And then we all went bra shopping

Which is absolutely your typical family activity. For families of LUNATICS. Which of course is us down to a tee. Will I never learn...

This mad series of events came about because I suddenly became rather uncomfortably conscious of the fact my tits were hanging somewhere around my belly button. ('Around my knees' is the phrase oft bandied around, but that's just silly. If you've got something dangling around your knees then I would suggest you're probably a man and it's far more likely to be your - very stretchy - testicles.) Armed with some recent advice from the very best internet weirdies in the world (hello if you're reading!) I decided that the time was NOW - ie, 4pm this afternoon - and that Mr Jamie, Beth and I would head off to the hallowed 'big black nipple holders' stockist which is M&S.

The trip there was relatively calm, were it not for the requirement for me to respond to Mr Jamie's incessant We Are All Doomed disaster type scenarios. "But Mummy, if you went in the road because you weren't looking and you were killed, and you didn't have your bag with you so I couldn't use your phone, and the policeman I thought was a goodie turned out to be a baddie and stole me, what would I do then?"

Having recovered from that mental assault, we arrived at M&S and headed for the first floor. "Oh MUMMY. There are these lovely things for your boobs EVERYWHERE." Whilst Beth merely chanted "boobs boobs boobs" to herself. If I say other shoppers went out of their way to avoid us, that's something of an understatement. The whole floor literally cleared. This must be what it feels like to be Madonna. If she constantly had Mr Jamie and Beth in tow, that is.

I took the opportunity to put an educational slant on the trip, by encouraging Mr Jamie to look for particular numbers and letters. This went surprisingly well, and we soon had a reasonable collection to take with us into the fitting room.

Those of you who regularly frequent M&S will likely be familiar with their partitioned dressing rooms for bra fitting purposes, with a curtain dividing the dressing room in half. Clearly I was going nowhere near their bra fitting services (I'm sorry, M&S, I adore you, but your fitters are, well, confused at the very best) so I planted Mr Jamie and Beth in the first half. "Mummy, close that curtain, I don't want to see you all NUDEY." Shouted loud enough for the entire of Chichester to have heard, natch. I gratefully retreated behind the curtain and hoped for the best.

30 minutes later, we emerged, in what the kinder amongst you might refer to as 'a state of disarray', but the realists would simply point to as being 'fucking chaos'. Me, sweating, dishevelled, clutching my handbag to my side and wishing it was gin. Beth, happily waving a bra in each hand, running along the corridor towards the assistant yelling "BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOBS. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOBS." Whilst Mr Jamie happily led the way, a 32F underwired black number balanced on his head, another pressed to his chest, before clearly enunciating to the terrified looking sales assistant: "This is my lovely hat and these are my lovely big black nipples. You can have them back now."

And that would have been the end of that ... had I not, having got to the car (successful purchase in hand - I am now the owner of the pertest tits in Christendom) - a 15 minute walk or so away from M&S, right through the middle of a very crowded town centre - felt Mr Jamie tap me on the shoulder. "Mummy, there is something on your bottom."

And he was right.

There was.

THIS.



I'm not sure one every really recovers from a trauma like that.

Things My Children Will Never Get To Do

Aka Reasons Why I Am Most Probably A Terrible Parent.

1) Listen to nursery rhymes. With the myriad of brilliant music which is out there, why in the world would you make them listen to the drivel which is Baa Baa Black Sheep sung by some tinny voiced woman who can only play three chords on the guitar (although I really can't take the high moral ground on the last point). Singing them themselves, fair enough. But playing them to them? I know parents who allow their children to have nursery rhymes played to them in the car. Ie, while you can't escape and have to listen to them too. You are far, far better people than me.

2) Go to soft play. Actually, that's not entirely true. Mr Jamie has been once, when a friend of mine went well above and beyond the call of duty and took him for me. He adored it, and there's a very, very small part of me that does feel a tad guilty about not taking him myself. Thankfully, that very small part is almost immediately drowned out by the very, very large part of me going 'smallchildrenconfinedspaceotherparentsscreamingshoutingAREYOUMENTAL?'. Not going to happen. Sorry Mr Jamie.

3) Go to Peppa Pig World (replace with other local children's attraction as necessary). I'm not talking about general attractions which are kind of vaguely aimed at children, e.g. the odd farm trip etc, which even I can cope with. No, I'm talking about the relentless screaming brandedness of somewhere like Peppa Pig World. For whatever reason, said brandedness (no, I know, absolutely not a word) seems to hype small children into even greater frenzies than normal, not to mention the non stop whinging of  'I want I want I want' which inevitably accompanies such trips. (I realise I haven't experienced it to know this for sure, but remember: I was a (hideous) small child once, I know how these things work.) And then there's the COST. It's a bit like the pricing for weddings: "The price is x ... oh, it's a wedding/Peppa Pig ... in that case multiply x by FIVE THOUSAND." Daylight robbery (a phrase I never thought I'd find myself saying: I have truly turned into my Nana). Oh, and the other thing? At the age you take them to such (expensive) attractions ... they're going to be most likely far too young to remember it at all. Which surely makes it one of the most pointless activities ever.

4) Go to McDonalds. This one's a bit like the nursery rhyme one really. With all the lovely, tasteful restaurants that there are out there ... why in the world would you pick the one plastered in garish colours, full of (generally noisy) small children and with food I would have serious misgivings about consuming even when drunk. I don't get it, I really don't. Can anyone enlighten me? Is it particularly cheap/convenient/other? It is an utter mystery to me. And it's really not the snob factor (not this time, at least!), it's the fact you can get much nicer food, in much nicer surroundings, for pretty much the same cost (I suspect very often cheaper). Bizarre.

5) Have a mother they're not embarrassed by. I know. Poor, traumatised souls. I'm saving for their later-life therapy as we speak ...

Am I a terrible person? Alternatively, what have I missed? Add your own below ...

Why I am unbelievably relieved I am a working parent

For those of you who are new around here (HELLO!), or those of you who just haven't been concentrating (sit up straight at the back please), I am, as the title of this post would suggest, a working parent. I took the minimum-you-can-get-away-with-without-everyone-thinking-you-are-a-terribly-callous-individual maternity leave (6 months, by the end of which I was positively demented with the lack of intelligent human company ... although compared to a small baby that might not be as much of a compliment to my colleagues as they'd think) and then positively sprinted back to the office, working 4 days a week until Mr Jamie started school. I now do 5 days, 3 of which are slightly shorter so that I can get home early and sit on my arse drop off and pick up Mr Jamie and not make him look completely abandoned.

And oh my goodness me, I am SO grateful not to be a stay at home parent. (For all those of you who are: I salute you. And send you gin. Crate loads of the stuff.) The fact that I am one of those weirdoes who love their job aside, here are just some of the many, many reasons ...

I would be an alcoholic. Absolutely no doubt about that whatsoever. The only thing which stopped it being so during my two maternity leaves was the fact someone (not Neil, whatever the rumours would have you believe) was demanding milk out my tits every five minutes. Even despite the breastfeeding as soon as the clock hit five (I say this to avoid you immediately calling AA, given 'as soon as the sun came up' probably doesn't quite fulfil the 'respectable hour' criteria) I would be running to the fridge to siphon off my measly breast-feeding-compatible 250ml of wine and attempt not to slug it all down in one vast, desperately needed, gulp. Getting mildly off your tits (forgive the pun) was just about the only thing which livened up the long, tedious, eat/poo/scream/sleep-yeah-right cycle which dominates the early days of small-child-raising (and to be honest hasn't developed all that much since then). I did, in the interests of parity, have some GREAT days whilst off on maternity leave. Those were the ones where I gathered with a load of friends and their babies - all still young enough to not need any entertaining whatsoever - and we sat around and drunk (breast-feeding-compatible-amounts, don't panic) champagne. Good times.

I would have to become a Blue Peter presenter. I have friends who are SAHMs (as I believe the trendy moniker of the day is, although strictly speaking in this enlightened age it should surely be SAHPs at the very least). They are TERRIFYING. Amazing, but terrifying. Terrifying in their ability to create child-focused entertainment out of nothing. Cardboard box? One space rocket coming right up. Patch of mud? Self sufficient vegetable garden, in your face. During my entire two maternity leaves I can recall only one moment when I did anything even vaguely approaching 'creative activity' with my children. And that was THIS. You can see why Blue Peter are yet to come calling.

Perhaps most critically of all - and this may be contentious (like the getting your child to make Skittles vodka wasn't) ... SAHM/Ping involves spending time with your children. Gulp. I mean, don't get me wrong. I like my children. But I like them even more from a safe difference. (Preferably outside the radius of potential poo splattering.) The Victorians had absolutely the right idea, I reckon, bringing their children downstairs for a set 10 minute period at the end of the day looking smart and tidy and quiet and with no danger of leaking bodily fluids whatsoever. I can totally buy into that. I have, admittedly, had a number of genuinely awesome days with Mr Jamie and Beth. They do, however, rather rely on them getting into very me-focused activities. Mid afternoon shopping? Family workout? (this has to be seen to be believed) Singing songs from the shows? Bring it on. Gluing and colouring and 'making' and listening to the inanities which are nursery rhymes/CBeebies? Not so much.

Thankfully, my children are far more long suffering, tolerant and enthusiastic than I am. By quite some way. In fact, this blog post probably begs the question about who exactly is the adult around here ...

Because no adult of any sensible level of maturity would beg their boss to schedule a work meeting for first thing tomorrow morning so they could avoid the hell which is sitting through a Year R assembly. Absolutely not. Seriously though. Small children forgetting lines all over the shop ... out of tune singing ... seats which have your knees up around your ears ... competitive parents ... Don't tell me you wouldn't have done the same? Wouldn't you ...?! Sadly the next event on the list is Sports Day ... there's no way Mr Jamie is letting me get out of that one. Although, having read the letter he brought home from school, there is apparently a 'bar'. Every cloud ... (And no, don't shatter my dreams and tell me that of course there won't be alcohol on the school premises. Give me some hope!)

Not drowning

Mr Jamie has recently started swimming lessons. I KNOW. Before you panic that the country's gin supply is about to run out (seriously, there is no gin supply large enough to get me through that level of traumatic experience), quite wonderfully I don't actually have to have anything to do with it. My lovely, lovely friend (who deserves the entirety of said gin supply and then some) offered to take him after school once a week with her two boys. I accepted so quickly as to leave her reeling, wrote out the substantial cheque which accompanies such lessons, and wished her the very best of British.

Mr Jamie has LOVED it. I would feel like a bad parent for not having taken him sooner, if it wasn't the fact that I'm too busy delighting in still having (almost) full control of my sanity as a result of generally avoiding Small Children in Swimming Pool style fiascos. Every week he has come home full of tales of his success, how he's jumped in, floated on his back and is practically now in training for the Olympics. (According to him.)

And then, every week without fail, we get the following:

"And I put my legs in the water, and I put my arms in the water, and I put my body in the water ... AND I DIDN'T DROWN." Said in tones of utter marvel and wonder.

There's nothing like not drowning in a swimming lesson to herald success.

Well, that told me

Ooh, get me, blogging twice in two days. AND I went out for a run earlier - instead of drinking wine - AND it was raining, AND I enjoyed it. I am starting to dislike myself a little bit.

The tambourine-induced injury is still going good, you'll be pleased to know. When I say 'good', I more mean 'very very painful'. I'm torn between my natural desire to use injuries to seek attention and slight mortification as to its cause. Needless to say, the attention seeking is currently winning out.

Didn't work on Beth though. Those of you who have stuck by me for several years of Mr Jamie-isms will be delighted to hear that Beth is starting to come into her own. Take this morning's pre-breakfast discussion, when I was trying to get her to sit down and eat her toast.

"Owwwwww, Mummy. Owwwwwww."

"What's the matter?"

"My leg hurt."

"No it's not, you just had a little bump. It's not like Mummy's leg, is it? Mummy's leg is really poorly."

She gave me a look of total and utter withering disdain.

"NO Mummy. Your leg not hurt. BETH'S leg hurt. NOT yours."

Well, that told me.

This afternoon we had a family trip to the dentist. I know. What joy. Where Mr Jamie, having had his turn in the 'magic chair', stared at me, now in situ in said 'magic chair', and orated with some detachment:

"Mummy, you look like you are dead."

You can see why the run seemed fun by comparison.

One wedding, one birthday ... and a tambourine induced injury

Is I'm sure the film Richard Curtis was trying to make when he ended up with 4 Weddings et al. Probably wussed out of it because he just didn't think his audience would buy anyone ending up with a genuine tambourine induced injury. Think again, Mr Curtis. Think again.

Before we get onto tambourines, as per my last post, yesterday was this blog's FOURTH birthday. I am very proud of myself. Never before has my total lack of attention span permitted me to focus on anything for so long. Despite the fact that according to my plea in the last post there's only four of you still reading (damn your refusal to give in to my demands for excessive praise and adoration) (actually, that's one per year, which is pretty good going given some of the stuff your eyeballs have been assaulted by via these pages), I shall stubbornly continue writing and hope that Joanna, Rainbow, Moon and TOPB don't all desert me once they see what's to come in this particular update. To you guys in particular, I apologise in advance.

Onto weddings: on Saturday my sister got married, at what was a truly, truly awesome wedding. Not only did she look stunning (this is very hard for me to say: I am far more used to referring to her in profanities), the venue was amazing, they had thought of everything (flip-flops for the girls to change into in the evening for dancing, anyone?), and there were what appeared to be UNLIMITED AMOUNTS OF PROSECCO AND CANAPES. Which is basically my version of heaven on a stick. Here, because I do love looking at myself know you'll want to see them are a couple of photos for you:

The beautiful bride and groom (photo credit Hannah Godwin, because it's a damn sight better than any of my pitiful shots)

 

Me and Lovely Neil. I love him, like, a million and twelve. At least.

Me and the bride on the night before, in a terrifying coincidence of unplanned matching outfits - even down to our shoes and matching Shellac on our nails. Given Helen's reaction, I ditched my planned lace dress and veil for the following day and went with my pink number instead, just to be on the safe side.

 

Awesome, awesome day, made even better by my executive decision to take the Monday after off work as well. Sometimes it's even like I possess a modicum of common sense.

 

For those of you who are wondering why Neil and I look so relaxed, and therefore where the hell Mr Jamie and Beth can be ... they were at home. (With a babysitter, don't panic.) Not only did we have the best day without them, it seems they had the best day without us. Win win all round. We brought them up with us the following day to terrorise the various family members - from the photos below you can see why it was just as well they weren't there on the day. (Please make sure you look closely to see how hilariously camp Mr Jamie is looking in the first shot. He is utterly brilliant.)

 

 

 

Finally ... that tambourine induced injury. Yes, you did read that correctly.

 

As part of the evening celebrations, Helen had somehow persuaded my dad's band The Shambles (says it all really) to reform. Being part of the line up, I'd done suitable preparation (one rehearsal consisting of me and my dad playing chords at each other down the phone. Genius) and had reminded my dad to bring along his trusty red tambourine. Which I took possession of for the set.

 

To cut a long story short ... I woke up the morning after the night before ... with my thigh looking like THIS. (Feel free to enjoy the shot of gratuitous nudity, if GBH is your thang.)

 

(Be relieved I cropped it. Let's just say the first version I inadvertently put onto Facebook without checking first would have had me up on the grounds of indecent exposure.)

 

Yes, it appears my over-enthusiastic tambourine playing against my thigh (I wasn't even drunk at this point) had had somewhat dramatic consequences, and may therefore render me the first person to be grievously injured by a tambourine. Yet another FUCKING MENTAL claim to my name.

 

Wedding over ... it means the next event on the horizon is EUROVISION!!! (Multiple exclamation marks utterly justified.) Watch this space ...







Blog Wars

Next Sunday is this blog's fourth birthday. Fourth. FOURTH! Four years I've been spouting this drivel to you all. For those of you who have stuck by me since the beginning ... you nutters. (And thank you.)

I had intended - and still do intend - to mark my annual Blog Birthday by making you all write lovely things about me. (More on this in a moment.) I thought I'd get this post written a week early given next weekend I'll have the minor distraction of my younger sister, aka The Shit (I was such a delightful sibling in our younger days ... what a great name to not only be landed with, but to have spread around the entire school. I'm not entirely sure why Helen still talks to me), getting married. (Good luck Matt. If you need any advice on inappropriate nicknames you know where to come.) So if you can all just imagine we're already on 12th May then that would be marvellous.

BUT THEN.

Remember Neil? Long suffering man I'm married to? Good looking, not permitted to go anywhere near other women for fear of me removing their clitorii? Yep, that's the one. For the past four years Neil has (just about) tolerated my writing of this blog, whilst resisting any (increasingly forceful) attempts to get him to actually read it. He's shunned Facebook, eschewed Twitter and generally stayed well clear of my 'internet madness', as he's almost certainly described it along the way.

And now?

NEIL HAS SET UP HIS OWN BLOG.

Not only is this outrageous, it's doubly so ... because it's actually very funny. (There is a small possibility it might even be funnier than mine, but anyone who thinks to mention that will immediately be sent to sit on the Naughty Step for all eternity.)

Obviously I expect you all to remain loyal IKINTST readers ... but it would be remiss of me not to give him a little bit of a plug. (He's also on Twitter - @wrenfoe.) Here it is, go enjoy. And then get your arses back here immediately.

Neil's Blog Which Is Obviously Nowhere Near As Funny As This One (Probably)

Right, that's quite enough about that. In the meantime, I'd like you all please to give me some love. This blog is a fairly comment free zone these days (entirely understandable - what in the world do you respond with to something like this), but once a year I do like to try and find out who's still out there and still reading. So if you are, please, give me a little 'hello' in the comments bit below, and properly make my day. (If you want to tell me how much funnier than Neil I am, that's even better.) And remember: it doesn't matter how satirically brilliant you are, I still defy you to ever have a life experience which is as defining/destroying/hysteria-inducing as THIS.

Although Neil was there for that as well, wasn't he?

DAMMIT.