Footballer's Knees

Are you there, God? It's me, FK.

2010-10-11T11:42:00.000-07:00

Dear God,

As you know, I've been to Mass for a few consecutive weeks recently, so I think that I may have banked enough points to ask for a few things.

God, please may I grow some willpower? This evening I became one of those women. I went to weekly Weigh In at Slumming World and have lost 1/2 pound. Yes, that's 8 whole ozs. So, dear Lord, why can't I become someone with some will power?

And God - please let me learn to keep my temper and not snap at people at work. Via Office Messenger. As if I don't have enough 'noise', what with email and SMS bulletins and voicemails and, and, and. Now, when I'm rushing to get some meaningless shit together for a meeting which I'm supposed to be chairing and had forgotten about, I get an annoying flashing orange tab on my monitor.

Flash. Flash. Still here! Flash. And it's usually someone moaning on about something. 'FK, so and so won't do the wotsit on the do-dah, blah blah blah.' The office equivalent of dinner lady playground duty with a tugging the house coat. 'Miss! Miss! Cynthia Pringle won't let me play with Tiny Tears... Miss, Miss!'

Sorry for the shit earlier, God, didn't mean to swear. Although you've probably heard worse than shit today, haven't you?

And God, when I stand up in church and ask for help and donations for the Christmas Bazaar, please stop people visiting the church lobby and dumping all of their sh..., sorry God, their rubbish which they appear to have been saving ALL YEAR instead of recyling. Why do they leave an opened plastic bottle of hamburger relish (Best Before April 2007), in the Bottle Stall box? And why, when I ask for empty jars for the jam and chutney, God, do they leave jars...but no lids?

I know that you're really busy, but could you stop me feeling sorry for myself when my son's Facebook profile shows his 'Home Town' as my Ex's place of residence? 100 miles away. And when he lists my Ex as parent, but there is no mention of me?

Finally, God, please throw some patience my way. I get so frustrated with so many people. People in traffic jams, shop queues, across the kitchen table, on conference calls. People breathing too loudly or eating with their mouths open (Husband and Son respectively, as you know, God). I get frustrated waiting to pay at Tescos, at the library, walking along the street behind a dolly-day-dream daudler. God, I think that patience is the thing I want the most, can you make it happen, please? I will need some help, God, willpower would help.

Which reminds me, God, please may I grow some willpower?.....

Knock, knock

2010-10-07T13:16:00.001-07:00

Right. I'm going to sound very boring, middle aged and middle class in this post. But I...just...can't...bear it any more.

Halloween is almost upon us. Once upon a time, this would have involved white sheets pinned over my hair, talcum powder on my face to give a ghostly pallor and an evening at the Brownies' fancy dress competition.

And maybe the odd Sainsbury's toffee apple, if Mum was looking the other way.

But now? Now we've adopted the traditions from the States and we've all gone Halloween crazy. Back in August, I saw the season's first orange plastic pumpkin shaped 'Trick Or Treat Collecting Bucket' for sale in the local petrol station. Not only was it £5, it was the size of a small orange.

Why the hell would I pay that for a scrap of plastic in which I could fit just a couple of fun sized Mars Bars and a mini packet of Sweethearts?

And I know I sound a kill joy, but I really don't agree with Trick or Treating here in Middle England. It doesn't have the fun, family atmosphere embraced by our friends over the Pond. Over here the evening takes on the cheap air of greed and E numbers, as kids far too old to take part in the whole thing slosh on a bit of fake blood and traipse from house to house, screeching and shouting all evening.

These days I have to start considering several issues, weeks before 31st October.

Qs 1. Do I let my son go trick or treating with his friends, without adults? Worryingly, this question first arose when he was eight. The answer has generally been no.

Qs 2. Do I buy in sweets for trick or treaters? If so, how many?

Qs 3. Do I answer the door and give the goodies to the little ones? I always feel like the Childcatcher from Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. It feels odd as an adult, a stranger, giving sweets to pre-teens dressed as tarty witches and slasher film victims.

A few years ago, I visited a South African friend at Halloween. I thought he was a miserable old codger after I'd rung the doorbell and he leopard crawled across the hall floor, opened the door slowly and whispered 'Get in! Get in before They see you!' Obviously strangers knocking on the front door and being greeted with sweets and smile was not the accepted practice in Jo'burg.

So this year I think that I'll turn the TV up loud, won't answer the door and will eat all of the sweets myself. Husband will come home and find me with cotton wool stuffed in my ears and slumped on the sofa, surrounded by the empty wrappers of Refreshers and Chuppa Chuppa lollies. Perfect.

'FK of The A4174'

2010-10-06T06:07:00.000-07:00

During my three hours in the car each day, to and from work, I've been listening to some audio versions of a literary classic - LM Montgomery's 'Anne of Green Gables'.

Then 'Anne of Avonlea'. Then 'Anne of the Island'. Swiftly followed by 'Anne's House of Dreams'. I'm now on 'Anne of Ingleside'. I think. Or it could be 'Rainbow Valley'. They're all pretty much the same.

I'm addicted. These books are the literary equivalent of snuggling under a soft, warm duvet in a twilit room with the rain beating on the window outside and an unwrapped Chocolate Orange in one's hand. Absolute bliss.

Whilst listening, I've been able to switch off from work, family, church, school and Slumming Girl diet demands. The stories are quite dated, and some of the language is a bit flowery. And I do admit to snorting my coffee when the narrator spoke of Anne and her friend looking after the baby for the afternoon 'in an orgy of girlish love making'.

Over the past few weeks, I've spent over forty hours of travel time with Anne and her chums and the manly, sexy Gilbert Blythe (sigh). I'm a sucker for these types of books. Before I was 10, I'd read all of Laura Ingalls Wilder's 'Little House' series. Even the lesser known 'The First Four Years' and 'Farmer Boy'. My hero is Jo from Louise May Alcott's 'Little Women' books. Or Katy from 'What Katy Did'. Or Caddie Woodlawn.

I yearn for their times of good old fashioned values and delicious sounding food. Plum duffs, molasses toffee, vanilla fudge, raspberry cordial, currant wine.

(Wonder how many 'syns' I'd have to note on my food diary for a plum duff......just checked Slumming Girl online syns count. 'Sorry, no record found.' I'm guessing it would come in at 500% of my daily allowance).

I'd get to grow my hair long (the obligatory plaits would sort out my old problem of looking like Dougal from the Magic Roundabout when my hair grows longer than a few inches). I'd run around barefoot. I'd eat maple syrup and snow. And apple cobbler (what?). And peppermint balls.

I'd be able to teach school after just a year of college and then could give up work and let a man look after me as soon as I got married. I'd wear a corset to give me my hour glass figure.

I'd go to church on Sundays. And would have no hoover. I'd have to walk everywhere. I wouldn't be able to spend quiet hours on the toilet after too much curry. There would be no curry.

Forget it.

I think I may have exhausted the genre of late nineteenth century North American literature for pre teenaged girls. Time to move on, grow up and get back to the present. I wonder if Nigella has written her autobiography yet?

Countdown to Christmas

2010-10-04T12:33:00.000-07:00

Wow, it's Monday already, where did the weekend go?

I'll tell you where it went - into 25 jars of mincemeat, 10 jars of chutney, 50 Christmas chocolate cookies (I love Nigella), 2 speeches after Mass, 40 photos on a collage display, 1 row with Husband and 3 hours on the toilet.

Yes, dear friends, the church Christmas Bazaar season is upon us again and I have signed up for another year as chief organiser and stress monkey.

I made the mincemeat and chutney and covered the jars in paper and raffia etc etc etc.

I put together a display of photos from last year's Bazaar, to show everyone What Fun one can have at the event and stuck it in the church lobby.

I tried to rally the troops after the Saturday and Sunday Masses with a rousing speech about putting something back into the community, having fun and making news friends. 2 people out of a possible 200 signed up. Ho hum, little acorns and all that.

I offered to go and collect some boxes of donations from an old lady who lives in the cathedral mews. Trying to back my stupid hulk of a BMW (not my choice, borrowed pool car), through ancient gates and between narrow arches whilst being watched watched by a bunch of tourists wasn't a great idea when I was having a hot flush and a hormone rush.

And so followed the argument with Husband. 'FFS!' I shouted 'I bloody hate this bloody car.' 'You need to calm down,' commented Husband helpfully. I can't repeat what I said.

To cheer me up, we went into Bath for one of the best and hottest curries I've ever eaten. Of course, being me, I ate, ate and ate. Unfortunately I've been on the Slumming Girl diet for a few weeks so couldn't cope with the excess.

Hence the 3 hours in the toilet. Oh well, at least the curry didn't show up today at Weigh-In.

Memories are made of this...

2010-09-29T12:35:00.000-07:00

In her most recent post, This Mid 30s Life mentioned childhood memories related to food. I commented that all of my childhood memories are about food. Mostly sweet food. And not being able to get enough of it.

'FK, do you really need to eat that?' my poor mum used to sigh (and still does, when she thinks she can get away with it). My mum and I are of the same build, with the slight difference that hers includes will power and mine doesn't. Resulting in quite different body shapes.

Anyway, some of my food memories...

Food: My Early Years

Aged 3: Mum had just finished the elaborate icing for my great-gran's 80th birthday cake. I pulled up a chair and stood at the island unit to gaze at the snowy glaze of inch-deep royal icing. I stuck in my finger and crammed in a few mouthfuls before I was caught.

Aged 4: I developed my food Spidey senses to clamber on to the side units and reach the top shelf where my perfect hostess mum kept the after-dinner mint crumbles. Bliss.

Aged 5: When eating something perfect (i.e. any form of cake), I used to walk backwards and forwards, humming to myself. I ate too much Devil's Food Cake (Betty Crocker recipe, the book was food porn) and, after treading the boards of the sitting room once too often, threw up. What a waste of cake.

Aged 6: After my sixth birthday party, I smuggled one of the greaseproof paper 'Going Home Bags' upstairs to bed and fell asleep whilst eating a lollipop. I can still remember my despairing mum pushing my head over the bathroom sink the next morning and attacking my sticky hair with a pair of kitchen scissors. 'You. Are. Such. A. Greedy. Girl.'

Aged 7: Mum must have become fed up with her younger daughter's obsessive sweet tooth. My elder sis was never a problem. In fact, at the time, Sis reminded me of boring Mary, Laura Ingalls' elder sister in Little House on the Prairie. So well behaved, I bet she never stole her baby brother's sweet Farleys rusks from the top cupboard shelf.

Anyway, Mum banned all sweets from the house. She was desperate, but surely she must have known it would never work.

I found 5p on the pavement after school one afternoon. After a brief debate with my conscience, I popped in to the sweet shop on the way to the bus stop. Sis refused to have anything to do with the whole operation and waited outside. Later that night, we were tucked up in bed when she announced that she 'couldn't bear lying any longer' and went downstairs to tell Mum and Dad about my terrible sin.

FFS.

I clearly remember lying in bed, the blankets pulled up to my nose, waiting for the inevitable summons. Sis scampered back in to her bed and told me that The Parents were waiting for me. I slowly made my way downstairs, head hung low. 'You know what we wanted to talk to you about,' said Dad. I nodded. 'And you know what you've done wrong? And you won't do it again?' I shook my head. Dad scooped me on to his lap and gave me a hug. I looked up and caught him shaking with suppressed laughter.

On my return to our bedroom, Sis seemed disappointed with my reprieve. I was smug. I'd had sweet cigarettes and Hubba Bubba AND extra hugs from Mum and Dad.

You see - sweets and happy times. The perfect combination.

Broken dreams

2010-09-28T07:31:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I was supposed to take delivery of my spanking new company car. I'd been waiting for it for 6 months. SIX MONTHS!

I'd ordered an Audi A3 Quattro, so that I could pretend that I was Alex Drake, the crime fighting side kick to Ashes To Ashes hero, Gene Hunt. I'd buy Husband a camel coat and leather driving gloves and he'd shout, 'Fire up the quattro, you dozy old bint!' I'd raise my eyebrows and would run gracefully in my spike stiletto heels to the driver's door.

Well, we know that it wouldn't really be like that, as I'd twist my ankle on the way out of the front door, or have to change into my driving shoes whilst sitting on the edge of the boot. Yet, I could dream.

But no. NO! It wasn't to be. The Audi dealer called yesterday morning to tell me that my beautiful car had been stolen from the delivery depot the night before. And that the waiting time for a new one is now nine months. NINE MONTHS! I should have shouted that I could have a baby in that time, but we both would have known that was unlikely - the Audi dealer bloke could probably tell that just by my voice.

Anyway, the company car man rang me today to say that the police haven't managed to find the car (you don't say), it's a gonner. I'll have to pick something else from stock or re-order and wait.

'What's important to you in your choice?' he asked. I managed to stop myself from waffling on about paint colour, seat pattern and number of doors. I spoke about the need for a four wheel drive, 170bhp and engine size. Acceptable stuff, I think. I veered off into asking for satnav and 'a connection thingy for an i-pod' but managed to pull it back with my request for an auto-dimming rear view mirror.

I'm now waiting for the call back, probably to tell me that my delivery of a 900cc Austin Allegro is on it's way. That will teach me to have ideas above my station.

A foreign exchange

2010-09-25T13:11:00.000-07:00

Recent text exchange between sisters in Moscow and Bristol:

Moscow sister: Have been cheered up by the realisation today that since we got back here I've lost 8 lbs. Does that make me shallow? x

Bristol sister: Not at all, it could have gone the other way, i.e. chocolate! I joined Slimming World on Monday. 'Gail has lost half a pound! Give her a round of applause everyone!' Am not joking. I could have poo-ed that.

MS: Isn't that why one always weighs oneself after going to the loo in the morning? To take advantage of off loading?

BS: Yes but unfortunately these days I have to off load whenever the urge and opportunity arise. I have started to be forced to use the facilities at work. And not even a secluded disabled toilet for comfort! I have been known to trawl across several floors before finding a totally empty Ladies for my sole use.

MS: It's when you start carrying a handbag sized air freshener that you need to worry...

BS: Ooh, can you buy such a thing? That may change my life. Would certainly open up more avenues and opportunities.

MS: You can. I know because Husband's mum has one...

BS: Do you think Mum has one too? Do you think it will happen to us? Am already wearing slim/discreet panty liner which I think may be an incontinence pad. It's a small step to carrying my own air freshener.

MS: I was hoping it was just a joke, not all ladies of a certain age. But now you mention it...Oh, i so don't want to grow old(er)

It's good to know that the thousands The Parents paid towards our convent school education was money well spent. I don't think that you'll find ANY spelling mistakes in that lot.

The tale of my Brother and the Cow Pat

2010-09-23T05:35:00.000-07:00

I'm struggling to think of a subject for my post today so have decided, randomly, to write about my brother and his wilderness years.

My bro, B, has a very successful career and a beautiful fiancée but it hasn't always been so. A few years ago, I moved back with my parents, post divorce, at the same time as B. My poor folks had finally considered themselves free of their kids but realised that they were mistaken when their 30-something daughter, 20-something son and four-something grandson moved back home.

The Parents coped admirably and tried to get on with their lives in the midst of their troublesome children. Part of this approach involved going on as many holidays as possible to absent themselves from the family home.

It was on one of these occasions that my brother experienced his Week From Hell, a week that has been committed to the annuls of family folklore.

Monday

B was working in Bristol at the time, 20 miles away from home. As he couldn't afford the tax and insurance for his car (and therein lies another story), Mum had kindly said that he could borrow her car whilst she was away, so that he didn't have to rush for the bus.

'Excellent,' thought my bro on the Monday morning, 'A few extra minutes in bed'.

Unfortunately, he took a few too many extra minutes and arrived late for work. In a rush to find parking near the office, B squeezed the car into a tiny space, (my brother is An Excellent Driver) and rushed off.

In his haste, B hadn't noticed that the back wheel of the car was parked a couple of inches onto a double yellow line. That evening, he left the office and walked back to where he had parked the car that morning.

No car.

With a sinking heart, B realised what he had done, made some calls and was told that the car had been towed. He was also told that it would cost £120 to release the car from the compound. Plus an extra £20 for each day that the car remained uncollected.

Did I mention that my bro couldn't afford car insurance? And not only could he not afford insurance, he couldn't afford to release the car from the compound.

In fact, he couldn't even afford the bus fare home.

He decided to hitch-hike and started to walk the 20 miles. It began to rain. It began to pour with rain. He had no coat. Strangely enough, not many drivers wanted to stop for a bedraggled and soaking 6 foot tall bear of a man walking along a speeding dual carriageway.

He was finally picked up 10 miles from home and, as soon as he was dropped at the house, made his way to bed.

Tuesday

B woke up with a sore throat and raging temperature. The stroll in the rain had done for him. He went back to bed.

Wednesday

After waking with a minor dose of the flu, B hauled himself out of bed. Late.

He had missed the hourly bus at the nearest stop, so decided to take a short cut across the fields to a different bus route. He was sweating and shivering and probably not in the best of spirits as he stumbled across a cow pasture.

I imagine that he wondered if the gods were truly against him as he tripped on a hummock of grass and fell, face first, into a large cow pat.

Covered in manure, he decided that the day probably wouldn't improve and returned home to bed.

Thursday

Reader, I'm sure that you haven't forgotten that the car compound clock was ticking - Mum's car was still trapped and the bill for it's release was growing by the day. To make matters worse, our parents were due back on Saturday.

Something had to be done.

B called his best friend, Tommy T, and, with a rising sense of hysterical panic, pored out his woes. Gallant Tommy offered to lend him the release money and to drive him up to the compound in Bristol that afternoon.

All thoughts of work were pushed aside by this point - the day would be spent getting the car back.

The pair drove to the compound and Tommy paid the fine. B finally saw light at the end of the tunnel. His life was back on track, he thought to himself.

Until he realised that he had left the car keys at home.

The compound was about to close and there was no time to return that day. B went home and to bed.

Friday

Release Day. B found the keys, hitched up to Bristol and paid the car bail. As he drove home, he was full of the joys of a beautiful late autumn day in Somerset.

The clouds lifted, the sun shone, birds sang and it was Carnival weekend. B and his new girlfriend would be partying all night. The Parents would return home, unaware of the trials of the week and all would be right with B's world.

That night B's girlfriend dumped him for gallant Tommy T. The Parents returned the next day and bawled him out for leaving the house in a mess. The following Monday, he received a court fine for unpaid car tax.

The Week From Hell.

PS - I ran this post past my brother to check that he was OK with me using his sorry tale as blog material. His additional comments below:

'As a post-script, I'd probably add that on the Monday following 'Hell-Week', I was low enough to attempt smoking for the first time.

Having spent £1.35 (yes that really is how much they used to cost) that I'd managed to scrape from various coat pockets on a packet of 10 Embassy No.1, I opened the pack and (knowing nothing about smoking lore) held the packet upside down as I removed my first smoke. Imagine my surprise when the other nine came with it, and all of them sank to the bottom of the puddle over which I was standing......... '

Puppies

2010-09-21T06:45:00.000-07:00

Today I'm wearing a new dress and have just realised it makes my boobs look like they are in a hammock. Unfortunately, it's an eBay purchase, so I can't send it back.

My boobs seem to have a life of their own. They are a recent development, so I don't think I'm naturally busty. They are just fat. Two large mounds of fat. Think of a double helping of school dinners mashed potato, served using an ice cream scoop (remember that?), and increase to a 72 font.

It comes to something when a 'super curvy' blouse from wardrobe for big 'n busty sufferers, Bravissimo, doesn't do up. I brought a dress from there last year which made me look like I'd been swaddled. Like a large baby Jesus. In sky blue silk. Not a pretty sight.

I remember, years ago, watching a buxom victim of Trinny & Susannah being bundled into a Rigby & Peller dressing room and ridiculed for her poor bra choice. Apparently the unfortunate bra gave her a three tier bosom: original boob layer, under-boob recoiled fat layer and top stomach layer. 'Poor cow,' I thought, 'How did she ever let herself become THAT?'

Eight years and a triple bosom later, I've also started to grow a double stomach, which is an interesting development.

But let's not go there, girlfriend, am here to talk about my amazing boobage.

Soon I'll dispense with my 34FF (measured last year, so have probably grown exponentially with my stomach), and will starting using a Baby Bjorn type of construction. Much easier than fighting with a triple fastening when I can't even see past the boobs to my hands.

I'll just sling those puppies into a baby sling and off I'll go.

Am going to Google patents pending for Boob Slings. This time next year, I'll be a millionaire!

Pay later...

2010-09-20T03:42:00.000-07:00

The new school term has started and the clock is ticking down to the beginning of my term as Chair of the school governors for our local primary school. I've been a governor for about 18 months and, back last September, agreed to become Chair this October for a year, if no-one else stepped up.

Of course no-one else has stepped up. They're no fools.

Back in 2009, agreeing to do this was rather like buying a sofa with nothing to pay for the first 12 months. A gradual feeling of doom descended on me as the academic year progressed. A year of watching, via email, the current incumbent struggle through teacher appraisals, parental complaints, resignations and resource gaps.

As this summer wore on and the email frenzy increased, a feeling of panic would bubble up each time I opened my Hotmail inbox and I'd gulp down hysterical laughter.

And now the first full meeting of the new academic year is a couple of weeks away and I remember nothing, NOTHING, from the detailed and prolonged handover which the outgoing Chair has given me.

Why, oh why have I got myself into this situation? Again? My sad and desperate need for validation, that's why. I was flattered into it, like so many stressful jobs in the past.

'FK, I think you'd make an excellent chairman/bazaar organiser/support manager/PTA helper/scone maker/kid's club chair/fancy dress coordinator...'

'Really?' I simper, 'How nice of you, of course I'll sort out 20 Christmas stalls and clean the Santa outfit/take on 36 direct reports and do quarterly reviews/bake 120 scones by Saturday/cover 100 tampons in silver foil for bullets in ammo belts.'

I've recently started having a recurring nightmare of myself at the end of the December term. I'm sitting on the floor of the deserted school hall, surrounded by the scattered pages of a ruinous Ofsted report and draped in a Father Christmas beard and cloak in dire need of a dry-clean.

I'm rocking slowly backwards and forwards and, if you lean closer, you can hear me softly keening the words, 'Special measures...special measures....special measures'.

I've started so I won't finish

2010-09-18T00:07:00.000-07:00

My exercise regimes over the past decade:

2001: Dancing at the Redback (Australian bar), Acton, West London

2002: Weekend dancing that the Redback, plus daily trips to the gym

2003: Occasional dancing at the Redback. Daily trips to the gym.

2004: No dancing. Some gym trips but have started to notice the way my bits wobble and I don't really like it.

2005: Time to give myself a stiff talking to. Twice weekly personal trainer sessions. Occasional swimming.

2006: Nothing. At. All.

2007: Ditto. Apart from one morning of Davina's Power of Three. Hideous.

2008: Time to give myself a stiff talking to (sound familiar?). Occasional trips to the gym. For about three weeks.

2009: Oh, what's the point?

2010: Why, why, why?

I need to dig up some will power from somewhere before I have to be lifted out of my deathbed by a fire crew using a crane and some heavy duty cutting equipment.

Pride comes before A Fall

2010-09-17T03:24:00.000-07:00

I spoke to my dad this morning - he and my mum are on holiday with friends in France and apparently my mum has 'had A Fall' on the beach, (once you're over 40, you don't fall over, you 'have A Fall'). She's fine, thank goodness, just a 'bruised ego', according to Dad.

This put me in mind of the great Falls of my life. Falling Over/Having A Fall is a family trait. Dad fell over last year when my son took him off to show him his den in nearby fields. Dad fell into a river and Husband arrived home to find the contents of our first-aid kit strewn across the hall and Dad bleeding in the toilet. A swift trip to the Minor Injuries unit followed. We have a loyalty card there, so it wasn't all bad news - free sterilised swaps and an extra stamp towards a bottle of Dettol.

A few years ago, pre second marriage, I'd started a new job and was quietly on the hunt for a new man. I had a new cream trouser suit, (slimmer and younger then), a new briefcase and excellent high heels. At the end of my first day, I left the office and clocked a 10/10 parked in a spanking new BMW across the street.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the office window. I'm not a vain person usually, (am well aware of my physical faults), and can honestly swear that this is the first and only time I have ever thought to myself, 'I look really hot today. I bet that guy thinks that I look really hot Perhaps he'd like to ask me out.'

Sadly, God overheard and didn't agree.

I was so busy admiring my reflection that I didn't notice a large crack in the pavement. I tripped, flew and landed spread-eagled across the pavement. My briefcase opened and files scattered across the road. I lay still for a few moments, contemplating the pain in my knees and the existence of a higher being.

I'd love to write that the 10/10 jumped out of his car and ran to my aid. Unfortunately, this was not to be the beginning of a great romantic episode with a new father for my poor neglected four-year old. The bastard stayed in his car, staring firmly at the road ahead.

I scrabbled around for a bit, clutching the knees of my torn trouser suit and stuffing crumpled papers back into my briefcase and then stumbled, half crouching, around the corner to my car. My ego, though dented, lived to fight another day. The suit did not.

I won't go in to the details of later Falls. The torn ligament on the ski slopes, the humiliating ride in a wheelie office chair across the packed lunch canteen after I slipped on a pea and broke my ankle. I won't tell you about the fall up the cathedral steps after a christening, when I was wearing a mini skirt. Or the time I caught a heel in my wide legged trousers, stumbled and took out several dividing walls of office pods (although the domino effect as the dividers crashed down was quite impressive).

No, I think I'll leave it at that, as God knows he has won and, although I may continue to Fall, I have not worn a cream trouser suit since.

Menopausal blues

2010-09-16T06:00:00.000-07:00

I've been feeling really old recently. Turning 40 last year wasn't so bad. Turning 41 in June was a shock to the system. Particularly as it coincided with me being diagnosed with going through the early menopause. What fun. Just at the time I was about to go back to the fertility clinic to try again with another round of injections, inductions, in-whatever else they could think of.

Ho hum. At least I had an explanation for the hot flushes, headaches and truly incredible mood swings. A couple of months of HRT later and I'm feeling more human. Still partial to the odd low key tantrum, kilo of chocolate and mooch about feeling sorry for myself, but generally OK.

It was our son's 14th birthday this week. He's now as tall as me and I was brought low the night before by memories of the smell of his baby hair and the final realisation that I will never have that again. A couple of hours of mooching ensued.

Husband pulled me out of it by telling me that, if he was granted one wish, it wouldn't be for a baby. He would wish that I would feel better about all of this and enjoy our life together, just as it is. As he's been as desperate for a baby as me, that really struck home and I've started to feel better.

Of course, the fact that we've booked a couple of ski holidays for next year has lessened the blow.

Supercallifragilisticexpialidocious!

2010-03-01T09:51:00.000-08:00

It was our wedding anniversary yesterday, so naturally we spent the day cleaning the fridge and oven. I'm ashamed to say that I did indeed buy the drill for Husband. He followed the advice of Cat's Whiskers (see previous post comments) and went for Le Creuset. And jelly beans.

But it's not all bad - we were spring cleaning in preparation for Husband's parents, who are coming to stay this weekend. They'll be looking after the Son for a few days whilst we go skiing. Yes, dear reader, I ditched the idea about skiing in half term and on Saturday, Husband and I fly out for a week in France, sans kid.

All excellent stuff, but it does mean that the house has to be PERFECT before the In-Laws arrive. Well, it does according to Quality Assurance Standard BS900015731354878421, (also known as Daughter-In-Law Benchmark Standard) which states that 'The Wife must prove that all living standards are of a measure equal to or higher than those provided when the Husband was in the care of the Mother-In-Law.'

Look it up, it's true.

Actually, my MIL is fantastic and I love her. I love her particularly as she put up with my appalling behaviour during a holiday in Australia a few years ago. A holiday which she and my father-in-law paid for (flights and all). We forgot to mention that I was mid fertility treatment and in the throes of a forced menopause (don't ask). I'm sure that she thought I was a Mary Poppins DIL before then. Two weeks of mood swings, tantrums and sulks showed her that I was NOT practically perfect in every way. Oh dear.

Although she was understanding, it took another year and a week in the Lake District when I was a very good girl, to show her that I was almost normal and her poor son (nicknamed The Chosen One by his long suffering sister), was not trapped in a loveless and abusive marriage.

Anywho, back to my point. The Great Spring Clean is almost complete. We've used every Lakeland product which had festered unused in the utility room cupboard and the kitchen is now sparkling as much as the new (safety) pin currently being used to stop my Gap blouse gaping in some inappropriate places.

Time to start on Son's bedroom. If you don't hear from me for a few days, send in a search party.

In sickness and in health

2010-02-22T12:37:00.000-08:00

It's our wedding anniversary this Sunday.

We don't do Valentines, but we definitely do wedding anniversaries. I still can't believe my luck in finding and marrying Husband, so love to celebrate each year. However, I have absolutely no idea what to buy Husband this weekend.

Year One: For out first anniversary, Husband made me (yes, made) a photo album, covered in the same material as my wedding dress and filled with our best wedding photos. (This was no mean feat, as I looked like Jo Brand in most of our photos).

Year Two: For the second year, I brought him dinner and a night in a superb hotel a few miles away.

Year Three: Tiffany earrings and a sexy number from Myla. (Can't remember what I got for Him, as all rational thought left my head as soon as I saw that white ribboned box).

Year Four: I brought him a digital key ring filled with photos from our life together. Ah, cute. (See Year One for similar comment about Jo Brand lookalike photos).

Year Five: We treated ourselves to a week's ski-ing. Child free.

And so, to Year Six. What to do...what to do? I've mentioned a double stacking cake carrier and he has dropped subtle hints about a cordless drill with built in spirit level.

God, why don't I just skip to suggesting a Stannah Stairlift and incontinence pants for him and a one way ticket to Switzerland for me?

Chillax

2010-02-21T06:11:00.000-08:00

My son has had six weeks to complete a history project on Samuel Pepys. It was supposed to be four weeks, but the teacher gave his class an extension as he 'wasn't going to be around to mark it'.

Since when do teachers give thirteen year olds a fortnight's extra time for homework? The old bats at my school seemed to live for the occasions when some poor pupil hadn't finished her homework. They rubbed their hands together with glee, whilst calling the offender up to the front of the class for the ritual convent school humiliation.

Anyway, I digress. Six weeks to complete a 'project' which in modern educational speak means a brief Powerpoint file on the meatier highlights of the subject's life. Some stolen snippets from Wikipedia, a couple of jpegs thrown in, a cursory snoop by spellcheck. Job done.

Well, not this time. I was determined that Son would do the job properly and marched him down to the library a few times to research, the old fashioned way. I made him come with me to work, so that he could spend a day trapped in the office, writing up his notes. I hoped that this would serve a couple of purposes:

1. Force him to sit and do his homework with no distractions.

2. Make him realise that, if he continued his education in this slap dash, teenaged manner, he too would end up stuck behind a PC in an office, wondering where it had all gone wrong.

Satisfied that my maternal duty had been fulfilled, I left him to it.

So, taking into account the draconian measures I'd been forced to adopt before my son wasted his WHOLE LIFE before it had even begun, I was suprised to see that yesterday morning, a mere two days before the work was supposed to be handed in, he had hardly started.

I did what every sane mother could do. I left the house, walked into the town and nursed a couple of coffees whilst reading Red magazine for a couple of hours. I returned, refreshed and ready to do battle. I fully expected the usual drama to be played out in our kitchen:

ME: You have got to start taking this seriously. You can't just drift through your school life, trying to make people laugh and being popular. You can't get by in the grown up world with just a firm handshake and the Queen's English.

SON (Gazing into the distance, just above my right shoulder): It didn't seem to do you any harm. Relax. I'll be fine.

ME: Don't be cheeky. Look at me properly. Do you think that I grew up, wanting to be an I.T. manager? I don't care what you do, as long as you try your hardest and use your talents to your full potential.

(Husband reminders me later that Son's talents are, in fact, making people laugh and generally being popular).

In fact, Son greeted me at the door to tell me that the homework is finished and asked me if I'd like to check it for him.

I spent half an hour reading the project and realised that it's excellent and that, if he doesn't get an 'A', I will have something to say to his tutor.

I really don't know what the moral is behind this story. Relax. It'll be fine.

You don't bring me flowers anymore

2010-02-12T10:38:00.000-08:00

It's Friday evening and I'm still in the office, working late. Again. I've just spoken to Husband. I think that my dinner will be in the (imaginary) dog. I'm really tired, it's been a long week and we're working on a fault which apparently can't be fixed. Am feeling slightly hysterical. But, as one of my guys just pointed out, it's situations like this which define a team. Or some such rubbish.

So, it's Valentine's Day on Sunday. Husband and I have agreed that we're doing NOTHING as it's a ridiculous frenzy generated by the card industry and blah blah blah blah blah.

Of course, what Husband doesn't realise is that, if I don't get a card, he is a dead man. What am I saying, forget that, if I don't get flowers, he is a dead man. We've been married six years and this is the first time he's mentioned St Valentine's Day in this jaded and cynical way. What will be next? Our wedding anniversary? My God, my birthday?

It's because I've been working late, isn't it? It's because he's been at home, helping with homework, cooking dinner every night, washing the kitchen floor and hoovering the cat. He's normally very good at role reversal (apart from that incident with the Ann Summers fireman's outfit), but perhaps it's all gone too far. Perhaps it's time to go home and buy some flowers.

Right, am off to retrieve my dinner and make amends. Have a great weekend.

Take my breath away

2010-02-01T12:24:00.001-08:00

The excellent Trish at Mum's Gone To has tagged me for a meme about important songs involving childhood memories. As Trish says, it's all about trying to work out how old we are by the songs we mention.

Well, as this is the first time I've been tagged, I wanted to give this some consideration and spent most of the weekend trying to conjure up my early memories linked to music. Sorry, can't do it. Perhaps this is because we were force-fed Radio Three and modern jazz as kids, but probably because all of my important childhood memories are linked to food. What a surprise.

So, I've reached into the depths of my truly embarrassing collection of teenage memories...and have pulled out a real corker.

I'd just turned 17 in the summer of '86, (there, have saved you doing the maths) and spent three fantastic weeks travelling around France and Italy with twenty other co-ed sixth-formers and two very patient teachers. Let me paint the true picture of what I was like, at Just Seventeen. I'd attended Catholic schools since the age of four. I had two very Catholic parents who lived in fear of my sister and I being Led Astray (with good cause, as later came to pass. But that's a story for another day). I'd never had a boyfriend. I had plenty of friends who were boys. But no Boyfriend.

Anyway, the trip was perfect. Sunny days in vineyards, warm evenings in piazzas, Florence, Assisi (Catholic school, after all), Venice, the Massif Central, the lot. All the time, flirting for my life, with T. T was the Naughty Boy. Of course he was - when you're 17, Good Boys are dull. Naughty Boys are forbidden, exciting, dangerous and off limits.

So, I spent three weeks trying to get him to notice me, without success. We returned home. In one last attempt to win the man of my daydreams, I convinced my parents that I had to hold a 'reunion' party at ours before the start of the new school term. T arrived. Queue more flirting. He laughed at my jokes. He complimented me on my new perm. Finally, finally he was noticing me.

The night wore on, the party was drawing to a close. For God's sake, T, make a move, notice me, notice me! He pulled me to one side and asked for my number. This was really happening, the culmination of my summer campaign, this was it, don't mess it up, don't mess it up FK...don't do or say anything stupid, just give him the bloody number.

I smiled up at him...and farted. Yes, dear reader, in my excitement, I broke loud and triumphant wind. Panic farting had never happened before, and has never happened since. Well, what was a girl to do? I gave him my phone number and we both continued as if I had not just made a total tit of myself during the Most Important Moment of My Life.

He pretended to write the number down and left.

I hoped that I had just imagined it all. Even when he didn't call, I convinced myself that he'd just lost the number. I continued to dream.

Now, I wish that this was the end of this sorry tale. Alas, no. We returned to school in September and I think T also may have convinced himself that IT had never happened and he asked me out. I had a second chance. We went to the cinema to see Top Gun and sat a discrete distance apart - no hold handing, no yawning and surreptitiously stretching an arm around me. Perhaps T was worried about another wind outbreak.

We left the cinema in the late summer evening, the strains of Berlin's smooching ballad 'Take My Breath Away' still in our heads. We got the bus home. He walked me to my door. He moved in for the kiss...

Have you ever clashed teeth whilst trying to kiss? It's really, really painful. More painful than biting your lip or stubbing your toe. More embarrassing than farting. Well almost.

I can't remember the details of the moments which followed. I think my fragile teenaged brain just thought that enough was enough, this chick had gone through too much searing embarrassment for any girl, it was time to shut down.

We didn't go out again. I don't think we even talked again. Luckily, I realised that T wasn't for me when he snogged my best friend at another party the following weekend. I think he was just proving to himself that he wasn't a totally useless kisser.

Well, that's why I told myself every time I heard that annoying song after it remained at Number 1 for weeks that autumn. 'On this endless ocean, finally lovers know no shame.'

Oh, Berlin, how wrong you were.

Mirror, mirror on the wall...

2010-01-30T02:36:00.000-08:00

I have to write quickly this morning and finish this before Husband arrives home after taking our son to meet his dad for the weekend (Son's dad, not Husband's dad. That would be a more pleasant and less stressful experience for everyone). I'm supposed to be clearing out the spare room, not lying around in bed, reading OK and Hello magazines, drinking coffee, then getting up at 10, using all the hot water and wandering around the house, thinking about tidying up but instead surfing the net for summer holidays we can't afford.

It's a beautiful day. The sky is the light royal blue of my old convent school uniform, the garden is glistening with frost and is absolutely freezing. Perfect. Just the sort of day one shouldn't spend sorting out the spare room. Actually, there are two spare rooms but I can't face them both.

The bed is covered in the debris of our not so recent ski trip. Yes, the clothes are clean but they need to be sorted. I have to decide whether we do need 4 packs of playing cards, 6 travel cushions and the Crap Cars Top Trumps which seemed a 'must buy' item at the airport.

But the real problem lies with the 'summer wardrobe' which also needs to be addressed. It's time to admit that I'm really not going to fit into those size 10 denim shorts from 2002. I'm not even going to fit into the size 12 bikini from 2005. Yes, I'm on a diet but really - a size 10?

I absolutely loathe doing the Charity Shop Sort. The clothes lie in suitcases and vacuum pack bags, reminding me of failure in so many ways: my incredibly lax attitude to money (so many clothes too small, never worn), my abandoned exercise fads (there's a bag of Sweaty Betty gym gear, still with labels intact) and my steadily growing waistline (size 10, size 12, size 14, size SIXTEEN?? What the hell?).

We're on a low fat, low carb healthy eating kick at the moment. Husband was dismayed to step on the scales on Day One (24 hours down, only the rest of our lives to go) and realise that he's now the heaviest he's ever been. I didn't tell him that I weigh only five pounds less than him. As happens so often in my forty-something life at the moment, I snuggled deeper under the duvet, my inner voice screaming, 'Just how the bloody hell did that happen?'

It's time for change, for the sake of my bank balance, my sanity and my marriage. Husband is fantastic and loves me as I am. I'm not sure why, as I was a size 10 when I met him and we're both suprised to find me, six years later, regularly throwing clothes around the room before a night out after finding that the dress which looked passable on the shop hanger doesn't look passable on a size 16 with massive boobs (I never try anything on in shops, as this breaks my First Commandment: Thou shalt never look at thyself naked or undressed in a mirror).

Anyway, Husband is just pulling up outside, so I'm off to run upstairs, throw clothes around and look stressed so that he thinks I've been trying on those denim shorts again and will forgive me for doing bugger all whilst he's spent three hours in a car taking my son to meet my ex-husband. Isn't he lovely?

We'll be singin' in the rain

2010-01-26T09:43:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, we attended a training course for campsite stewards. For a VERY popular festival which takes place nearby at the end of June most years. (Forgive me being slightly cryptic, I don't want to be sued here).

Our local primary school supplies volunteer stewards each year, in return for a substantial contribution to our PTFA fund. These placements are in great demand and you have to be in the parents' Circle of Trust to be invited.

This has never bothered me in the past, as I had no desire to return to the festival after my toilet experience of 2003. I won't go into detail, you just need to know that it involved sunglasses, me being drunk, a portaloo, lots of wet wipes and an early exit from the festival. It all taught me that I was too old for these shenanigans. A brief return to the genre at Camp Bestival last summer just reinforced my decision.

So, I'm not sure how Husband and I ended up sitting in a sports club hall for three hours at the weekend. I think that I was touched that we were asked and that someone had considered us in their summer plans. Something like that. And we would be mad to turn down free tickets to the main music event of the year, wouldn't we? Even if we had to walk around a campsite for a few hours, wearing a fluorescent tabard and a smile. It would still be worth it. Right?

Er, not sure. There were fifty of us locals, all of a certain age, all linked in some way to local schools. That was the only thing we had in common. As there was so much information to disseminate in a relatively short space of time, the trainer had hit upon the excellent idea of splitting us into twelve groups and asking us to present on certain topics.

You need to bear in mind that the majority of the delegates had not presented or spoken in public before. This made translation of the important messages a little difficult, but here's what I learned:

1. The busy time for campsites is arrival and exit times.
2. It sometimes rains. Bring wellies.
3. Interact with the Public. Smile. (This may be my biggest challenge).
4. When someone is shouting at you, don't look them in the eye - it may turn to violence.
5. Disability means that some people may be in wheelchairs.
6. If someone has a heart attack, radio for help before filling in the Incident Form.
7. Learn the hand signals. (This one resulted in us signalling Attention, Medical Emergency, Fire and Violence to the tune of The Village People's 'YMCA'. A truly surreal moment in a surreal morning).
8. If you find a lost child, 'Don't touch 'em, right, don't touch 'em. You can ask for their name, right, but don't touch 'em. Just ask them their name and ask them where their parents are to'.
9. If someone is suffering from sunburn, put them in the shade.
10. If you are escorting a vehicle through a crowd, don't walk in front of it. It may run you over.
11. If you see an unattended fire, smaller than a waste paper basket, stamp on it with your foot.
12. If the fire is bigger than a waste paper basket, you may need to call the Fire Brigade.

There didn't appear to be a test at the end of the training, just biscuits. So I guess I'm in. See you all in June. I'll be the one in the fluorescent tabard, scowling behind the toilets.

Five o'clock shadow

2010-01-21T12:37:00.000-08:00

This evening I noticed that my cleavage has started to 'crepe' and I pulled a hair from my chin that could have doubled as a pastry brush. Just what the hell? Now I don't have to worry just about my weight. Oh no, I have a whole host of lovelies coming my way.

My mum is sixty-five and looks fifty. Her mother is ninety-six and looks eighty. The maternal genes have drunk from the fountain of youth. When I was ten kilos lighter, friends of my mother would mistake me for her. Although it did cross my mind that I should be disturbed that I was mistaken for a sixty year old, I took comfort in the thought that I would still look that way when I was approaching seventy.

It was not to be. My sister, who won't mind me telling you celebrated her fortieth a while ago, has never dyed her hair. Ever. As far as I know, she doesn't have to book extra time for a waxing session. She can stick to a diet, (probably due to our early training - my mum was an Eighties convert to the F-Plan diet - we were the only pre-pubescent kids I knew who ate bean sprouts). Sis is stacked with the maternal genes.

It appears that the only thing I inherited from my mother is the family gene for male pattern baldness, which translates in females to polycystic ovaries. Super. Everything else is from my dad's side. The under active thyroid gland. The early twenties acne. The odd migraine here and there. Oh, and the Eyore-isms and general propensity to look on the dark side of life.

When I'm recruiting at work, I'm now able to look at CVs (well, the ones of those people who ignore the latest guidelines against including age. They're just showing off) and remember, quite easily, what I was doing the year of the candidate's birth. As an adult. I was already working when these bloody people were born.

How did that happen? One minute I'm making a total arse of myself over some teenage boy, the next I'm considering the options of waxing or bleaching.

In the old days, rather than take a handbag clubbing, I'd stuff my money and lipstick in a fag packet and tuck it in to the top of one of my stockings. These days I could probably fit a whole duty-free box of 200 Marlboro Lights under one boob.

Which reminds me of another thing. Stockings. I tried some on a few weeks ago, in a vain attempt to bring some sexiness back to my day. One glance in the mirror at the garter belt biting into my stomach showed me that I was trussed up like a joint of beef. The offending article was quickly removed and I vowed never to look at myself naked again with my contact lenses in.

I suppose that's a positive side to growing old. My eyesight will get so bad, I won't be able to see the moustache, the boobs skimming the floor or the three inch beard. Ignorance is bliss.

P.S. I just had to come and edit this quickly. As I saved the post, Google helpfully popped up an advert for permanent hair removal.

Let sleeping cats lie?

2010-01-20T05:26:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we got up at 05.30 (yes - ZERO five thirty) to start our new exercise routine. As we both work long hours and still want to eat and talk to our son, we decided it would be good to get the 30 minutes of pain out of the way at the beginning of the day.

I'm not exaggerating when I tell you that 60 seconds into the routine (boxercise: whaaaat?), I was retching over the toilet. I like to think that my blood sugar levels were out of kilter (the medical term) at that time in the morning, which makes me sound like the over weight, hypochondriac that I am. And before you comment, I'm certainly not pregnant, just very unfit.

This morning, I stayed in bed and drank tea rather than throwing up. I can't tell you how much I love my bed. It has an electric blanket and my husband in it - two of my favourite things in the world, perhaps not in that order.

Anyway, after Husband left, the cat kept me company and we both crawled out of bed at the last possible moment, just before the point when we were really late - me for getting ready for work and for waking up the Boy, and the cat for more sloping around on every comfortable surface in the house. I can't really blame him - we shut him in the garage for 24 hours by a mistake on Tuesday, and he still hasn't forgiven us. I'm trying to make it up to him - hence allowing him to sleep on our bed.

Actually, I'm lying and trying to create an impression that I'm a well ordered woman who keeps a pristine home and never allows her cat to sleep on her bed. This woman certainly doesn't have muddy paw prints on her favourite duvet cover that won't wash out, even at 60 degrees. I'm not that woman, and the cat sleeps with us every night (unless locked in the garage), shoe-horning himself into any available space and driving a wedge between me and Husband, literally. I woke up at 02.30 (yes - ZERO two thirty) this morning to find the cat's head next to me on my pillow, staring at me silently, his eyes reproachful, as if to say 'Don't think I've forgotten Tuesday night'. This was too freaky even for me, and I chucked him off.

There's nothing worse than a cat who takes liberties.

Smart!

2010-01-12T06:01:00.000-08:00

I haven't updated my blog since I started a new job last September. The job itself is going very well, but if I could type whilst sitting in traffic jams, this would be the most active blog in the world.

In fact, I'd probably also have time to speak to my friends, update Witter and send constant posts to the BBC News 'Have Your Say' site. My husband, (a closet Daily Mail reader, I'm sure), comments on news items regularly and has spent many a happy hour ranting with the rest of Middle England. I've just taken a look and the latest post on there is from the user 'Slightly to the Right of Genghis Khan'. I'm not joking.

Anyway, apart from parking on the local ring road every rush hour with the rest of the South West, I have been spending the last few months working hard at becoming a Better Person.

This has involved becoming a school governor and organising our church Christmas bazaar. You are reading the blog of the woman who was on Page Three of the local Chronicle during the first week of December. Pictured standing next to the parish priest. Holding a tray of cakes. Now, does it really get any better than that? I am the love child of Mother Teresa and Linda Snell of The Archers.

Not content with the halo already growing around my head, I parked a car for someone who was on crutches AND gave a lift to an old lady stranded on ice. How can I move on from those heady heights?

My son would probably say that charity begins at home and that I should give him a break from the nagging and negotiations that now count as conversation in the morning...'You've lost it again? Well, where did you leave it? Do you think that we're MADE of money?..'

My husband would ask for more waxing and less wailing...'I'm so fat...I can't bear it anymore...I'm the BEFORE picture on the Hannah Waterman fitness DVD...'

January is the time of staff performance agreements (thirteen down, three to go), so it's time that I set myself a Specific and Measurable objective. How about this one?

Objective:
By the end of 2010, 80% of my customer base will agree with the statement 'FK is a better wife and mother'
Deliverables:
1. I will shut up sometimes
2. I will make my son eat at least 1 of his 5 A Day
3. I will keep my beautician appointments and will not complain about the pain

Actually, I forgot the Realistic and Achievable parts to SMART objective setting. Scratch out Deliverables One and Two and the second part of Three. I need to leave myself something to aim for in 2011.

Jessica 6

2009-09-13T09:04:00.000-07:00

It's been a while, so just a quickie to start the ball rolling again.

Memories of my leaving party on Thursday:

Mistake One - thinking I could get away with no bra.

Two: Mojitos and champagne.

Three: A four floor nightclub in Bristol

Four: Tequila (although in my defence, this came about whilst trying to cope with Mistake Three).

Why stop at four? I could go on but I think you get the gist.

All of the above resulted in a broken shoe and time spent lost in dry ice and separated from friends. Yes, I know, we've all been there. But have you shuffled your way past hundreds of 16 year olds, trying to slip away unnoticed, chest sagging like an air mattress on the last day of a freezing camping holiday in Cornwall, to have 'Oi! Milf!' shouted at you across the emptying corridor by a pubescent teenager whose skinny backside barely holds up his jeans, probably rides a BMX and who, if held too close to a naked flame, would ignite from the hair down?

Probably not recently, I would have thought.

But, here's the rub: I was caught between feeling slightly grateful that someone would think I was attractive enough to call 'milf' and, like an extra from Logan's Run, horrified that I'd been discovered.

Perhaps it's time to accept fate and report to the Sleepshop. I'll contemplate that thought whilst I submit this post and log back on to Koodos to find replacement shoes. After all, I'll need to look good whilst I'm Running, won't I?

Not the best post, but its a start.

2009-04-14T05:58:00.000-07:00

I’m in a bad mood today. My reasons not to be cheerful (in no particular order) are:

My blog – I’ve been trying to think of something to write for weeks and I still can’t come up with anything interesting. I would like to start something and stick to it. Just once.
I spent much of Easter weekend moving clothes around and sitting on my bed, contemplating how the seasons of my life are defined by unpacking clothes from storage and packing them back up again when I realise that they still don’t fit.
This week’s cakes baked for the office were a bit rubbish.
I keep having a recurring nightmare, featuring various friends from the past, with whom I’ve lost touch due to my laziness in returning calls. It doesn’t take a constipated mathematician to work that one out with a pencil. Anyway, as a result, I’m not sleeping very well.

Reflecting on all of the above has made me realise how shallow I am (none of the above is Cancer, after all) and has pushed me down what I hope to be a narrow path (i.e. no room for turning). It’s time to pull myself together and lead a better life. I’ll be 40 years old in June and find myself careering towards a mid life crisis. Only a few Minor Achievements will help me avoid what is currently the inevitable whining session to the long suffering Big Al.

The Minor Achievements will be very minor. Softly softly, catchee monkey:

Reduce caffeine intake to 2 cups per day.
Check TLP’s homework every day. With patience and grace.
Shed a dress size (this month’s Red Magazine told me that, to lose weight permanently, I must change my mindset and see weight reduction as ‘shedding’ rather than ‘loss’. In this way, I won’t miss the person I used to be. For God’s sake. I won’t miss the fat bird. I’ll be waving her off at the station and changing the locks).
Answer the phone. Every time. I plan to keep the few friends that I have.

There. It’s written in my blog, the modern equivalent of the stone tablets and therefore will be so. Ha ha.

We hold these truths to be self evident, that all shoes are created equal...

2009-02-22T03:56:00.000-08:00

Now that my muffin top has upgraded itself to a deluxe 9 inch Christmas cake with marzipan and lumpy royal icing, I've decided to focus my efforts on shoes. My feet have recently shrunk half a size and so I've decided to reward them with the love and attention they deserve.

This has opened a whole new world to me. Where have shoes been all my life? Take a look at these beauties. I love them.

Big Owl* is less sure and has commented that they're different to my usual choice. Exactly. That is the point. I'm having small mid-life crisis in shoe form, which will pass when I fall over again at work and take out a row of desk pod partitions.

It's happened before - the partitions fell like dominoes and, as I picked myself up and dusted off my wide legged trousers (which were responsible for the whole thing - heels get caught in my wide legged trousers), no-one said a word. A room full of men and no-one asked if I was O.K. Admittedly, there were all software developers. I think that they felt it was bad enough that they had to share their working day with a woman, but when she had the bad taste to draw attention to herself, the only possible reaction was for them to huddle closer to their monitors and code faster.

Anyway, I've discovered that high heeled play shoes pay no attention to buttons that refuse to do up over expanding chests. They ignore bingo wings, and forgive wobbling thighs. They preach body tolerance and size equality. What a relief to have found them. Now I just need to turn my lumbering lurch when wearing them into a sexy catwalk-model strut. Easy peasy.

I feel another visit to the orthopaedic surgeon coming on.

*Big Owl: my husband, formerly known as Big Al but renamed by my sister's five year old son. He is indeed a Wise Old Owl but shows me far more patience that his namesake did for Pooh.

Open wide...

2009-02-19T09:51:00.000-08:00

WTF? I mean W.T.F.??? I've just got back from the dentist and have had to make myself a strong G&T (yes, am trying to fit in as many TLAs* as possible in this post).

I went to the dentist for a check-up. Admittedly it's been a while since the last one. My money was on a couple of fillings, at worst. I even thought that I might treat myself to some whitening. My friend Lady Perkleton has just had hers done and she is now a gleaming goddess.

Anyway, went in expecting a clean up, came out with a quote for braces. I'm going to have to pay three thousand pounds for 18 months of wearing braces. The ones which are cemented in. I'll have no money and a mouth like a spotty teenager. And a possible bridge. And then, if I'm not completely wiped out, I could have my teeth whitened.

The thought of this led me to the conclusion that I MUST lose some weight quickly (all roads lead to body size issues). My self esteem will plummet if I have to wear braces AND continue to be the size of a couple of space hoppers (and that's just my bra).

I dusted off my on-line WW account and set up the menu for the week ahead. I will turn into a health freak and a gym nut. I may set off the security detectors at the airport but the official who frisks me will note my rock hard butt and calves of steel.

All this thinking and planning exhausted me, so I polished off the remainder of my G&T and ate a large bag of pretzels.

Now I'm about to go out to dinner with my mother and sister. Both of whom have exceptional teeth and are frequent users of the treadmill. I'm hoping that my competitive streak will kick in and I'll finally find me some self control and discipline. Surely it's in the genes somewhere? Dig deep, FK, dig deep. And carry on digging, as that three grand has got to be found somewhere.

*TLAs: Three letter acronyms

'So then, you shall know them by their shopping lists' (Matthew 7:16)

2009-02-07T06:16:00.000-08:00

Must buy:

New hose attachment for the tumble dryer
Low energy bulb for the outside light
New toilet brush (don't even ask)
Geometry set to replace the fifteen lost by the Little Prince in one term
Cheap vest top to wear under a new-ish but now sagging V-neck sweater which is indecently showing my now sagging boobs
Chicken wire (for the Little Prince's school project - constructing a model motte and bailey castle. Nothing to do with afore mentioned sagging boobs).

I wrote the weekend's shopping list on the back of one of the many, many 'Diary of a ...' articles hanging around at the moment. You know the type - fashion, cosmetics, the suffix 'ista' thrown in somewhere. And the references to the writer's career were even more sickening: script writers, Hollywood, New York, chick lit and HBO.

The woman is probably the same age as me (hey, I'm not forty, YET). I bet her shopping list doesn't include plumbing attachments (although maybe attachments of a different sort?) or toilet brushes.

I was going to suggest some possible items which may be included in her list. But I wouldn't know where to start. Specially prepared meals which follow a complicated gluten, diary, protein, calorie and air free diet and perhaps some face cream made from the the tears of a unicorn, I would have thought.

I don't expect she eats a family bag of Doritos whilst sitting in her thermals having just defrosted the fridge and thrown away 3 carrier bags of healthy food brought at the start of a diet week which disintegrated into pizza and houmous. Well, at least the houmous had red peppers - surely one of my five a day?

Anyway, back to the shopping list. I took a long, hard look at it. I realised that I had to do something drastic. I took a deep breath and added the ingredients for my ultimate comfort food: lasagne, made with real bechamel sauce, chicken livers, a couple of litres of marsala wine and a kilo of parmesan. A thousand calories per tablespoon. Bliss.

'You can take my youth, but you'll never take my Big Slipper'

2009-02-06T01:11:00.000-08:00

It's finally happened. I think perhaps it was my new hair straighteners that pushed us over the edge. My GHDs have upset the delicate balance of the global climate and we have plunged into a new ice age.

I opened the door this morning to a scene out of The Day After Tomorrow. Gale force winds, heavy snow and thunder and lightning. Thunder and lightning? What the hell happened to the Narnian view from my dining room window last night? Mr Tumnus has hopped on to an Easyjet flight to Malaga and the White Witch has won Celebrity Big Brother.

At least I can have a guilt free day 'working from home'. My i-Tunes collection will be as clean as a new pin by the end of this morning. No more mediocre tracks from The Feeling's very poor second album. The soundtrack from Mamma Mia will be no more. A quick dip into the excellent Genius suggestions and I'll be young and cool before lunch.

With hindsight, I think I may be sliding towards a mid life crisis. Hair straighteners? Deleting Abba tracks? Thinking about it, I did get my eye lashes tinted at the weekend. The ultimate in self absorbed treatments. Next I'll be getting a boob job (ah, I can but dream) and a tattoo of a meaningless Chinese symbol above my tailbone.

Of course, in the real world, that won't happen. I love my sofa too much and couldn't show the gym the commitment required to build the body of a twenty-five year old. My dressing-gown and slippers will ground me and I'll never give them up.

I'm loving angels instead

2009-02-05T05:24:00.000-08:00

It has finally snowed so I've done what any sane wife/mother would do and have left Big Al with the washing and the Little Prince causing trouble with his friends and have escaped to work. I would rather brave icy roads and follow crawling Fiat Pandas across a frozen Wiltshire wasteland, than stay in and clean the house whilst pretending to 'WFH'.

I made the right decision. At lunch time, our team were challenged to a snowball fight. I'd like to say that we whooped the competition, but alas, I'd be lying. I had snow shoved down my pants and in my face when I was trying to make a snow angel. Surely that's against the rules? Everyone knows that snow angels are sacred and that those stupid enough to lie in the snow in their jeans, with no hat, should be left in peace to create an icy masterpiece.

Anyway, now I'm snug and warm at my desk, indulging in some quiet i-Poddage and deleting emails with the carefree abandon of someone with wet pants and and bad hair (dried with a paper towel in the girls' toilets). I'll be leaving the office at about 3.00pm to miss the Big Chill and will be home in time for a Big Al Special Tea.

I plan to eat it in front of the TV whilst watching the last episode of that '80s masterpiece, 'North and South' and will close my eyes and imagine myself looking coyly up into the eyes of a young Patrick Swayze - 'Why, I do declare Orry Main, you are a postively charmin' jennalman'.

Several excellent Americanos from the office coffee shop. Fun in the snow. Some good music. An Al Special. Escapist television and retro eye candy. A perfect day.

Sequins & Snowboards

2009-01-27T11:25:00.000-08:00

We got back from skiing in Eastern Canada last week. We met many interesting and varied people. My three favourite encounters are below. I make no apology for the snobbish bent to this post. What can I say? I like to think that I'm just 'socially aware'.

Swiss Family Chavs
A group made up of several large families from Essex. Tans, shaved heads, nails, loud children and, I’m sure, several unnecessary 4x4s at home. I considered saying a few Hail Mary’s as penance for taking an instant dislike to them. Until we overheard them discussing immigration with an equally unenlightened Canadian in the hotel bar. ‘I don’t mind the Poles’, an Orange One whined. ‘But they need to fit in more. I mean, when in Rome…’

The Sequins
We arrived at the hotel on New Year’s Eve. The hotel had stated that the dress code that evening was ‘resort casual’. We wore jeans and snow boots.

The other guests wore sequins. Lots of them.

In fact, I have never seen so many sequins in one room. The glitter balls were over shadowed by the sequins. The event should have come with a warning to those suffering from fits brought on by flashing lights.

The revenue of the worldwide sequin industry must rely heavily on the New Year’s Eve dinner at this hotel.

I can imagine sequin salesmen throughout the year, gathered around the flip charts at their quarterly sequin sales forecast sessions, estimating the number of North American female guests due to attend the Fairmont’s celebrations. ‘Well, Larry, they’ve just had another table of 10 from Des Moines confirm. And the Irwins from Oklahoma City are considering a return visit, once Janice has gotten her order in to The Shiny Star Boutique. It’s looking good and I know you won’t quote me on this, but I reckon we can count on that bonus weekend in Scottsdale’.

We quite enjoyed the evening, once I’d returned to our room and retrieved our ski goggles.

Frickin’ AWEsome DUDEs!
I can’t believe that this group were real. I thought I had been run over by a moose and had woken up in a very cold version of ‘Beverly Hills 90210’.

Every year, hundreds of college kids from the US take advantage of the cheap ski breaks and arrive en masse at the resort. They were a joy to behold. Their lack of vocabulary and general air of world domination would have made Dubya proud. Their lack of consideration and disdain for other guests would have had Dick Cheney jumping out of his wheelchair for joy.

I think that our xenophobic sense of disdain and disgust was justified as we watched them snowboard down the mountain, wearing surf shorts and bikinis, quarts of (very crap) American beer in hand, whooping and hollering to each other across the beginners’ trails.

The future of the western world rests in their hands. A frightening thought.

I’ve just read back over this post and have realised that I need to loosen up and get a life. I’ll break out the St Tropez lotion early and will start sewing the sequins on to that LBD. New Year’s Eve 2009 is only 338 days away.

The Twelve Days of Christmas

2008-12-24T03:01:00.000-08:00

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the second day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: two diamond earrings and Nigella’s Christmas on DVD.

On the third day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: three Touche Eclat pens, two diamond earrings and Nigella’s Christmas on DVD.

On the fourth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: four Woolford stockings, three Touche Eclat pens, two diamond earrings and Nigella’s Christmas on DVD.

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: five Singapore Slings (I could have said Tiffany rings but that would have been ridiculous)… four Woolford stockings, three Touche Eclat pens, two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: seven bracelets jangling; six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the eighth day of Christmas my true love gave to me: eight Mulberry handbags (Don’t pull that face! I didn’t get the Tiffany rings); seven bracelets jangling; six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the ninth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: nine Tiffany charms (oh, what the hell); eight Mulberry handbags; seven bracelets jangling; six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the tenth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: ten days in Aspen; nine Tiffany charms; eight Mulberry handbags; seven bracelets jangling; six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the eleventh day of Christmas my true love have to me: eleven nights in Hawaii; ten days in Aspen; nine Tiffany charms; eight Mulberry handbags; seven bracelets jangling; six Hermes scarves swaying, five Singapore Slings! Four Woolford stockings; three Touche Eclat pens; two diamond earrings and Nigella's Christmas on DVD.

On the twelfth day of Christmas, my true love gave to me: twelve days’ notice to vacate the premises and a letter from his solicitor advising me that my husband was divorcing me on the grounds of my unreasonable expectations and grasping approach to our marriage.

Merry Christmas, one and all!

Inspired by Julie, the wife of a friend at work, who has created a dish for each of the Twelve Days of Christmas. I'm hoping that she'll write a blog on which to post the photos of her very clever menus.

'Dear Santa, this year I'd like...'

2008-12-21T05:36:00.000-08:00

I'm not feeling my best today.

The Little Prince has gone off to his dad's for Christmas and, although I'll get him back on Boxing Day, I still find it hard to be away from him on Christmas Day. He always has a fantastic time, stays up too late at the type of family parties I'd have hated when I was married to his dad, so I don't worry about him. I just miss him.

Also, I have some horrible bug which has made me waste the day, wandering around the house in my pyjamas and feeling guilty about everything I should be doing. I've ended up on the sofa, eating pretzels and watching Nigella. Food porn.

Big Al's parents have just left after a pre-Christmas Christmas. Gifs were exchanged. Big Al had told me that he'd suggested my present from his folks and that it was going to be 'the best Christmas present ever' (more on this theme later). 'You'll love it!' he told me. I was hoping that they'd splashed out and brought me a new ski jacket. Or silver earrings.

It was a Teasmade. My own fault. I make no secret of the fact that, in the event of a fire/flood/escape to a nuclear bunker, I would take with me: son, husband, electric blanket and slippers. Perhaps not in that order.

Maybe it's time for a change of image. But not just yet. My gym has now shut for the holidays which means that any activity is banned until January. We leave for Canada on New Year's Eve and I've done 3 weeks of exercise. So it'll be another ski trip spent sweating on the easy runs and shouting at snow boarders.

I think I'll cheer myself up by sneaking the Teasmade and new slippers into the suitcase.

P.S. Regarding 'The Best Christmas Present Ever' - this week we were asked to email our contribution to the organisation's weekly newsletter for the Christmas edition.

I sent in my memory of the best present I'd ever given. A couple of years ago I gave Big Al an Anne Summers Fireman's Outfit. Of course I insisted that he tried it on (before Christmas Morning mass).

I have NEVER laughed as much as I did when he walked into the bedroom wearing blacker boxers, fake leather braces and luminous plastic cuffs. The piece de resistance was a red PVC fold out fireman's helmet, which was too small and sat on his head like a child's sou'wester.

All very funny and entertaining, and I thought it would make an amusing story for the newsletter. The trouble was, everyone else had written in about their Action Man, their Joe 90 gun, a lovely ski jacket (lucky cow) or paragliding over Table Mountain.

Never mind. We're going through a re-org soon. Maybe they'll keep me on for comedy value?

The evidence, me Lud.

2008-12-16T02:02:00.000-08:00

Re. my post Two Fat Ladies: for those of you who needed proof, see below. If you are of a sensitive disposition, look away now.

So, here I am having just been pulled off the floor. Nicely done, I don't think anyone around me noticed.

With tequila (note - I STILL have the red face).

Oh dear. What is going on with my backside? Perhaps its just a shadow.

Bless me, Father...

2008-12-15T13:17:00.000-08:00

Nunhead Mum of One has tagged me to reveal 7 facts about myself as part of the Breast Cancer Awareness campaign (thank-you!). I would attach the tag but I've been battling with the Edit functions on Big Al's Mac, (why the hell did we get a Mac?). Anyway, it's too late in the evening to be trying to right click on a non right click mouse, so you'll just have to imagine the tag.

In keeping with my convent school upbringing, I've decided to arrange them in a Seven Deadly Sins style, so here goes:

Gluttony (over-indulgence and over consumption to the point of waste). So, SO many to choose from, but the most festive would be eating a whole chocolate orange left by Father Christmas, before I even put a foot out of bed on Christmas morning.

Greed (a sin of excess, applied to the acquisition of wealth). Possibly it would be paying £80 for a sable blusher brush from Harvey Nicks after the vulture-like cosmetic counter assistants had sold me the earth in a make-up bag. In my defence, I didn't realise that it cost that much until I'd left the store. I decided that I had to keep it as, by that time, I'd drunk half a bottle of white wine to get over the shock and really couldn't be bothered to go back.

Sloth (the failure to utilize one's talents and gifts). Hmmn. I do tell Big Al that I have a headache too often for his liking....

Lust (involving obsessive or excessive thoughts or desires). This is quite closely tied up with Gluttony for me. I'll leave it there.

Wrath (uncontrolled feelings of anger). Don't get me started. OK, if you insist - the top 3 things which make me angry:

1. Women who take ages in the loo when there's a huge queue. What. Are. You. Doing. In. There? It takes me 2 minutes, three tops, to go to the loo. There are 30 people waiting for you to finish. Now is not the time to start rooting in your handbag for lipstick or to call your boyfriend on your mobile.

In fact, there's another thing which I don't get - women who use their mobiles whilst they are on the loo. It's not just that it's wrong and breaks an unwritten health rule, it's that this is my quiet time and I don't want a stranger to hear me pee-ing whilst their partner asks them what they want for tea.

2. Hairdressers who are young enough to be my daughter. What the hell happened there?

3. Smug parents in coffee shops who use the rest of us as their audience as they're talking to their children. For double points, they talk to their children in the third person. The whole family will be in Boden, the mother will have a Kath Kidston accessory tucked away somewhere (so 2006) and the father will be wearing a trilby cocked to one side and will read the Guardian.

Envy (resentment that another person has something one may perceive as lacking). A difficult one this, I don't really want to own up to Envy. Probably something to do with babies. i.e. Big Al and I can't have any, at a time when most of our friends are having their second or third. Of course, I'm very happy for them all. Except Big Al's friend who we met up with at the weekend and who has a wife pregnant with their first. And who was already talking about 'having another two at least'. Not the most sensitive of men, but I consoled myself with the fact that he was wearing a Harris Tweed jacket and looked a bit of an arse.

Pride (a desire to be more important or attractive than others). Well, who wouldn't?

I'll get my rosary, shall I?

Two fat ladies - 88

2008-12-13T09:07:00.000-08:00

Thank God. The office Christmas party has been and gone. It wasn't the one for which I'm planning to dress up as the Virgin Mary, it was the one with the dress in which I was going to look like a squashed Quality Street (the hazelnut in caramel one).

Anyway, I returned the purple dress. And the two red ones which followed. I finally settled on a black dress which I couldn't afford but which was very long so covered my legs and very low cut so showed off the only plus points about gaining weight.

I looked passable, even quite nice. Not the 'quite nice' as Keira Knightley describes herself in 'Love Actually' when she watches her wedding video. 'Oh, I look quite nice' she coos self-depreciatingly when we all know that SHE knows she is in fact quite stunning and we all want to kill her for her youth and skinny-ness.

No, I looked quite nice, as in 'OK', not TOO fat. Or so I thought.

'Twas a traditional office Christmas do - got ready for about 3 hours with my friends Kelly, Rachael and Mandy, drank Cava and cassis and discussed the possibility of giving the whole thing a miss and just staying in our hotel room upstairs, getting drunk. Finally, we decided we'd spent too much money and time for that and trooped downstairs in time for mulled wine before dinner.

Dinner went without a hitch but I knew I'd drunk too much when I found myself telling my gay work colleague that I bet I could turn him. I'm cringing as I write this.

But it gets worse.

First, I fell over on the dance floor - YES - it was ME! There is one at every office party and it was me. My only consolation is that this happened at the beginning of the evening before I was truly drunk. I tripped over the hem of my too long dress and laughed so much that I couldn't get up.

Then my Australian colleague (the one who runs marathons before breakfast) asked if my breasts were real, poked her fingers down my dress and jiggled them about.

Soon after this, I watched as my friend Carl skidded on his knees across the dance floor like a five year old at a wedding reception - very funny until I remembered he'd borrowed Big Al's £400 hand built DJ and trousers.

Tequila, sambuca and some self conscious dancing like my mum followed. I took myself off to bed after I found myself shouting backing vocals to 'New York, New York' across the bar to Paul, the Irishman responsible for the tequila and sambuca. Kelly and I had found it hard to say no to a very drunk male equivalent of Father Ted's housekeeper. 'Go on, go on, go on, go on. It's only a little shot'.

Anyway, it was time for a swift exit and as I stumbled to bed, I congratulated myself on surviving the evening without too much humiliation.

Sadly, the next morning, I was sent a link to someone's Facebook photos. There I was, red faced and sweating, doubled up with laughter after being retrieved from the floor. There I was, downing shots with my cleavage hanging over the remains of the turkey dinner. But worst of all, there were Kelly and I, at the beginning of the evening, wearing dresses which we thought had turned us into to Amazonian Angelina lookalikes but which made us look like the 'Before' photos for Weight Watchers recruits, on our way to the Gala Bingo Christmas party.

I can't bear it. I went back to the gym this week and have been 3 times since. I must, I must, I must reduce my bust.

Oui, je regrette beaucoup

2008-11-26T08:07:00.000-08:00

Two things I regret this week:

The first: I had to leave the house on Sunday after a heated exchange with The Little Prince. He’d asked me to help him prep for his music assessment. That was why I found myself downloading the backing track and searching for lyrics to Coldplay’s ‘Fix You’. The Little Prince played football outside with his friends (as I’m writing this, I realise how bad that sounds. Bear with me, it gets worse).

An hour later, I’d downloaded the music and printed the words. I even listened to the original and had written helpful notes in the margin so that he’d know how many bars to count in between verses and so on. I continued to try to help whilst he was practising. Until he told me that he couldn’t concentrate with me standing there, that I was trying to be too helpful and that he really didn’t need to practice anyway.

He’d just ‘wing it’.

So after a brief discussion in which I failed to behave like the adult I’m supposed to be, I left, muttering about the dire consequences of not putting in hard work. Of course I went to my parents for a soothing cup of tea and the chance to tell on my son…’but Mum, he’s not playing nicely…’

Fast forward to the ’phone call I received yesterday. The assessment went very well. His music teacher loved his ‘beautiful singing’. Two other teachers were drawn from their classrooms to listen. All three were in tears.

The Little Prince earned himself an A* and has learned nothing. No, that’s not true. He’s learned that, not only can he get by with no prep, he can score top marks and wow the ladies. Good grief, Charlie Brown (my favourite new phrase).

The second: I was in the throes of a successful diet last week, and signed up for lunchtime netball. WHAT???

Alas, am no longer in the throes of a successful diet. But I am on the list for netball, along with women who, if this were a comic book, would be the Magneto to my Dr X. My polar opposite. They are very nice, but... they are skinny, very, very fit, eat well, they work hard and run marathons (oh yes – a few weeks ago, one ran a half marathon before work, arriving at our meeting ‘so refreshed!’).

Soon I will be thundering across the court whilst they skip about and run rings around me (as long as they’re not holding the ball, obviously). I’ll stick myself down as Wing Defence, the netball equivalent of sitting in the corner.

It’s as if the last 25 years have never been.

Will I never learn?

Away in a manger

2008-11-19T06:45:00.000-08:00

Here’s a question – is it in poor taste to dress up as the Virgin Mary for our next team dressing up day? I go to church every Sunday, so it’s my religion. Surely that earns me the right to dress as VM herself, and to ask Venki, my colleague from Bangalore, to accompany me as Joseph?

My efforts to bring the team together have moved from drinks at the pub on Fridays, to baking and bringing in cakes on Mondays, to encouraging everyone to dress in a festive theme for a day near Christmas.

My desperate attempts to enthuse a sense of togetherness into the team have even made me betray standards. I’ve broken my one cardinal rule, normally invoked at this time of the year, and am organising Secret Santa. That’s right. This year I will be buying some cheap tat and handing it over to someone with whom I’ve not spent five minutes outside of the work environment.

Time to break out the chocolate willies and fluffy handcuffs.

Never mind, I’m hoping that my costume will bring a sense of class and decorum to the proceedings. I’ve persuaded my colleagues to dress up as Father Christmas, a reindeer and a Christmas elf, so some religious input is needed.

I’ve told Venki that I’ll organise a staff, a tea towel head-dress and a beard for him, and I’m sure Big Al will donate his striped dressing gown. I have a lovely royal blue evening dress I can use for myself, and will be ripping up sheets to use as a shawl. A pillow under the dress will complete the look for the morning, and then in the afternoon I’ll switch to carrying Tiny Tears in a blanket.

Perhaps it would be a step too far to bring in a donkey?

Dear Sir/Madam...

2008-11-16T12:44:00.001-08:00

FAO Her Majesty's Chief Inspector of Schools

Alexandra House

London

November 2000

Dear Sir/Madam,

Re. National Curriculum - Pre-School

I have recently decided to move to Somerset and have subsequently been visiting nurseries and play groups in the area. My investigations and my own experience of raising a child of pre-school age have led me to a disturbing conclusion - the Early Learning section of the National Curriculum is severely lacking in several areas. As a result, I would like you and your team to consider including the attached topics in future versions of the Curriculum and have included several questions as a useful teaching aid.

Please note - these are all questions I have been asked by my four year old.

Please contact me if you wish to discuss the questions further. Please do NOT contact me if you wish to discuss the answers.

Yours faithfully,

1. The Body

Why do we have skin?

Why do I need to sleep if my batteries don't need re-charging?

What does my brain do?

Why do we have legs?

Can I still breathe when I'm dead?

Why does all your skin fall off when your dead?

2. Reproduction

What was it like in your tummy?

Why couldn't I see in your tummy?

Was I laughing when I came out of your 'china'?

Did my head hurt when I came out of you?

Why was I borned a boy?

3. The world around us

Why are there clouds?

Why does the world move past us when we drive?

Is a cyclone badder than a hurricane

If Frosties tigers eat Frosties, why do ordinary tigers eat people?

4. Natural history

If dinosaurs were alive before we were born, were we dead?

What did dinosaurs do all day?

Which is badder, a brontosaurus or a tyrannosaurs rex?

If I tell you that there was a brontosaurus with horns, and you always say that there wasn't, would you keep quiet and say yes?

Can a sabre toothed tiger run faster than a cheetah?

5. Philosophy

When I die, will I be born again?

Can you still hear me when I'm dead?

All grown up?

2008-11-13T13:16:00.000-08:00

So, only 7 months, 1 week, 3 days and 20 minutes until I'm forty. This made me realise that I'm almost a grown-up and really don't have much time to sort myself out.

With this in mind, I've compiled a list of goals which, when reached, will make me a real Grown Up.

10 ways to know when I'm a Grown Up -

1. I will wear matching underwear every day.

2. I will tidy the drawer for my matching underwear so that items are grouped into Special, Going Out, Weekend and Work. As my mother told me (not long ago) 'Keeping a tidy underwear drawer takes hard work, FK. It doesn't just happen on it's own.'

3. I won't feel sick every time I go to the ATM.

4. I will stop swearing at other drivers, especially women at roundabouts.

5. I will delay changing into my pyjamas until at least 9.00p.m. At the moment, Big Al greets me at the door, I hand him my laptop bag and head straight upstairs to change into an old yoga outfit.

6. I will try yoga for the first time.

7. I will stop buying Walkers' French Fries as diet food, and eating three packets in a row.

8. I will get myself on the PTFA cake stall for the Christmas Fayre. Whoops, too late on this one for the third year running. My mother should have put my name down at birth.

9. I will have a tidy i-Pod full of worthy and meaningful songs, so that I don't shuffle through 89 tracks on my way to work, stopping only for the Spice Girls, Elbow and the occasional OMD hit from 1986.

10. I will shave my legs more than once a fortnight so that Big Al doesn't get velcroed to me in bed at night.

On a more positive note, I feel I'm moving in the right direction:

10 reasons why I know that I'm almost a Grown Up -

1. We have a guest room, which is tidy most of the time and not really used to store bags for the charity shop.

2. I put towels in the guest room when guests come to stay. And feel slightly shocked when they are unused after the guests have left the following morning.

3. I drive at 30mph in built up areas. I'd like to say it's because I had a 'road to Damascus' moment at the speed workshop I attended last year. But that would be lying. It's because I get such pleasure from making others behind me drive at the same speed. Especially Jonnie Boden types in large 4x4's.

4. My car has both front and rear fog lights.

5. I have comfortable insoles in all of my shoes. And not many of my shoes need re-heeling.

6. I made a Christmas cake. AND I'm feeding it. When I remember.

7. I went to the Lake District at half term and drank coffee out of a flask whilst wearing water-proof over-trousers.

8. I use a micro cloth on the shower door EVERY morning.

9. I buy the Christmas edition of Good House Keeping magazine and follow the instructions for a 'simple' Christmas Dinner with a diligence and attention to detail that would have made Barack's campaign team proud.

10. My creative son made a pretend security swipe system for his bedroom door out of an empty box previously used for my sensitive bladder panty liners.

Surely you can't get more grown up than wee-ing when you sneeze?

The Good, The Bad and The Hairy

2008-11-13T04:54:00.000-08:00

So, the Good Stuff and Bad Stuff from yesterday…

Good – ‘C’s Hair Day’ went down a storm. Everyone took part and C was touched that we’d created a day just for him. I’d attach photos, but would have to ask their permission which could lead to uncomfortable questions about blog addresses. You’ll just have to imagine the wondrous sight of 30 assorted IT analysts in small black and silver afro wigs.

Bad – We thought that The Cat had recovered from the trauma of the night before (see previous post). Big Al talked him down from the kitchen window (The Cat is a man’s man and treats me with the disdain I deserve) and comforted him with treats. All was calm. Until early this morning, when The Cat broke into our bedroom and sicked up several hairballs of black and silver afro wigs, over the duvet. Changing the sheets and scrubbing the carpet at 4 a.m. brought back many happy memories of The Little Prince’s early years.

Good – I looked hot yesterday. I wore an amazing pair of CHEAP jeans from New Look which took me from a size 16 to a size 12 and gave me super model legs.

Bad - said jeans turned out to be made from cheap stretch denim and grew bigger throughout the day. I had to hold them with both hands when walking and hitch them up every time I stopped. It reminded me of being 5 years old in the playground and pulling up baggy woollen tights. Not a great look in front of my team.

Good – Last night, I managed to fit in to the dress I brought last week for the impending Christmas party. I brought a size too small (WHY?) but after the three of us struggled for 10 minutes and after much shouting, swearing and sweating from all sides, we finally managed to do up the zip.

Bad – It looked rubbish. I’d had to hoist my industrial sized boobs to one side in order to get the dress done up, and it was so tight that I couldn’t move them back into position. The bright purple, which seemed funky and sexy in the shop, just looked ridiculous in our sitting-room. I looked like a lop-sided Quality Street.

Which reminds me, someone has brought in a tin of Celebrations. Now that I have no dress to slim for, I think I’ll tuck in. There’s always a silver lining.

Hair Today...

2008-11-11T12:24:00.000-08:00

So, tomorrow is 'Wear C's Hair to Work Day'.

Last month I made a gentle start to my team building strategy by persuading thirty IT analysts to buy shirts from a Nigerian colleague who moonlights as an importer of the loudest shirts this side of Trowbridge.

This month, we're going a step further. One of the team is fast approaching 50 and, in the throes of a mid-life crisis, has been quietly growing his hair. He likes to think of himself as the office eye-candy, but the aging rocker is not a good look for him (he's a friend, so I can say this to him. And have done, many times).

We decided to celebrate this with a tribute in wigs. Each of the 30 team members have paid to wear a small afro tomorrow (we're collecting for Children in Need). C doesn't know about this, and it will be interesting to see how he handles the embarrassment he has avoided so well to date. Remember people, humiliation is a vital item in the line manager's toolkit.

Anyway, The Little Prince and I have spent this evening spraying the wigs with silver paint (see above). A perfect salt and pepper 'do'. The cat is traumatised by what appears to be thirty small badgers hibernating in the kitchen. He won't come down from the edge of the kitchen window and is threatening to jump. If the wig day fails and the joke falls flat, I may join him.

Nigella & I

2008-11-10T13:03:00.000-08:00

So, today's question is: does the traditional wish for peace and harmony for next year, made whilst stirring the Christmas cake ingredients, still count if one is bickering with one's husband and 12 year old over the best way to fold in the flour?

I've recently bought the ultimate festive recipe book, 'NIGELLA CHRISTMAS'. In capitals. It really is that good. A whole chapter on preparation, and on how to appear perfect when you've actually just changed out of your jammies five minutes before the guests arrive. A whole chapter on cocktails. And (my favourite), a whole chapter on Christmas baking.

I love Nigella. I want to be her friend.

Big Al used to say (before he met me, of course), that the reason he and Kylie were not married was because she hadn't yet met him.

I know, deep down, that the reason I'm not Nigella's best friend is because circumstances have kept us apart and that, if we did meet, she'd want to be my best friend too. We'd be kindred spirits. I would be the Diana Barrie to her Anne of Green Gables. The Edina to her Patsy. The C3PO to her R2D2. You get the picture.

If we were friends, we would exchange tips on the best places to buy magic knickers or which newspaper makes the best recyclable Christmas wrapping (I suspect she's a Telegraph reader).

I used to dream of being Delia Smith's god-daughter, but lost all respect for her after the debacle on the Norwich City pitch. Too much sherry at half time, methinks. So Delia has been relegated to the back of the kitchen book shelf and is only retrieved when the situation requires an emergency chocolate bread and butter pudding (probably more frequently than is healthy).

'How to Eat' and 'Domestic Goddess' led me to Nigella's Christmas book and the situation in which the Knees family found themselves this evening.

After a long day in school and office, we were tired and probably not in the best frame of mind to be pushing 2lbs of cake ingredients around a too-small bowl and most of the kitchen work surfaces.

Big Al kept glancing at the book cover and the picture of Nigella bursting over the top of her festive dress whilst holding a plate of roast potatoes (rolled in mustard powder and cooked in goose fat? I can't wait to find out). I suspect he was aware of my crush and jealous of the potential competition.

He really shouldn't have worried.

The eggs separated in the mixture and I had to crush and sieve the cloves myself so people will be picking the stalks out of their teeth until Twelfth Night. I've just realised that I forgot to switch on the oven timer and have no idea how long the cake has been cooking. I'm a disappointment to Nigella and I know it's only a matter of time before I have to hand back my apron and say a tearful good-bye.

I'll join Delia in football's Division Four and will crack open a bottle of Croft's Original.

Chocolate bread and butter pudding, anyone?

PS: PM - I know I said I would stay away from the PC and tend to my post-cake kitchen, but I'm hoping that the tidy-up fairies will take pity on me and pay a visit.

Fluoride and fillings

2008-11-09T09:07:00.000-08:00

So, Bonfire Night is finally over. What a relief. Big Al, the husband, managed to inveigle an invite to a 40th birthday party and therefore avoid the onslaught of the Little Prince's friends. So what if the party was for an old college friend of 20 years - how could he leave me with four 12 year olds, a clutch of rockets and a large box of Standard's finest?

Of course, I did what any self respecting fast approaching middle aged mother would do. I went to my parents, taking a large slab of parkin, red wine and a car load of pre-teens. It was not an entirely selfish act - my father suffers withdrawal symptoms if he doesn't have anything to burn around the 5th November. Bonfire Night was always a big deal in our family, which is strange considering we were card carrying Catholics. Unfortunately I was too young to appreciate the irony of sitting in the front pew of our local church on the morning after we had burnt a newspaper and tights based effigy of poor Guy Fawkes.

For me, of course, the highlight of the celebration was not the fireworks, sparklers or 20 foot bonfire. It was the treacle toffee - a concoction solely responsible for my frequent visits to the dentist and many painful fillings. We kids had to live through annual fluoride treatments - an unpleasant and probably expensive business for all concerned (lots of gagging and gargling involved). My mother could have saved us all a lot of bother by cutting out the toffee on 5th November. I always missed most of the impressive fireworks whilst skulking in the darkened kitchen, shoving as much toffee into my mouth before I choked or someone walked in.

That does seem to be a recurring theme through my life. I was always the last to leave the table at birthday parties, throwing as many sausage rolls and French Fancies down my neck as I could before being forced to play Musical Chairs.

But, I digress, back to this weekend. As I mentioned, BA had escaped and The Little Prince had company. I was the dutiful parent and asked the friends' mothers if they were happy for us to have fireworks. One mother was unsure about kids handling explosives. I replied that I would make sure that her son wore gloves when holding the 10lb rocket which I planned to light using a burning copy of the Firework Code. Meanwhile, back in the world outside my head, I assured her that I would make him watch the proceedings from the safety of the conservatory.

We arrived at my parents to find Dad preparing for a military tattoo on the front lawn, glass of mulled wine in one hand, lit taper in the other and five large rockets under his arm. A more cavalier approach to the Firework Code I have yet to see. What did he do whilst I had to sit down with a large G&T and definite chest pains after being hit in the leg by a rogue Roman Candle? Lit another firework of course, and retreated substantially less than the 30 paces recommended in the instructions on the side of the box.

I'm not joking about being hit in the leg. This was the first of several incidents, which included a Catherine Wheel careering over to where we stood and a large rocket heading straight for us, as if guided by the NSA itself. Of course, I had saved the kids first by herding them into the conservatory - sorry Mrs S, a little late with the promised focus on safety.

However, I had hoped that the evening would serve one purpose. I'm due to start my pre-Christmas diet on Monday, so appreciated the opportunity to bulk up on sausages, toffee, cake and ice cream. I always find it's best to fatten myself up before a diet in the hope that I'll feel so ill that I'll welcome the chance to stop eating so much. One big blow-out before the final push towards the ever elusive size anything-less-than-I-am-now.

It didn't work. I'm brushing the parkin crumbs from the keyboard as I type.

Snow ploughs and adult education

2008-11-08T08:53:00.000-08:00

So, last week I signed up for a creative writing course at the local Adult Education Learning Centre. Adult Education makes me think of cartoon men in beards and sandals from the pages of a sex education book which my mother brought for my elder sister and I at the far too young ages of 8 and 6, when she announced that she was pregnant (with my darling younger brother). The cartoon pictures of pubic hair, sperm and female anatomy are forever burned into my memory and were never discussed once the book had been handed over.

I'm always surprised that my mother thought to give us the book. After all, we're talking about a woman who, a few years later, was dismayed to hear my news that we teenaged girls had been given a talk on female hygiene, complete with instructions on how to insert tampons. 'I'm not sure I approve of that sort of thing,' she said, and returned from her next shopping trip with several large boxes of brick-like sanitary towels.

Anyway, back to the Creative Writing. With a capital C. Unfortunately, the Dummies' Guide to Creative Writing, also known as the introductory course, began several weeks ago and rather than have to wait until next September, I had to join the Intermediate level. The word 'Intermediate' strikes fear into my very soul. It's a word often used in skiing literature when booking lessons. I'm a serial beginner and haven't moved past a snow plough or green runs after 5 seasons. More of that in a later blog, perhaps.

I tentatively asked the college assistant if the introductory course was a prerequisite and she replied, 'It says here that you just need an interest in reading'. So far, so good. 'Oh, and you have to have been writing seriously for some time. Have you been writing seriously for some time?'. If you count shopping lists, birthday cards and writing my 10 favourite songs to be buried with, during a particularly boring meeting last week, then yes, I have been writing seriously for some time. I paid the course fee and started to panic.

And have been panicking ever since. Time to start some SERIOUS writing. Unfortunately, this will coincide with my time to start some SERIOUS exercise. The writing course starts the day after I return from our 10 day long ski trip in Canada. After I returned from a week's sweating across the slopes last year (I never, ever point the skis downhill), I swore that I would be 2 dress sizes smaller and have a heart rate 20 beats slower before I returned. Of course, I have done nothing and so now the SERIOUS stuff starts.

Hence the appointment with a personal trainer on Monday evening and the stream of consciousness you are (perhaps) reading now. Of course, all things are relative. Painful though both may seem now, I'd rather be hunched over my PC or even the cross trainer than leafing through the pages of 'How I Was Made' with my sister, trying to blink away the imagined faces of my parents, super-imposed on cartoon pictures of long haired and sandalled '70s couples.