Fairy Christmas

The Man and I are at odds.

We are sticking to tradition and opting to act like Panto characters for the Christmas period. I am doing my usual Christmas Fairy role, while his interpretation of Scrooge could win him an Oscar.

Picture the scene, we are at the supermarket doing a festive shop.

While I stock up on exciting bits like chocolate pennies and more selection boxes The Man is having a nervous breakdown by the fruit and veg.

Okay, I understand that there is a credit crunch (as will the rest of the family when they use the value toilet roll that is already in the trolley). I can make cutbacks like the best of us, BUT when it comes to the sheer volume of Christmas goodies that are calling from every other aisle some I cannot resist.

By the time we reach the fourth aisle I am beginning to get Fairy rage. If Scrooge asks me to account for another goodie that may or may not have fallen into the trolley I may have to pick up my Fairy wand and ping him into a frog.

Scrooges face is red as a beetroot once we get to the cashier. I am quite worried that I may well have a heart attack on my hands when the total for my goodies is called out. I carefully pack the bags (ensuring my golden pennies don’t get crushed) as quickly as possible so as I can make a run for the car as soon as payment is requested. I am not worried that he will not have enough to pay but more like if he will force me to put a tube or two of my sweeties back. The cashier on the other hand seems to have other plans when the last item ( a Santa candle) refuses to scan. I stand with baited breath waiting for the grand total, knowing that my great escape is now unlikely.

Tapping in the serial number, the total hits her screen and proceeds to be sung out of her mouth. The man stands for a moment in disbelief, while I start humming ‘silent night’. By the look on his face I can tell my evening will probably be very silent.

I am not wrong, for the last three hours Scrooge has ignored me for my frivolous Santa buys. I offer him a golden coin as a peace offering.

On yer bike buddy.

In the mans quest to become the yummy man, he has bought himself a bike. With fuel costs rocketing it may reduce his blood pressure as well as save a few quid. I am in full support of this health kick until he attempts to kick me with it too.

As we are free of children, toddler at nursery and daughter darling playing at a friends, he somehow persuades me to take the bike out for a ride. Okay, it has been a fair few years since I have cycled (unless back pedalling counts), but I agree that a ride to get the paper wont kill me and could in fact do me some good. Although I am disappointed that there is no bell.

After trying to mount the damn thing for five minutes, once I am finally on the man advises me that trainers may be more suitable for the task. I kick off my kitten heels, and send him in for my pumps. Now that I am on I am damned if I am getting off. He returns and kindly fit’s the yellow shoes to my feet.

It would have helped if he had adjusted the seat and I could reach the floor - but I wont worry about that for now. Without wanting to admit it I am actually having fun, so instead of stopping at the shop as planned I decide to carry on for a while. Being that I live right next to Lombard roundabout this was probably not the wisest decision that I have ever made.

Reaching the junction I realise that I truly am out of practice, while pushing on the brakes I forget to put my feet down to the floor. Stupid I know, but as I was more concerned at getting squashed by a truck or something I chose the less life threatening option. I promptly fall to the side and clunk my noggin on the pavement. What is worse, much, much worse is that I have grazed both knees. How I managed this I am unsure due to squeezing my eyes shut on impact.

I am not happy. I knew there was a reason you cannot pedal in kitten heels, that is simple because I was never meant to ride a bike. Give me a packed bus any day.

Struggling my way back halfway up the road I flick the gears to see if it makes any difference. All of a sudden the peddles start spinning extra fast and in a panic I fall off again. I assume that I look a state as I see a group of teenagers sniggering at me across the road. Tears are pricking my eyes now, and I just want to get home.
Thankfully I arrive back at the flat without further ado.

So much for this health kick buisness, the only kick around here will be aimed at the man.

Might wait till the knees are healed first..

Housemouse

After a weekend of weddings and Bbq’s by Monday night I am more than a bit pooped. With the kiddies all in bed I am ready for a snoozy evening on the couch. To make my slouching time a touch more cosy I grab a blanket, some crisps, and the man to accompany me. Intending to not move more than an inch all night. Bliss.

Thirty seconds later I am standing on my coffee table screaming blue murder.

We have a guest, uninvited and not housetrained. A furry brown mouse has just pelted across my floor, and under the telly.

Thinking that I am actually going to vomit I stand shaking like crazy, I have never encountered one of the furry fiends before so I have never encountered this apparent irrational fear I am suffering from. I am totally unnerved by my own reaction. The man quickly suggests that I help block mousy in. I suggested something rather unprintable back at him and remain table topped. Blocking the thing in is the last thing I want to do, knocking his block off maybe.

I manage to jump down and run for our rounder’s bat. Grabbing it from the toy cupboard a million piles of cutter fall over on me. Convinced that mousy may have somehow got in there I start battering toddlers Makka Pakka. Once sure that there is no sign, with baited breath I head back into the living room to assist the man.

Two and a half hours later there is still no sign of our little friend, we decide to call it a night. The man sleeps soundly while I keep one eye open. Every squeak and creak wakes me with the fear, leaving me paralysed visualizing Marvin mouse (he looked like a Marvin) tucking into whatever discarded guard crumb he can find.

The morning arrives and I wonder how and when I managed to let my guard down to sleep. Feeling rough I head into the kitchen to discuss day two of operation mouse hunt.

One look at the blocked in TV set and I realise that this place is not big enough for the two of us. I do the only option left to me - promptly pack an away bag to my mothers.

Marvin mouse may have won the battle but he sure as hell isn’t gonna win the war. Handing the man a lump of cheese, some peanut butter and a mouse trap I assure him that he is the best guy for the job. Kids all accounted for I kiss the man goodbye and wish him luck.

Marvin, your days are numbered mate, the man is waiting. (as am I, from a safe distance) Come out come out wherever you are… I want to come home!!

Failed, failed, FAILED!

After weeks of tears sweat and pain behind the wheel, my driving test is finally upon me.

Off I totter to the Croydon test centre feeling sick to my stomach. It is no good, my nerves are in pieces.

I meet my examiner and shake hands. Looking into her eyes I hope that she will take pity on me. Into the driving seat and off I go. I try to cover my nerves by concentrating extra hard, something that has never come easy to me (unless I am shopping for clothes).

All seems to be going okay, ( apart from another learner trying to crash into me at the entrance to the test centre) I think to myself. How I wish I hadn’t. Right around the next turn is a large truck with a crane on top. Traffic is stuck all around it. Great. I manage to get by okay but am then alarmed to find that I have stalled. Fantastic. I try to take a deep breath but feel like there is no oxygen left in the car. I finally get going again but from that moment on I cannot contain my shaky hands. Or leg for that matter, why it is just the one I have no clue. My right leg is behaving nicely.

I get my first manoeuvre out of the way, but still find myself struggling to breath. This is not good. Try as I might I cannot relax and successfully manage to stall the car again. I can feel the examiner subconsciously roll her eyes at my stupidity.

Finally back at the test centre and I do a perfect reverse park. She then takes a moment to gather my fate and hit’s me with the last fatal blow.

I have FAILED.

She attempts to console me by reminding me that at least I don’t have a long journey to come and do it again. Yeah, thanks. I silently nod and contain my anger.

My instructor returns to the car and offers her condolences. Second time lucky, she reassures. I thank her and head home to smoke a packet of cigs and book a new test.

After an hour of wallowing I decide that all is not quite lost yet. I throw the empty cigarette packet in the bin and return to my sensible non smoking self.

What’s that saying?

If you don’t succeed try, try, try not to stall again?

Pregnant? No, just buying a car.

With my driving test just around the corner I had been giving the man’s car the eye. No doubt it had seen better days but with a little good loving I was sure that there were still a few more to come.

Just a week to go before my test she decided that the prospect of being driven by me was too much for her wheels to bear, leaving us for the dealership in the sky. The man and I are equally grief stricken.

A new ( for us, used in reality) car must be found.

I discovered that buying a new car is almost as painful a process as pregnancy.

Here is how it works.

First you decide that a new car is required. This is can be likened to the early stages of pregnancy, excitement, expectation and a little nerves at what the end result will be.

Then we move to deciding a budget. This is the first niggle that distracts from any initial excitement. Very like morning sickness, the reality of the situation puts a bit of a dampener on things.

With that decided the hunting begins. To start with you are optimistic that your perfect lump of metal is just around the next internet site. But as time goes by you discover that these things can never be that straightforward. Making you consider how painful the whole process might be.

Finally you reach the point where you believe that you cannot bear one more day. That you just want the whole sorry affair to be over and to catch sight of your new bundle of joy. Stress, tears and resentment replace that excitement that you felt back at the start.

After two false alarms ( both perfect cars have already sold) You begin to lose hope that your journey will ever end.

Then just as you truly think that you will never smell the sweet fragrance of your new addition, one pops up in the nick of time. With the keys in the ignition all the hurt and frustration of the past weeks is soon forgotten.

Our new baby is born, and boy is she expensive.

Load of balls

Playing the national lottery used to be fun.

Select a few random numbers and off they roll, a tenner here, a tenner there, never the jackpot but maybe one day. All a bit of harmless fun.

Somewhere the fun of doing the lottery has been lost. In fact I can pinpoint the exact moment. It would be when the man suggested that we stick to the same birthday numbers every week.

Being the scatter-head that I am I had always avoided chosing the same numbers in fear that one week they will come up and I forgot to buy the ticket. So for a time I contested the mans suggestion and merrily picked random as and when I could be bothered. Eventually though I agreed, believing that if I didn’t I would not hear the last of it. I decided to make one rule, that the man be responsible for the purchasing.

From that minute onwards I knew the fun of the game was over. Every week I reminded the man, as he did me if he could not get to a lotto point (so much for our deal). This continued for two very stressful years and a fair few pounds. With a grand total of £20 in winnings not great.

Once we had started how could we stop? The numbers were bound to pop up on that exact week and no doubt we would end up divorcing over it. I began to believe that those sneaks at lotto headquarters must be rubbing their greasy little hands together at our stupidity. There had to be some way of justifying a reason to stop.

Then it happened, well toddler son happened. You see, we had based our numbers on birthdays ( as do most people ) The mans, mine, my mothers, his mothers, and our two children. Six magical stupid numbers. Yet now we had another child. How could we leave his birthday out?? Ha haa, this was the perfect opportunity to end it. We could go back to random digits and the fun of choice.

Funnily enough, this time around it was not the man that was worried by the impending doom of those previous numbers rolling out. No. It was me.

When it came to the crunch I couldn’t do it. “It could be you” rings in my ears, followed closely by “Not without those numbers though”.

I have reasoned to myself that when we win the lottery toddler son wont mind being left out much. After all, being potty trained on the golden toilet I buy will be far more cosy than that old white thing.

Note to self: Get a grip, buy a lottery ticket and some gold paint.

Big Brothers

Having two older brothers I have often wondered what it would be like to have a sister. As a small girl I remember wishing that I had a female sibling to play Barbie with and swap make up tips. Now an adult I still find myself with the same wish. Okay, I have moved on from my Barbie dolls and mastered my own little make up routine nicely, but I would like to have a sister around to have an argument with now and again or to talk about my brothers with.

As my brothers are fairly older than me ( approx 10 year age gap) I have always felt one step behind. While they were 1980’s teenagers going to see Duran Duran I was still more interested in my skipping rope. By the 1990's I was a vile teen with attitude while they decided to become smug marrieds. Now I am married and they are settled thirty something’s, I don’t feel the same need to catch up as I once did. You could say the tables are turning. The glamour of being the in the same league as my brothers is not so appealing, being that they are now closer to 40 than they are thirty. Hah ha. My time has come. While they are considering mid life crisis I can still listen to chart music without being labelled as “sad”. I can still act irresponsibly ( within reason ) and blame it on my immaturity. But best of all I can now voice my adult(ish) opinions on the world and they have to listen.

This leads me to a recent conversation with my middle bro. Before I knew what was happening I began giving him relationship advice. Me. The baby of the family was now old enough to tell her big bro what is what and where he needs to go. By the end of the conversation I am a bit bewildered.

For years I had imagined what it would be like to be the one with the answers, but instead of an amazing feeling of joy I sat feeling sad. I have finally realised that although I had always wanted to be up there with the big boys I hadn’t realised that if I actually was then I wouldn’t have that same safety blanket of silence that I had previously hated. Looking up to them all my life I realised that I never really wanted it to be any different otherwise they just become normal. I am now not so sure I want to see my fantastic amazing brother as just normal..

With a few moments of refection I decide that with opinion comes reasonability, I guess I had never considered that before.

I suppose there are some advantages of only having brothers. They never borrow any of my good dresses, ruin my make up or wreak my lovely shoes. Well, not yet anyway....

It's all in a song...

I have a confession. It is one of those deep dark secrets that I have often thought if I exposed I could be up for sectioning.

Since I was a teenager I have been compiling a soundtrack to my life story, in my head.

I hold my unhealthy obsession with musicals responsible for this, inevitably making me think that my own life is a musical too.


I can tell you the song’s that both my children where born to, the song that was playing in the car to collect my exam results and the song I cried my eyes out to over splitting with my first love. All meaningful, all very deep and admittedly all a bit naff. I cannot let an occasion pass without selecting some form of musical beat or song to it to round the event off. Yet with a new event on the horizon I have some reservations as to what song might get added to my much thought out soundtrack.

The man and I had a shot gun wedding (of sorts), so we have decided to get our marriage blessed. Unsurprisingly when it has come to choosing a song for our ‘first dance’ knowing that he will be entitled to a say tells me I am headed for a dilemma.

All guests not previously invited the first time round can partake in a touch of confetti throwing at a second ( bigger ) bash. I have it all planned in my head, flowers, the dress, the lot. It is just the song choices that are causing a bit of a rift.

Due to me being eight months pregnant at the previous reception it had not been wise for me to stand too long let alone dance. I had not been faced with this problem before. Had I been, I may have realised the appalling difference in the man’s taste of music to my own and possibly reconsidered the whole thing.

I have tried to explain that the first song needs to be meaningful and well thought out.

His jokey suggestions are saying otherwise. “ Build me up buttercup” is the latest. The man recalls me being a little worse for wear on holiday singing karaoke to it. I am understandably horrified at this suggestion for two reasons. Firstly that I sang karaoke choosing such a cheesy tune and secondly that I have absolutely no recollection of this. I inform the man that we have to choose a song to which we both recall good times and preferably that we can have a slowish dance to ( the idea of the man throwing himself all over the dance floor is not part of my vision).

Then it hits me. “Beautiful by James Blunt” I squeal to the man.

“Your so vain” he sings back at me.

I have a feeling that my soundtrack may need some editing…

Bye Bye Baby(sitter)

Brother in law and co have made an announcement. The kind of announcement that leaves an atomic bomb effect.

I am lucky enough to have a very good relationship with the mans slightly younger brother and as for his fiancée she is totally on my wavelength too. A perfect in law package.

Over the past year ( since they arrived back from travelling the world) they have become very comfortable additions to our social network . Not only have we enjoyed many an evening together but they have been kind enough to offer us the opportunity to enjoy more evening’s as a couple too, providing a reliable and invaluable babysitting service.

Bringing me back to the announcement. I have likened it to a bomb as I see no other fit way of describing the impact their decision is going to make. They have informed us that in the not too distant future they will be moving to Oz.
Initially I was ecstatic for them, good quality of life and an endless supply of sunshine on tap - I could see the appeal, but then it hit me. Goodbye to those funny evenings, good bye moral support of sister in law, and tragically ( for us ) good bye babysitters.
As for the hour long topical debates on family dramas these will now have to be communicated via email or phone, the latter being pretty costly.

Immediately I am considering voicing my serious concern, maybe realising the impact on my social life will make them reconsider? Thinking again, I guess that is hardly a realistic con to their impending new lives.

Looking over to toddler son climbing up his best Uncle’s leg then seeing him blow kisses to his favourite Aunt I feel a prick of tears welling up. Even with his ASBO tendencies they have managed to achieve the unthinkable and have well and truly won him over.
I start to feel sad. Not only would I selfishly miss the freedom that they have offered me, but the rugrats will be gutted too. Underneath it all, if the truth be known - the knot in my stomach is less to do with the practicalities and frankly more down to the fact that I am going to really miss them.

After two days of initial shock I am slowly getting used to the idea, after all it was to be expected with no ties and great job’s lined up, what have they got to lose? I decide to make the most of the time that is left. Hey, they will still come over to visit and we may even get a trip over there too. I start to see that their move might be a good thing.

For once I am going to be really mature about something and wish them all the luck in the world.. not without booking them for babysitting every weekend till they go of course!

Upper lip hair

I am excited to be getting a well overdue child free afternoon. The man is on caring duties while I go out with buddy for a little adventure. Pal of mine has decided that after having her own little bundle of joy (now age 4) that good old mother nature has been less than kind to her lady lumps. We are off to her first consultation for a boobie job.

As my own view’s on cosmetic surgery are mixed, I am interested enough to tag along. Hearing that they also offer laser hair removal at the clinic my moustache and I could be persuaded to reconsider.

On arrival at the clinic we are greeted by the suspicious looks of two well presented older ladies at reception. They inform us that our appearance shows we are clearly looking for the cosmetic section which is next door. I am unsure how to take this - are they suggesting we need it, or that we look like we have had it? I am secretly chuffed that they believe I could ever afford it either way.

Entering the correct office we are asked to be seated in the waiting area while buddy completes various health forms. I take this opportunity to take a good look at the others (all women) seated waiting. I have to admit how surprised I am at how normal everyone looks. In the far corner there is a women whom I guess is in her late thirties dressed in jeans and a white t shirt. There is nothing spectacular about her and she seems to be in proportion. I wonder what she is in need of sculpting. Over to my left sits a younger girl, probably early twenties who is very flatchested. I guess that she is here for a chat about the her lack of lumps. Away with my thoughts I don’t realise that I am actually staring directly at her chest with a confused look. Young girl catches my eye and then promptly crosses her arms. I immediately flush red as I had really not meant to offend, in fact, had been just thinking that having a flat chest must have huge advantages. By the look on her face I think that I may have convinced her otherwise.

I decide to keep my eyes to myself, and thankfully we are called in.


Forty minutes later after watching the nurse measure and grope my buddy we are leaving with a list of pros and cons. I can’t say that I would be doing it myself but perhaps if the cost was no object I could be swayed.

Just as we close the door behind us the one opposite opens. A rather chubby looking thirty something emerges with a bright red chin. She loudly discusses her laser hair removing treatment while pal and I stand jaws touching the floor. The fact that she appears to have third degree burns to her face seems not to be a problem for Mrs. Laser lady.

In that instant I have made up my mind.

Boobies?…. Maybe. Laser?…. NO!

Upper lip hair is the new black.

Victim of Crime

I am sad to say that the man and I have been victims of crime.

Heading over to unlock our car this morning I discovered that some low life has saved me the job by breaking into it last night. Contents of the glove compartment were scattered, Cd’s all over the floor and a large plastic panel kindly ripped out from under the steering wheel as an extra bonus. Great. Clearly the dirty theve’s had wanted to hotwire our family wagon but had not quite managed it.

The dirty rotten losers.

I start to be thankful for the minimal damage just as a sick feeling begins to churn in my stomach. Yesterday had been spent shopping for stepson’s impending birthday. preventing sneaky little eyes peeking at them we had left them ‘safely’ locked in the boot.

Worst luck, as the boot opens I saw that they had indeed found our stash and nabbed them all. My upset immediately turned into raging anger. Not knowing whether to cry or punch something in my frustration. Only the man around to hit I chose crying as the safer option. He called the boy’s in blue while I decided to sob and curse on the pavement.

The man’s face became so red I actually begin to worry that it may fall off. With there being no point in us both losing the plot I decided that a relaxing panting technique should be encouraged. His reaction to this suggestion was an even more crimson shade.

An hour later I am standing in the toy shop. An overwhelming feeling of groundhog day swept over me. Same toy’s in basket, same slow sales woman and same annoying jingle on the overhead speakers. On a day like this I truly think emigrating is the only safe option.

As I left the shop with my faith in people at an all time low. I Felt an invasion of my space as a scruffy looking vagrant type tapped me on the shoulder. Rolling my eye’s at another impending drama I then noticed my purse in his hand.

“you left this by the till” he explained.

Flushed, I thanked him profusely and to my surprise was even tempted to give him a hug. Opting to shake his hand instead, a sense of well-being slowly returned.

Might have to put that emigrating idea on the back burner for now.

Croydon has it‘s good points. Primark for example…

L.B.D

I have found myself in a very dark depressing place, a reminder of time’s past, younger carefree years, mistakes mishap’s and mood swings.

I am at the bottom of my wardrobe. Sorting out the good, the bad and frankly the ridiculously ugly.

I would recommend to anyone else that has a history of hording clothes to visit a councillor before attempting this task. It is simply turning into a roller coaster of emotional memories.

Underneath the rubble of shocking top’s and scary jeans I spy my old best friend.
L.B.D (little black dress) My gosh she is little. So little I consider whether I am rooting through the wrong wardrobe. With mother eye’s I begin to wonder how I ever had the nerve to wear it in my own bedroom let alone out on the wild street’s of croydon.
I move over to my stereo and fling on an old school cd and wallow in my fickle fashion past.

I consider for a moment if with the few pound’s lost over recent weeks that I could manage to squeeze my less than youthful leg’s into her.
Stripping down to my mumsy undies I have to laugh. L.B.D would never have been paired with this set back in the day. Here goes.

I manage to fill the dress, or should I say overfill. Somehow I think that no matter how many pound’s I lose there is little chance of this girlfriend ever accompanying me out again any time soon. Standing opposite my mirror I am shocked at the reflection that bounces back. I am transformed into my old garage girl self - sweeping my hair up into a ‘croydon facelift’ I finish the look by adding my then trademark pout. Lord help me I look a state. I wince at what people must have thought of the girl looking back at me. Then I realise what is missing. Back then I had more confidence than I knew what to do with. Obviously the fact that all my peer group dressed in a similar way may too have played a large part in that. Note to self: watch out for daughter darling’s choice of girl friends.

I resolve to remove L.B.D and place her on the ‘keep it’ pile.

If nothing else it can be a reminder that my fashion sense can only get better..

Fringe

I was advised by the man to get a fringe. “Live dangerously” he suggested as I walked out to get my haircut. So, Dangerous I was - allowing my over trendy teenage hairdresser to cut in a big fat dirty doorstop fringe.

To begin with fringe and I got along well, there were compliments from friends and family at how good we looked. All was rosy. For approximately two weeks.

I had forgotten to consider the effect’s hair growth has on a big fat doorstop fringe. Had I known that I would be quickly resembling cousin it from the addams family it is possible I would have reconsidered. Little had I known how dangerous my new haircut would become.

It started off skimming my eye’s, and although very annoying, just a reminder that I had better get to a hairdresser pronto.

One week later and not an appointment in sight I begin to pin back fringe to reveal my rather unattractive spotty forehead. Nice. With no time left (let alone money) for a cut, I vow to arrange it next week.

By week three there is considerably less positive comments coming regarding my old mop. Probably as that is exactly what my head looks like.

Enough is enough. I take matter into my own hand’s and head to the kitchen for some scissors. I will give it the chop myself.

With only meat scissors to be found I start, I mean how blimming hard can it be?

Slowly I begin cutting more and more off to make it look equal…

After five minutes I have a new fringe. Approximately an inch long.

I am humbled by my new found haircutting talent. I attempt to style it and begin to feel sick. Fringe will not lay down. Instead I now have a line of spiked up hair, resisting any attempt to curl down. Twenty minutes later I give up, hoping no one will notice my mistake??

Heading out to meet buddy’s for lunch I note that their expression of surprise is not necessarily a good one. I try to brush off the comments with insistence that my new ‘do’ is a trendy new look that will soon be sort after by all. I eventually make my move to leave without convincing anyone.

I guess I will have to pin it back to save myself more embarrassment. On the up side at least the spot’s have gone.

Note to self. Never cut own hair with steak scissors.

Cabbage

I have been gradually losing a pound here and pound there over the last month all down to my weekly weigh in at my local slimming club. Yes, I am happy that I have slightly less of a tyre hanging around me, but the fact is it is still there. This obviously means I could do with a bit of a fat busting push. After visiting the internet dieting sites (and avoiding liposuction) I have decided to stick to an ever so appetising cabbage soup for a few days.

Day one and I am not too daunted by the prospect of a cabbage filled day, yet I am not bothered about missing out breakfast to avoid it either.

By lunchtime I am hungry as a horse and happily demolish a fat bowl of green leaves. I manage to avoid snacking all afternoon and am proud that I haven’t cracked.

I pour my bowl for dinner. Second helping of healthy slop is less than satisfying but ultimate goal of tyre-less waist spur’s me on.

Day two I awake to slimy soup, I manage half a bowl then head to brush away the chalky green taste. While brushing I am suddenly aware that my breath is less than fragrant. After two round’s of mouthwash I keep my fingers crossed that none of the school gate mum’s want to chat this morning.

By lunchtime I realise bad breath is the least of my problems, on two occasions toddler son has left the room due to my less than attractive bottom burps.

I insist to self that if I manage another day I will have at least managed to detox for three.

The man arrives home from work with a look of disgust. I am guessing that the cabbage smell is starting to put him off looking in my direction, let alone hold discussion without a safe vapour proof wall between us. Beauty is pain methinks, I hadn’t banked the pain being in hubby’s nostrils.

At the end of day two I am exhausted, unsure whether that is down to the increased effort needed to avoid others or simply lack of calories.

Day three finally arrives and the man takes me to the side to inform me that during the night he had considered evacuating the family from my “fumes”. Red with embarrassment I refrain from speech through fear of intoxicating the air even more.

Cabbage diet is well and truly over for me, as is talking - for a bit anyway!

Girl friends...

As a women there are pro’s and con’s to having a close network of girlfriend’s.

The advantages, no doubt, outnumber the disadvantages. You always have a sympathetic ear or a handbag to borrow when in need. The downside is that to gain these advantages there often has to be some give too. Don’t get me wrong, I am happy to lend a shoulder or offer advice where I can, but of course at times sound advice is not always taken - leading you into “I told you so territory” .

Mainly this happens unsurprisingly when it comes to relationships. I am guilty of it myself, but there comes a point where enough is enough.

Obviously there have been occasions in my own life that I have thought with heart and not head and given the then current love interest a second chance where I should have walked away. Course being the bystander is often a harder role to take and furthermore do as I say and not as I do springs to mind!

A pal call’s asking for a coffee date. Great stuff methinks, an excuse to avoid the ironing for an hour or so at least. In she comes with tear streaked eyes and mascara half way down her neck. Immediately I know that the useless excuse of a man that she is dating has been up to his old tricks. I grab her coffee and guide her to the confessions couch to discuss.

To my relief she informs me that she has finally split with the commitment phobic slime ball. Here is my green light to tell her exactly how rotten I have always thought he has been, leading me nicely onto the “you are much better without him” speech.

By the time she leaves the mascara has been reapplied and she is ready to face the world again. I am happy that she can finally see the error of her judgement and can move on with a smile.

Three weeks on after various rushed phone conversations I head out to see her for a quick drink, ready to hear some big news?!

On route I wonder whether she has met someone new or that she has got promoted at work.

As I approach I am shocked to see slime ball sitting next to pal. Heading towards them with caution, I notice a rather large rock on her left hand. Please god no.

By the looks on their faces I can tell that I am going to need a new hat.

I awkwardly congratulate the pair wondering how I am ever going to be able to look her in the eye again without wincing.

Note to self. From now on I will offer the ear and keep mouth shut.

Spiderboy

I have renamed toddler son spider ‘boy’. Somehow at the tender age of two he has managed the art of ‘spidering’ up the inside of his cot to throw himself over the top and gain exit from nap times. On one hand I am very impressed at his new found skill, on the other I am now scared out of my mind that he will drop out onto his head.

After a particularly bad bout of bum flu ( vomiting and diarrhoea) with the end redsults leaving his mattress uninhabitable, the time really has come to introduce him to sleeping on a bed, tonight.

With the sides of his cot bed now removed and the soiled mattress now replaced I have high hope’s for toddler son. He seems excited at his new sleepnest - proceeding to climb in and out all afternoon.

By evening I am sure that after all the jumping in and out that toddler’s exhaustion will surely lead to a swift slumber. By my sixteenth attempt to persuade toddler to stay in his new bed I realise that I may have been a bit optimistic.

Finally at the 25th occasion I demonstrate to toddler by climbing into the bed myself. Awe, peace at last. Yawning I decide an early night for me, I am asleep before my head hit’s the pillow.

I wake the next morning surprised that I have not been awoke by toddler. Feeling slightly scrunched up in the foetal position I try to straighten my legs. Stubbing my feet on wood, immediately I think that my bed has shrunk. Eyes wide open, I find myself in my son’s cot bed. Dragging myself up I limp into my own bedroom to find toddler boy sound asleep on my side of the bed. The man looks up and laugh’s.

He informs me I had fallen asleep (during my demonstration) much to the distress of toddler. The man tried to wake me but apparently I was in such a deep sleep he offered toddler my space in bed as compensation.


Spider boy is victorious. He may have won this battle but this war ain’t over. (although my night’s in a cot bed sure are.)

Step - Hood

The journey through motherhood is a difficult one, no doubt about it. The journey through step-motherhood, now that is a whole different ball game. Like any form of motherhood there is no book, manual or guideline that you are given on being given the name. Just the evil step mother stigma.

The fact that fairytales have tarred all us step mothers with the evil brush doesn’t help either.. I have to admit, I am finding some empathy for Cinderella’s evil stepmother - no matter what move you make you are likely to end up being excluded from the ball - real mothers only. So maybe they do give me some solace.

So how would I describe it?
I guess it is like being a teenager - you think you know it all, and frankly even if you do no one will ever take you seriously until teen is removed from your age. I find the “step” part in my title often has the same effect.
Unlike the rocky road of biological parenthood you are faced with challenges and responsibly that you will never get the full credit for. Just as you think you have got over the last hurdle more often then not (in my case) the biological mother is there to hit me with another. The phrase too many cooks springs to mind.

For example, my purchase of new trendy jean’s (to stepsons delight) matching an older, smaller, pair at his mothers. This has inevitably led to an ongoing battle of ‘who’s the rightful owner‘ . (Obviously, not stepson!) The smaller pair often visit for the weekend leaving me slowly simmering at the nerve of the woman. Although to most this may seem trivial, exposed ankles are not a good look. After being plagued by a reoccurring biblical dream of us both being brought into a court -leading to a judge cutting the jean’s in two, I realise the pettiness must end and let the denim’s go.

My summary is that step-mothers bring out the worst in the mother, but one day I hope that stepson will realise the truth. That I am not the evil stepmother and of course that I bought those jeans!

Wax Work

Much to the man’s dismay I have given up the razor. My leg’s now resemble a bears and as for the other area, Sherwood forest does spring to mind. I have decided to let it grow not due to the sub zero temperature’s of late, or because we are too poor for new razors. Simply I am growing to prepare for the waxing of my life.

Once upon a time, way before either of my little cherub’s came along, I was a compulsive waxer. The saying “no pain, no gain” was my mantra and waxing was a monthly affair. Then the pitter patter of tiny feet arrived, as a result so did the razor blade. Pain no longer appealed after labour and shaving commenced. I ignored the fact that I had started to wear trousers more often to avoid doing that too, but once daughter darling asked if I was ever going to wear ladies clothes again I had to face facts, having fuzz was not a good look.

After a month of preparation and intense growth I am now ready. Tonight is the night and the bathroom door is locked. The man under strict instruction to avoid all interruption unless in event of a fire.

I apply the microwave wax ( recommended by friend ) to leg No. 1 Smoothing down the fabric strip I begin a breathing technique usually associated with childbirth. Counting down from three I let rip. Completely involuntary, a howl escapes from my mouth similar to a beaten animal. Composing myself after almost losing consciousness I go in for strip No. 2, reassuring self that it will not be so bad second time. The rip - howl routine continues for a further two before the man is knocking at the door.

I inform him that all is well and that I am just doing impressions of a werewolf in jest. Wiping stress tears away I proceed to do the rest biting on a towel. I do not recall previously the pain being this bad at the beauty salon concluding that self wax (harm) really is not the way to go. Forty minutes later I exit the bathroom with one de- fuzzed leg and very red face.

From now on I am leaving the waxing to the professionals and keeping the razor at the ready, although I may need some garden shears first!

Open road

I drag myself from my bed on yet another rainy morning and sigh to self. After managing to escape the madhouse last night for a new haircut, fate has to deal me another image blow with the drenched-rat-look. . It is going to be another of those days where I wish I had invested time and money into learning to drive, rather than learning to avoid it. I note the downpour outside and grab a hooded coat. (still not mastered the brolly while pushing buggy technique)

At the ripe age of twenty six I suppose I am beginning to think that if I have not done it now I probably never will. While I watch toddler boy destroy the rain cover for his pushchair I think that maybe it is not too late.

Fighting buggy to the school gates with daughter in tow battling with gale force winds, a kind driver decides to speed through a large lake-like puddle in the road. Luckily daughter avoids being drenched. I on the on the other hand now resemble flipper with hair. I slick my barnet back under my dodgy hood and vow that the time has finally come.

I must get over my fears for once and for all and face the dreaded wheel.

I spend the day surfing the net to cost up learning. For once I am confident that the man will not curse me for wanting to spend money, if it means he will no longer be my Taxi. Goodbye public transport, hello open road.

By the time he arrives home from work I have worked myself up into an excited frenzy.. Immediately I tell him of my plans, not even hesitating for breath. He is impressed at my enthusiasm.

Chuckling He just reminds me of one thing. My provisional licence is paper so I will need to renew it. This will require a photo. After four attempts for my passport picture, I still had a wonky smile. I am going to have to work harder on this one if it is going to be for life!

Guess I should get this challenge out of the way first.

Hair up or down? Straight or curly?

It’s going to be a long road…

Poxy Pox

It started off with just the one… when it got to five and counting I knew that there was something not right with daughter darling. After six years it has finally hit. She had caught the poxy chicken pox.

I encourage daughter to cuddle toddler son in the vain hope that he could quickly catch it and be done with it for good. Day two and I have fellow mothers queuing at the door to get in on the action.

By day four, I am beginning to wonder if toddler may just miss out this time and am secretly relieved. Daughter managed to get a mild dose of it and thankfully hardly scratched at all. Somehow, I was sure that it would not be quite as plain sailing with tantrum toddler son. The fact that he cannot/will not speak would just aid to the problem.

As I waved good bye to the last pox on daughter darlings leg I notice a suspicious pimple on toddlers ear. Grabbing him for a closer inspection , he unsurprisingly doe’s not take kindly to this new found interest and runs to the bedroom covering his head in a blanket.
Without knowing for sure I spend the evening crossing my fingers and toes that I will not be imprisoned for another week.

Worst luck as the morning dawns Toddler son resembles Super-ted's friend spotty. Head to toe , little limb to little limb he has the pox. Typical, of course he could not just have a mild dose, oh no. I take the leftover cream and start dabbing. I begin to wonder if I am hallucinating the spots at number fifty six, then briefly start playing dot to dot on his back. I put gloves on his hands before bed, for him to promptly remove and throw across the room.

Day three and four follow with constant dapping and more glove battling. By day five I am ready to be carted off to a padded cell, preferably as far away from gloves and spots as possible.

To relieve the boredom I send the man to buy some mag’s

“Fancy one with Spot the difference?” I hear him call

Lame. I think while laughing. Very lame.

Ladies Stuff

I hate men. My reason for this is simple, they are not women.

Their bodies do not turn against them every month with an internal cleaning system and as reward for some tipsy Christmas nookie don’t attempt to excreta something the size of a melon out of a hole the size of a five pence piece mid September. So, I hate them.

I felt relieved to find that becoming pregnant would put a halt to the internal cleaning for a while, little did I realise that it would be replaced my morning, lunch and evening sickness. Nice.

Month to month I sail through the year predominantly liking the opposite sex. It’s just for approximately five days roughly around the 8th of each month I turn into what is commonly known as a nut job. From being a totally (well almost) rational, considerate woman I become an erratic, self centred drama queen in the space of 24hours. If I am honest no man stand’s a chance, least of all The Man .

Last night he insisted on asking me what was wrong with me. Never a good move on the 8th. I proceed in telling him just about all that was actually wrong with him including a fair few that were made up. Totally mean and uncalled for, but hey, it is the 8th, it all goes downhill from here. For the next four day’s he will witness all emotions within this body of mine. Tears at adverts, laughter at men’s misfortune, and of course rage at just about everything.

By day five the red mist over my eye’s will have lifted and lovely devoted wifey will return in the nick of time before he leaves with the kids. A few weeks of respite will of course follow just for the whole cycle to start up again.

I should feel guilty for my awful behaviour, maybe even apologise, but for now methinks the best thing would be a bar of chocolate. I might even buy the man one.

ASBO Toddler

Asbo Toddler

Oh please give me strength.

It is still a matter of weeks before Toddler son reaches his second birthday but unlike all his other childhood development milestones he has decided to grace me with being advanced in terrible two tantrums. Oh Joy.

In preparation for life as a grown man - clearly leading from example of ‘the man’ - overnight Toddler son has developed selective hearing, unnecessary bad moods and an unsavoury interest in his private's.

I have spent the whole day reasoning and distracting only to end up with his dinner bowl on my head, and his compliance only in removing his spoon from his nose. I question myself why it is that just as you think you are managing their game they clearly have to up the stakes. Long gone is my chubby lump of love that clung to my side like a koala bear, in it’s place I now have the child that could make super nanny consider retirement.

After spending an hour cleaning the war zone that is my front room, I slump onto the couch considering if my beautiful son will ever return to me, or if I will just be rewarded for my work in form of an asbo by his thirteenth.

This reminds me. I move my thoughts towards organising his birthday party. I have decided, (after considering carefully what may keep him entertained for five minutes) this year to do a farm animal theme.

I reach for my new leather diary to jot down some things to get. Instantly I realise something is amiss when alerted to familiar red fingerprints on the front cover. I recalled seeing a touch of red on the end of Toddler son’s fingers and had assumed it was felt tip! My heart sinks as I try and open my lovely diary.

Somehow, masterful son has managed to stick the pages all together with my favourite (pricey) nail polish. I restrain myself to the couch, using a cushion to scream into.


My anger eventually turns into laughter as I remove cushion from face to see that he thoughtfully put nail polish back into my hand bag without so much as a drop escaping, carefully zippingit back into side pocket.

Guess like the man, he’s also learning that there is nothing worse than being caught red handed.

Shame Diet

February. One month into the year and only six months until brother- in - law &co tie the knot. No wedding stone has been left unturned. It looks like it will be the wedding of the year. Yet again I am faced with the envious prospect of dressing myself on a shoestring, a rather wide shoestring at that.

So I have once and for all decided that enough is enough, I must take the bull ( being me) by the horns and sign up to a slimming club. I really would rather poke my eyes with pins than partake in weekly public shaming ritual, I have never been a fan of humiliation.

No doubt none of these slimming clubs would suggest doing such a thing either, but frankly for me to stand on scales in front of myself is shame enough without doing it in a hall full of people! Shame-dieting has got to be worth a try.

Maybe just like an alcoholic or a drug user, admitting publicly that I have a problem is probably the first step to recovery.

With this in mind I head out the door with sulky toddler to my first weigh in.

First impressions are not too bad, I see an orderly queue leading to a rather slim clipboard lady forwarding fellow dieting cattle to the scales. Thankfully by the time I reach the front I see a sign warning others to stay back while one is being weighed. I attempt to exhale as much as possible to ensure accurate reading from scales - all that extra air has got to take off at least half a pound. Much to my disappointment the only thing this seems to achieve is light-headedness, a beetroot complexion, and an extra pound.

I move on to hear motivational talk. This is not really doing much other than make me feel hungry and provoke wailing toddler. Giving an apologetic nod to the speaker I make moves to manoeuvre tantrum from hall. In haste he trip’s and gets nosebleed. Great.

On the bright side with all the embarrassed sweat I lost I must have rid that pound.

Roll on next week, or should I say rolls off please.

Romantic Gesture

Now that sweet valentines day is over I finally feel the pressure to be romantic goddess is now off.

After a months worth of being faced with love hearts and roses I was nauseous at the prospect of participating Valentines alone - the man being sent away on a course by work.

It is no secret that out of the two of us I often don’t manage to find the time to invest in romance. I often leave it all very last minute - then to complain obviously if he doesn’t make enough effort! So this year I have decided to really pull out the stops.

I decided that if we could not be together in person then I will be in spirit - via secret romantic notes that I would stash in his belongings! Ha, he would never expect that. A foolproof way of ensuring that the day would not pass without constant reminders of my undying love.

First things first, I find some little cards on which I write one line slushy gestures to succeed in my romantic plan. If nothing else I could see it being a sure fire way to make the man smile and possibly lead me to a rather relaxing weekend of pampering on his return.

Cards done, I proceeded to plant my (many) gestures throughout his belongings mainly in his kit bag, admittedly get slightly carried away. Wash bag, trouser pockets and almost any other sneaky place they could fit in. Lastly I placed a humorous card alongside his pants for the finishing touch.

All that was needed was for them to be discovered and for the man to be bowled over by my amazing act of romance.. I wished that I could see the surprise on his face.

The cards had been found, only not by The man. In my scrambling to hide the cards without being caught I had not paid much attention to the stuff in the bag, maybe If I had I would have noticed that it was actually his boss’s kit bag that the man had offered to bring for him.

Well at least it put a smile on his face even if it is an embarrassed one! Maybe I will stick to cooking a nice dinner next year - as well as avoiding his work till then too, hopefully by then the red from my cheeks will have faded.

Old Bag

Handbags are like friends, you can never have too many as you never know when one will let you down.

As well as knowing the more you invest the more likely you are to have a lasting friendship.

But I do understand I may be slightly odd in that I often talk to handbags as if they are real things - and often as though I expect a response.

Take today for example, leaving for the school run I am calling for her. My loyal leatheress, she is at least five years old now but a good buy. Never letting me down in the filling her up department. She is also known as my Mary Poppins bag. Many a problem has been solved by her amazing ability to hold such a huge volume of thingy’s. I discover her hiding by the couch. I ask her as to whether she is hiding my keys.

After a five minute root around and discarding the toddlers half empty packet of crisps inside I find keys with a Tampax hanging off. I then proceed to scold stupid bag for allowing that to happen. considering how embarrassing that could have been.

After dropping fellow bag crazy individual (daughter) to school I head into Croydon for some bit’s. Sadly no retail therapy allowed today due to lack of funds in account. The Man has wisely not reinstated my credit card claiming that it has slipped his mind. Methinks the man feels prevention is better than cure hence no card for me.

Heading into the bank, I gather her up for another chat as to the whereabouts of that cheque I am supposed to be depositing. She offers me many old receipts and school letters but is adamant that she has no clue about important cheque. I sit her down to discuss this only for her to throw a strop and vomit discarded make up and the like across the floor. I tell her she will never come out with me again - all of a sudden the cheque appears trapped in her side pocket. The minx.

We continue my errands in silence until the bus ride home, I need her help carrying (hiding!) a suspiciously new shoe sized box…

She’s not a bad old bag really.

Daytime Tv

The best thing about being a Mummy is that you are rarely lonely, or, let me correct that- if you do get moments of loneliness they can be compensated with the fact you have a minutes peace to think that you are lonely. There is nearly always something taking up your precious time. If it is not a children’s party to attend and be enthusiastic about, then there is some dirty washing or sick to clean up.

No doubt, I am so institutionalised in role as Stay-at-home-and-clean-it-Mum that I can honestly say I have almost forgotten how to spell killer hills let alone walk in them. I now don baggy jeans and T-shirt with my Mugg’s (A.k.a moody Ugg Boot’s) on a daily basis and am beginning to resent washing my hair due to it consuming up valuable uninterrupted bath time.

I believe that my Yummy mummy training is in serious trouble. I have even considered wearing paint covered tracksuit bottoms on the school run this week - thankfully infant son’s weetabix fingers put a stop to that. But this is not good enough, I am going to do what I do best.. Point my chubby post Christmas finger at daytime TV and blame that.

It is them that encourage me to stay in a tracksuit bottoms. Watching ‘This morning’ in tight skinny jeans with my muffin top spilling over just spoils my concentration as well as cutting the blood supply to my legs. Therefore it is not me eating my way through enough selection boxes to circle croydon twice that has lead to my weight doom and loss of glamour.. No it is all their fault. They sat there chatting away to me without once pausing to consider that the more they were entertaining me the more pounds I was gaining.

That is it. Daytime TV. You and me are finished. As is all the chocolate in the house.

New month new me!

Well after Loose women of course….

Just call me Nigella

The way to a mans heart is through his stomach.

The Man is no exception to this rule. I can’t say that I amJ any whiz in the kitchen, but with my tried and tested handful of foolproof meals I managed to wing it into his heart. But I know how to take a hint when for the third year running I have been given a cookbook. This time with pages book-marked.

Really it is not for want of trying, I generally enjoy mixing up a random bowl of ingredients and proudly presenting it to my loved ones. While doing so, often being reminded of mixing up mud in the garden as a child. Maybe this distraction is the reason for my problems. I am now realising that although there is much love put into my recipes, sadly the love does not filter to the taste. If I stray from what I know, I am a poor cook. I admit it.

You see even with these so called recipe books by all these trendy chefs, I would like to know how many of them could improvise their talents in my kitchen. Yes, a workman never blames his tools, but note to self a workman would refuse to work if his tools were in such a confined space. Hence my problem, you couldn’t swing a cat in my kitchen let alone cook one.

I will persevere, for the love of my family.

I decide to bite the bullet and go for making something really fancy… I choose Wild Mushroom Risotto.. The picture resembles the mixing up mud memories so here goes.

After spending an extra half hour shopping for correct ingredients as well and spending an extra tenner on fancy fungus I head to my Kitchen to make my masterpiece.
After 40 mins I emerge from the kitchen to set the table, leaving risotto in oven for a bronzing off.

The phone rings so I sit to chat for five minutes.

Twenty minutes later my gossip is interrupted by burning smell.

Looks like mom’s going to Iceland.

Stinks

I am going on a date. Whoop whoop.

He is tall, dark handsome and is also known as The Man.

As the festive season is now finally at a close I am looking forward to spending an evening just with the man, with not a child or an in-law in sight.

As we both come from divorced Parents, Christmas means various meals with different family members to keep everyone happy. Everyone being everyone but us - leaving me and the man spending little time actually sitting next to each other over Crimbo, let alone talking.

Inevitably by January I am always in this same state of negative mind about the extended family. I have at least four missed calls from one of the Parents now and I just cannot bring myself to be kind, polite and pleasant for much longer, therefore best avoided altogether.

Anyways, I now have to focus on something almost as frustrating and distressing as family. I have given up smoking. I am now a non - smoker. Yuk.

I honestly believe that the only reason I smoked in the first place was because of being told not to.. as the years have gone by and society has held smokers responsible for all that is wrong in the world just spurred me on too.. Just like the Smoking ban, I soldered on smoking in various freezing pub doorsteps and huts with my defiant self.

But it is time for me to stop rebelling against good, and accept that smoking is just filthy dirty and vile for your health.

I’m just finding it hard to accept that ciggies cannot be my friends anymore. They have been with me through thick and thin (not that I was thin for long) so I feel like I am losing a pal. Furthermore that pal enabled me to have a heated conversation without considering murdering the other person to resolve it. The same pal who would help me out of being in the doghouse now for having a paddy at the Man because my hairclip fell out.

I am told that the moodiness will pass.. I spend evening being in bad mood, only to cry at my moodiness halfway through dinner.

Might be better for my health - but not for the Man’s.

Wall Paint

I have suffered one of the most traumatic weeks of my life. I have been robbed of my beauty, scarred for life.

Don’t get me wrong I have not physically hurt myself - much worse. I lost my make up bag.

Anyone that knows me knows I will never be seen without my slap. I remember feeling the trauma walking to theatre preparing for the birth of my son…. The c section was not the cause of this distress but being told to remove all make up for the procedure. So shallow I know. But so true.

Now although I could not live without my paint I am not a women with excessive amounts of make up. No, all my essentials fit neatly into my patent make up bag that I carry at all times. For emergency’s.

Foundation mascara, powder and lip gloss are the bare minimal that will be my dress, ensuring ultimate yummy ness is achieved.

So please imagine.. I am off for a little drink with the Man. Arriving a touch early gives me time to fix face after leaving flat in rush. Shuffling though things I discover to my horror that patient pal is missing. I trace back my steps.. On the bus I had pulled it out shuffling though my bag to find some gum, I must have left in on the seat. Idiot.

Not much good having nice breath if my face looks like poop.

Consider tracking down bus, then reject thought of making fool of self running down road like a banshee.

Returning to my table I am solemn. The man thinks that I must be ill, maybe in the head, at being distressed at the loss of ’brushes and stuff’ I think to self how little he knows. They are my magic set of tools, lovingly purchased to perform near miracles on my face. I back my drink to take the edge off my loss.

As we leave I consider putting on sunglasses to cover unmade up face. What the heck, I am going to embrace this moment.. Typical I bump into three different people on route to car, to make matters worse they all question if I am ill!

I make it home in one piece without any small children screaming at me on sight. This has to be progress.

If nothing else I have benefited from this experience in more ways than one.

Note to self : from now on do not attempt to remove make up stuff from handbag in transit, and hay, there is nothing better than a brand new bag of paint!

Snot

We are being quite the model Yummy family this week. Not.

I keep finding tissue everywhere. If it was not bad enough that toddler son keeps sharing his snot, it seems the man has felt encouraged to do the same.

I still do not understand why men have such difficulty with the common cold.

From looking at the stash of medicine you would not be blamed for thinking there is an army living here with full blown flu.

On way back from work (short of death would a sick day be taken ) The man collected half of the cold and flu stock from Boots to set up mini hospital for himself at home. He assures me that it is better to be safe than sorry, shame how this motto has not yet reached him replacing the loo roll though.

Daughter decides that assistant Nurse job has her name on it readily taking temp of the wounded.

The whole house reeks of illness, and am feeling ill just with the association. Thankfully toddler son seems to be coping much better and has got smearing his bogey on the front room wall down to a fine art. I spend the next two nights wondering if they are deliberately competing in snoring competition. Just as the corner to recovery is turned by the boys, Nurse daughter starts sneezing. I wake to discover new trails of toilet tissue leading to her bed. Great, another one bites the dust.

Leaving just me, the only snot free human in the house. While daughter enjoys new found role as patient.

I allocate another toilet roll, noting to self that we are on our last. Before I reach the bathroom my nose feels a tingle.

"Bless you mummy" the patient calls.

My turn to sit with two pieces of tissue up my nose.

Yummy.