial app searcher, any time I find a problem I am straight into the market to see if there is an app to help me fix it.

Some things however will never be solved by an app, dirty nappies and housework for example. You never know though, that robot could be just around the corner. But they can keep the silver jumpsuits until my calorie counting and fitness app gives me a firmer butt to put in it.

How do you eat an elephant?

Stop press, read all about it and all that, my first ever paid piece of writing appeared in a national newspaper today. It’s not going to win me any prizes but it just goes to show how far you can come in a short time.

Six months ago I hadn’t swiped a keyboard for anything other than Facebook updates and emailing for over ten years, since then I have written 54 blog posts (an estimated 40,000 words, that’s a book!), signed up for a freelance journalism course and now had a (very small) piece commissioned by a national newspaper. Mighty oaks from little acorns grow. Well I hope so anyway, because that piece is not going to pay my mortgage.

No one ever got anywhere without a few old fashioned baby steps. One foot in front of the other, one step at a time is how you reach your destination. I always thought I could run before I could walk, I thought maybe one day I would just wake up and I would be a big shot writer, but things don’t just fall into your lap like that. We all have to suffer the journey to get to our destination. And if we’re lucky the journey will be even more fun than the destination itself.

But in which direction do you take your first baby step? One of the best ways of deciding is to map out the journey backwards. If you want to be somewhere in ten years time, where do you need to be in five years, two years, next year and next month to get there? Just break it down. A plan needs to be flexible, and with each baby step it may take a different direction, but if you have a plan and start moving more possibilities will present themselves, opening more and more routes to chose from.

We are so obsessed these days with celebrity and financial gain, and often consider people who have made it as those who have millions to spend on flash cars and posh houses, or who can’t go to Tesco’s without being mobbed. But the truth is success shouldn’t be measured in money or fame, but in growth. To me the most successful people are those that have come out of hardship, pain or suffering, or overcome obstacles to achieve a long desired goal. They didn’t just wake up one day and find success; they took baby steps to get to their destination. And if all this sounds like too much hard work, it’s worth considering that with each step forward, even if we fail, we are still ahead, have made progress, grown. Doing something is better than doing nothing at all. We don’t all need to make millions or be celebrities (I can’t actually imagine anything worse) to make a success of our lives, us normal people can be successful too, just by moving forward.

I know I’ve said it before but anything is possible, you just have to believe in yourself. And do something. Put your foot forward and take a baby step. I may never reach the dizzying heights of making a living from writing, but I’m sure as hell going to try. I implore anyone who has any kind of dream to start taking the steps to make that dream a reality. What has happened to me today might not seem huge but it’s one small step for me, one giant leap for my career and my confidence.

There is a saying, how do you eat an elephant? One bite at a time. Take small bites and one day, you will have put away the whole thing. I’m only about an elephant’s eyelid in so far but I reckon I’m hungry enough to munch away at it until it’s gone. Bon appétit to everyone. And thank you as always for all your kind support.

Man's Best Friend?

We have had an anxious weekend waiting for news from the vets. Not just anxious about whether our cat would be OK, but anxious wondering whether or not we would have to remortgage our house to pay the vets bill.

Charlie spent the early part of the week licking his bits and making strange noises while doing it. We kept telling him to “get a room” but as the week progressed we realised he wasn’t doing it for fun. By Friday day time he was squatting in random places, with me chasing after him with a mop and bucket of disinfectant, but Friday night we realised his bladder was completely blocked so took him to the emergency vets. We picked him up on Sunday morning, at a cost of nearly £300. We haven’t had a holiday in 5 years, yet we have had to shell out nearly the cost of one on a flipping cat. Are pets really worth the hassle and the cost? And how far should we go to keep them well?

Charlie and Lola thought their luck was in when we brought them home a few months ago. A nice house to sleep in, a huge garden to play in, 2 small boys who keep sneakily feeding them (even when they’ve been told not to) and an exclusively Iams diet (when us humans have to eat reduced and Tesco Value stuff, sometimes even reduced Tesco Value, that’s what I call cheap).

The kids love the cats, I’m not sure how much this feeling is reciprocated but they do seem to put up with a lot particularly from Son Number 2 who just loves to get in their face and grab at their tails. You’d think they would scarper when they see him coming but they just lie down and purr. They must either really love him or are really stupid.

Despite my love of animals, cats are about my limit. And maybe fish. Small animals are just not worth the hassle. They seem like a good idea at the time, particularly for kids who are begging for a small pet to call their own, but in the end the kids do none of the cleaning out and the feeding and you’re stuck with this little thing that is solely reliant on you to keep it alive. And they smell.

That’s why I love cats. They are pretty independent; they don’t need walking or training and ordinarily don’t smell. Just chuck a bit of food at them a few times a day. Or so were the cats of my childhood. These days we have litter trays, complicated feeding routines, and I’ve just shelled out yet another £30 on a water fountain for Charlie, to try and make sure he drinks enough. But he just keeps looking at it as if to say “and what do you expect me to do with THAT?” Not forgetting that 2 cats equal an awful lot of mouse, bird and baby rabbit carcasses. It’s lucky I have a strong stomach.

Most people see pets as part of the family but are they not just another drain on not only finances, but also time and energy? Our kids and our partners require enough of our attention, and contribute enough stress. With two small kids to look after there comes a point in the day when I start to suffer cuddle fatigue and could really do without a cat climbing all over me, sticking their arse in my face demanding affection.

While Charlie was languishing at the vets office I was seriously considering letting the cats go, sending them back to the Cats Protection where they came from, to give another family the joy of having them (and the cost and stress) but as soon as I saw that little furry face looking out at me from the cat box I knew I couldn’t do it, and I just wanted him back home where he belongs, stinking of wee or not.

As One Door Closes...

They say as one door closes another one opens and I am reminded of this today, son number one’s last day at preschool.

Things like this tend to sneak up on me then jump out when I least expect it. People kept warning me the preschool years would pass quickly but I brushed them off, even when the last term began it felt like ages away. But it has finally hit me that my baby is now a big boy about to start his journey into the world. Preschool was the test run, now for the real thing.

I have tried not to arouse any suspicion or anxiety in son number one (or myself) by only ever casually mentioning that his pre school career is about to end and he will soon be catapulted into the world of ‘big school’; where you can’t take your toys in, or wear your Buzz costume instead of uniform any time the fancy takes you, and being friends with everyone without question gives way to the serious playground politics. It doesn’t seem like five years ago that he determinedly refused to enter this world of his own accord, and that determination to stay close to me has remained. Two years ago he had to be cajoled into entering preschool and it took weeks for him to join the other kids at circle time. Now he runs in willingly, often forgetting to say goodbye. But another one opens, and we are back to the start. I have no doubt that the same anxiety will rear its head and more cajoling and gentle pushing will be required to get him in the door. I’m sad and wistful, and just a little bit anxious.

Being a stay at home mum, preschool has been my first experience of leaving him anywhere other than with family, and I was lucky enough to find a preschool where they have made him (and me) feel safe and secure in our first forays apart. It’s been a learning experience for son number one, and so too for me. Preschool has taught me to get myself and two children into the car at the same time (admittedly always late) everyday, wash a school uniform (breaking me in gently with just a t-shirt, I am now going to have to get more complicated with PE kits and school trousers), live by school holidays and learn to trust, lean on and seek advice from teachers who see things in my son that I don’t, and know how he acts when I am not around.

We can learn a lot from looking at kids, whether we are parents or not, and watching them experience the world. The last couple of years taught me that bringing a child up is not an exclusive job, but the task falls on everyone that child has contact with, parents, family members, teachers, friends, even people who would never expect to have influence often do. Children soak up the best of what they see around them, they have no preconceptions or judgements of people, they are trusting, always see the good in people and usually overlook the bad. They see delight in the smallest of things, what to us is just a bottle of bubble mixture to kids is better than a winning lottery ticket. To us it’s a cardboard box, to them it’s a castle to protect from dragons and randomly, sharks. They often seem wise beyond their years yet so innocent and unaware of their wisdom. The saddest thing about childhood is, in my opinion, that most of us grow up and lose this sense of wonder, trust and imagination. Maybe if we could all hold on to, or reconnect with, these things the world would be a happier place.

And another one opens, not just for son number one but for me too. I will now need to help him make sense of this new world he is about to enter, understand why he isn’t invited to everyone’s parties, be brave when he falls over and there is no longer a friendly preschool teacher or me to kiss it better, and hold his head high when his feelings have been hurt.

Son number one may be ready for this transition, but I am lagging behind. I’m really going to miss preschool stage, and have loved seeing him grow from a baby clinging onto me, to a little person with a life of his own.

Thank you to everyone at the preschool, all the teachers, all the kids and all the mums and dads who help to make it the family it is. We will miss you. But we can’t wait to get back there in a few months with Son Number Two. All I can say is good luck with that one.

I'm an HSP... are you?

My first subscription issue of She magazine arrived on my doormat on Saturday morning. Behold the humble magazine! Where else can you get sex tips, fashion advice, celebrity gossip and psychological analysis all in one place? Genius.

In this months issue, I got a peek into a day in the life of a freelance writer, found out how one female blogger blogged about her sex life for 52 weeks, discovered what I should be wearing and eating this week, read an in depth interview with Cameron Diaz and, in the space of one article, two small pages, single-handedly answered one of the biggest questions that has been plaguing me my entire life: Why do I think too much?

It turns out that after a brief self test I can confidently diagnose myself a “highly sensitive person”. While anyone who knows me or has read many of my blog posts will be saying “Well, hello? You’ve only just worked that out?” for me it was a real eye opener to discover why I lie in bed obsessing for two hours about whether or not I had offended the check out lady by asking if she had grandchildren, and what exactly did the man mean when he said I’m high maintenance?

American psychologist Elaine Aron has written many books on the subject of highly sensitive people (HSP’s), what it’s like to be the parent of a highly sensitive child (I might be making a purchase of that one as son number one is displaying HSP tendencies), or the partner of an HSP (that’ll be on the man’s crimbo list) and has a pretty in depth website for anyone wishing to know more.

I took the self test on the website and answered 24 out of the 26 questions in the affirmative. I’d say that was pretty conclusive. Innately anxious (check), susceptible to caffeine (check), nervous when performing in front of people, rich complex inner life, constantly obsessing about offending other people, check, check and check. It didn’t say often described as neurotic, obsession with self help books or taking time-wasting yet seemingly helpful self tests online, but I’d say that goes without saying.

Being highly sensitive is very common according to Aron, who believes up to a fifth of the population might be HSP’s. So of my 200 facebook friends, 40 of them are probably HSP’s as well. And it’s not something that we can do anything about, it’s actually something that has been found in our genetic makeup. So despite us trying to change our behaviour and “grow a pair” (as I’m often told to do), it’s like using coloured contact lenses, I can have blue eyes on the outside, but I know on the inside my eyes are still hazel.

But before you start feeling sorry for our affliction (please don’t, we’ll only obsess about it), there are some upsides to being an HSP. Apparently we are also unusually creative people, attentive and thoughtful partners (the man take note, my ‘high maintenance’ is good for you) and intellectually gifted (yes it’s official, I am a genius, despite my A-level results saying otherwise).

So what do we do with this new found knowledge of ourselves? Well for a start we can stop obsessing about the fact there is something ‘wrong’ and see it as the gift it is. OK life might be just a little more hard work for us than people who are not HSP’s (and admittedly more hard work for those around us, the man regularly has to spend hours placating me when I think I might have inadvertently hurt someone’s feelings or said the wrong thing: “Just chill OUT babe, it’s perfectly acceptable to say “you’re looking well” to a pregnant woman”). We might find it impossible to quieten the chatter in our brains, I am always jealous of the man when I ask him what he’s thinking about “What do you mean what am I thinking about? I’m eating my breakfast, I’m thinking about my breakfast”. Sometimes it feels like my brain never sleeps, in those rare times when I’m supposed to be sleeping in, my eyes are closed but my head is going a mile a minute with plans for the day, the week, the month ahead, I seriously need to deflea and worm the cats and did I say the wrong thing in that situation that happened fifteen years ago and doesn’t matter now anyway?

But I am also lucky enough to have found an outlet for my creativity (and neuroses) in my writing, and obsessing about offending people means that hopefully I won’t do it, and if I do, I will be aware of it and apologise (probably a little too profusely).

The best part of my new discovery is finally feeling that I’m not alone. I’m actually part of a rather exclusive club. There must be millions of people all over the country who are right now obsessing over whether or not the flippant use of “you’re looking well” actually meant they looked as if they were piling on the pounds.

See, that is why I love magazines. I’ve found all this out without having to spend a fortune on expensive therapy sessions or spending two hours in a germy doctor’s waiting room. Now I’m going to go and discover how Cameron Diaz gets her flat stomach.

A Rose By Any Other Name

Am I the only person that likes Baby Becks name, Harper Seven? Let’s be honest, we would all have been disappointed if they’d called her Jane. It might seem weird now but give it a few months to sink in and the latest round of copycat chavs will make it seem acceptable.

I never really thought about the responsibility parents faced when naming their children, but it’s a huge decision to have to make for someone. Do you go down the traditional or quirky route? If I was to see say, Rain Honeydew on a job application, I would most certainly expect someone to appear barefoot, chanting and smelling of patchouli. You can’t help but draw conclusions, and often forget that that person didn’t choose their name, it was their parents fault.

When pregnant with our first child we had a real struggle coming up with a boy’s name. All of the ‘normal’ boy’s names seemed too boring for this intelligent, popular and highly attractive offspring we had created, but at the same time we didn’t want to name him something totally bizarre and risk being the cause of ridicule. We went though baby name books, read the credits at the end of telly programmes and looked down every avenue in the hunt for the perfect title for our special little boy. Eventually the man came up with it while on the loo (true story, like most men, he does his best thinking there). Decision made, we stupidly asked people what they though about it. Forgetting of course that names tend to have a marmite effect, people either love them or hate them. Never ask people’s opinions about your baby name, it’s hard not to be offended when someone doesn’t like it; it’s tantamount to them not liking the baby.

If you talk to any parent about the name debate a big consideration is whether or not there will be four other children in their class with that name. They want their child to have a sense of individuality (although I think Zowie Bowie was pushing it a little). But, like everything else, certain names are fashionable, so no matter how ‘cool’ you think you are being, the likelihood is that some other parent not so far away is thinking the same thing about the name Harper or Aloicious. It’s also easy to be put off a name when you see a child with your chosen moniker behaving appallingly or with an incessantly snotty lip.

I quite like Harper, it’s nice and simple yet different. I have a problem with names that are not spelled phonetically. So I struggle with Irish names like Aoife and Siobhan because I just can’t work out how to spell them correctly. And trying to get two excited boys ready for a party is hard enough without trying to wrap my head around a random spelling situation for a birthday card. People sometimes get quite offended if you spell their kids names wrong, but I think you have to expect a certain amount of bad spelling if you have taken it upon yourself to choose a name whose spelling bears no resemblance to its pronunciation.

There are names which seem normal on the surface but are spelt in an unexpected way, just to make it seem different, or in the case of the brother and the man, because parents don’t like certain nicknames so try to avoid them being shortened to something more normal and boring. This plan will always backfire, if there is a normal and boring nickname that can be adopted it will be, children like normal and boring, and like me, like phonetic spellings.

To middle name or not? I think middle names are a great opportunity to get a little more creative, honour someone special or slip in a bit of family history. They don’t really serve any major purpose except giving you an extra initial, but R.W. Smith sounds so much more rounded and exciting than R. Smith, and of course there is the essential joy of any parent, being able to middle name you in public: “Richard Washington Smith if you do that one more time…”

What’s in a name anyway? Do we live up to our names? I think a name can provide a blueprint for how we are as a person, people with ‘weird’ names often feel like they need to prove that they are ‘normal’, and people with ‘normal’ names feel the need to prove that they are ‘special’ But as a parent, everything you do is wrong anyway and we will be blamed for their all their failings, weird name or not.

Welcome to the world Harper Seven.

Warning: Do Not Read This Blog Post

I’m a total sucker for reverse psychology, even unintentional. I was going into a garage the other day and there were cones all round the door and a huge sign saying “DANGER! Do NOT touch the door”. It took all my self control not to touch the door on my way past. Signs like that are just asking for trouble. I can often be found loitering with intent next to a wet paint sign, thinking “I wonder how wet it actually is?”

That “Do not click the red button” thing on the internet still always gets me, even though I have found myself clicking away at it knowing that nothing actually happens in the end, many, many times. Someone out there really knew how to waste people’s time. And why does Facebook seem so appealing when you’re at work and not meant to be looking at it?

I can go about my days perfectly happily not eating chocolate or stuffing cake into my face at every available opportunity, until I’m on a diet and instantly start craving Kit Kat Chunkys and ice-cream (and I normally don’t even like KitKats).

Why do I have to fight the urge to poke a knife in the toaster just to see if I really will electrocute myself? It’s not like I’m regularly standing over the toaster, knife in hand wrestling with myself, but I’d be lying if I said there wasn’t a tiny part of me wondering what would happen if I touched those red stripy things with my butter knife.

We get so much information bombarded at us every second of every day no wonder we are susceptible to the most basic of human manipulation strategies.

Could the News of the World final edition also be reverse psychology at work? They say it’s the last, all proceeds to charity, now all of a sudden I am mourning its loss and rushing out to buy the final edition. And I don’t think I’ve ever actually bought it before. After all, companies use mind games like that on us all the time.

Teachers unintentionally used reverse psychology on us at school. We used to take our skirts up so people could “see what we’d had for breakfast” (that has to be the grossest but funniest line a teacher ever used on me), and every time we were told to let them down we would take them up even more. They really could have used reverse psychology to better effect there. If a teacher had said to us “You know what? Don’t wear a skirt at all tomorrow, we’d really like to see your pants” we all would have shown up in maxi skirts the very next day.

Children are very susceptible to reverse psychology. I use it often. You might call it manipulation; I call it getting out of the house on time. In fact, I use it so often and so casually I don’t even realise I’m doing it.

“My finger hurts!”

“Oh dear, maybe we should take you to the hospital, they’ll probably chop it off but you don’t really need that finger anyway do you? More peas?”

“Oh, it’s better now. Yes please, and can I have a biscuit for pudding?” I’m slightly concerned that I am doing nothing to prevent a hospital phobia in my children, but at least they don’t whine so much when they hurt themselves.

Is there something inside us that makes us want to do the opposite of what we’re told? Is it defiance, curiosity or just childishness? I will admit to all three.

So I asked the lady at the garage what would happen if I touched the door, I don’t know why but I was expecting a more exciting answer than a minibus had reversed into it leaving the whole framework of the door very unstable. Electrocution maybe, or at the very least some kind of buzzer going off and a voice coming out of nowhere saying “door has been touched, alert the guards”.

The funniest thing was that she said people had been touching it all day just to see what would happen. I wonder had they used a sign saying “Hey, touch this door now!” if everyone would have still touched it, I expect they would have. But if they had not put a sign up at all, just left the door propped open, I doubt anyone would’ve gone anywhere near it. What a bizarre bunch of folk we are.

And yes, I did touch the door on my way out, and much to my disgust, nothing happened.