Snow

So this is what it looked like in my back garden today...





The kids obviously were thrilled. Last time it snowed here to any great significance nos 3& 4 were still in the double buggy. I can still remember the fun of slaloming to school (not...)

Funnily enough the fact that all this white stuff had fallen out of the sky in the night was enough to have everyone up and out of the door before you could sneeze.

I made them all wrap up warm and put on their fleece lined boots which have languished in a cupboard for a year since Spouse had the bright idea of buying them from Millets, and off we trotted through the allotments.

We were the first to make our mark on the snow, so the children had great fun spotting animal tracks - mainly cats it has to be said, but we did see a couple of foxes. Normally, I am pretty anti foxes (bring back hunting I say) as they poo all over my garden, but I have to fess up and say the sight of one striding through the snow is something to behold.

By the time we arrived at school, kids were all covered in snow from chucking snowballs at one another. (The only ones they are likely to get to throw, Elf and Safety no doubt ensuring that they won't get another chance at school).

Elf and Safety had gone walkabout when we arrived though, as only four teachers had made it into the junior school. So merry mayhem ensued as I walked the little ones across the playground to their school. No 4 couldn't have been wetter if she tried.

I had intended to go swimming, but discovering there was a possibility the kids could get sent home if enough staff didn't turn up, I decamped back to my friend's house for a civilised cup of tea instead.

By the time we knew the kids were staying it was too late for a swim, so I wandered back through a rather watery wintry wonderland instead. No doubt it will have all melted when I go to pick the kids up, but while I feel for anyone who has to commute in this weather, it is nice to have some proper snow for once. Finally, the seasons are doing what they are supposed to. Not good news for my poor daffs who had brazenly been pushing their way up assuming that winter wasn't happening this year, or for the onion sets we recently planted, which looked distinctly chilly under a blanket of snow. But... it doesn't happen often.

And for the first time since I've been visiting my Ozzie friends' blogs and fantasising about sunshine, I'm enjoying some PROPER January weather. (Sorry, Bec, but the beach and January don't go together ever, when you've been brought up here!)

The skies are still grey, so there's an outside chance of more to come.

I do hope so.

As a) I'm dying to make a snowman and b)if it lasts till the weekend, we can go sledging.

Who says snow doesn't speak to the kid in us all?

CBB Again....

Sorry about this, really I am, but...

Last night have to fess up that we did watch, because I wanted to see for myself what this alleged racist bullying was all about. And boy were we in for a show.

Actually, I'm not convinced that the bullying is racist particularly (apparently Jermaine called Jade white trailer trash and got away with that ), but it is deeply unpleasant. My feeling is that it is mainly motivated by jealousy, and it is actually a class thing. Shilpa is beautiful, well educated, and let's face it speaks English a hundred times better then Jade and co (a point which she wasn't slow to make last night). Jade is only famous for being on a reality tv show, otherwise she would still be in the gutter. Danielle is famous for shagging a footballer and winning/losing Miss Great Britain (and I do believe the shagging was first) and Jo was famous for being in a teen band and has clearly lost her way.

Last night we had the excruciating spectacle of Jade repeatedly asking Shilpa when she lost her virginity. Apart from the obvious do we care? answer to this, it was so bleedin' ignorant of her. Just because Jade is an old slapper, doesn't mean everyone is, and she appears incapable of opening her mind up enough to cope with the idea that other cultures don't embrace their sexuality in the way we do. The more I see of Shilpa the more I think modern day India is clearly superior to modern day England. Your average poor man on the street in Delhi is striving striving to do better, get his kids educated, find a way out of the poverty trap. While here? We seem to revel in ignorance and dumbing down. The only way anyone wants to improve themselves is without any effort, ie, going on a crap show like BB, getting their five minutes in the sun and making money out of nothing. And a whole generation is growing up thinking this is what they should aspire to. I'd say way to go Channel 4, but to fair to them, they're only tapping into the zeit geist.

But onto the big business of last night: namely the row between Shilpa and Jade over an oxo cube.

Granted Shilpa did make rather a big deal out of something not that important (but then if I'd spent over a week being got at by three snide little bitches, I guess I'd find it hard to descend to their petty level), but bloody hell.

Jade was absolutely foul. She let rip, screamed abuse, misunderstood Shilpa, who realised she had made a linguistic mistake and instead of saying oxo was the one thing she'd ordered, corrected herself and said it was the only thing she'd ordered. She apologised for her mistake as this misunderstanding had set the row off, and Jade continued to scream abuse and call her a liar. What was worse was that Jo and Danielle giggled throughout this shocking display as if Jade's behaviour was somehow hilarious. Danielle also added at one point I wish she'd go home.

Now what I found also shocking, was that apart from Jermaine (is he the mole? He seems to be winding Shilpa up something chronic) who intervened to separate the women, no one did anything. Cleo, who wrings her hands alot and clearly wants to mother the younger ones SHOULD in my view have had a go at them all, but instead we saw her comforting Jade later. And when she had a chat with Shilpa she told her Jade wasn't racist (yeah, right) and she didn't know what the problem was. Now granted, we may not have been shown parts where Cleo was wading into try and sort things out, but the Jade is not racist tag smacked of a set up.

This seemed clearer then ever when we witnessed Danielle in the diary room. At first she affected nonchalance and said nothing much had happened that day and it had been boring. Crikey, her life must be one long cat fight if she found that little exchange dull.

Clearly Big Brother filled her in on events, because you could see the penny drop suddenly when she was asked why she thought Shilpa should go home. Oh my god I didn't mean to be racist, was what she wanted to say - but where would she have got that idea from, hm? By the end of the interview she was solemnly saying she realised she had followed the crowd and now she felt really bad. If anyone believes that display of contriteness they're easily fooled. She's desperately trying to claw her way out of a hole. Watch her drop Jade like a ton of bricks...

There were funny moments though - Shilpa telling Jade that she was only famous for a tv show (and didn't that touch a nerve!) and Jermaine in the diary room ruminating that Jade was trying to be in control of - what exactly? - in a few week's they're all out of there - certainly lightened the tone.

But overall, I think it was one of the most unpleasant things I've ever witnessed. I thought Channel Four had scraped the bottom of the barrel with last year's freak show, but apparently not. In order to boost ratings we'll stir up a racist controversy. It is deeply deeply irresponsible and could do a great deal of harm for race relations in this country. I said yesterday I thought Jade and her cronies would be crucified when they came out, and rather uncharitably that they deserved to be. I meant by the tabloid press, who are surely going to have a field day. But really it could be much worse. Channel Four apparently have received death threats. There are some crazy people out there, and surely Jade and her chums are going to be targets of hate mail and possibly worse now. I wonder how those Channel Four execs will feel if one of them gets badly hurt?

Sadly, I think this whole sorry mess will actually boost the ratings further and make BB a cert to stay on our screens for some time to come.

But this time, I really won't be watching.

Celebrity Big Brother

Well in for a penny, in for a pound. Everyone seems to be talking about this today, so I may as well put my two penn'orth in.

I don't usually watch BB, because while I thought the first series was genuinely groundbreaking tv, over the last seven years it appears to me to have become either more and more debauched (I can remember turning on once to watching girls mudwrestling - even Ben Elton's very funny piss take of BB in Dead Famous never imagined anything quite so revolting), or nastier all in the name of "entertainment" and pulling in the ratings. Let's be clear here, we are not seeing what actually happens in the house, we see what the programme makers want us to see. Half the time when you watch it live you can't hear what people say, presumably for the editors to play around/make the contestants appear to be acting in a certain way. Personally, I think it's bread and circus tv, and I wouldn't normally bother with it.

However, I have been watching this series on and off because I am about to start my next novel which doesn't feature reality tv as such, but is going to (I hope) cock a snook at the mad celebrity obsessed world which we seem to inhabit. Ever felt you've walked through the Looking Glass? Me too.

Without giving too many details away I do have a zedlebrity character (that is such a great word!) whose name will begin with J (but she's not called Jade) who is going to drag my hero into an insane world he never wanted to enter.

To start with CBB seemed ok really. I was astonished to see Ken Russell there, and it was very funny seeing how none of the younger ones knew who he was. Mind you, I don't know who half the other contestants are either, but then I don't read Heat mag (except for research purposes). I thought the guy who did a bunk when he found out Jade Goody was coming was hilarious (but was that not completely set up? He just happened to find a foothold, and when he was up over the wall there seemed to be a convenient gantry to walk down. How handy).

In the main to begin with I thought people seemed actually quite nice to each other. I was surprised and found it quite refreshing when the contestants seemed genuinely upset that they were split up into the servants' quarters and the posh bit. Though it was very post modern to have Jade Goody's family with servants.

Jade at the point also surprised me. She too seemed upset about the way the house had been divided, and she also came down hard (quite rightly in my view) on her appalling mother who refused to pronounce Shilpa's name properly.

I then lost sight of the programme for a bit, relying mainly on the internet to find the amusing news that first Ken and then Leo had pulled out. It seemed to me that CBB was heading for flop status of the highest order.

But then. Tantara, suddenly we find ourselves in the middle of a racist controversy.

Don't get me wrong, I missed the relevant episodes but the reported comments made by Jade and co are deeply offensive and unnecessary. More importantly they are plain stupid, and show Jade, Jo and Danielle up for the bigoted morons they undoubtedly are. Shilpa has come out of the whole thing in an incredibly dignified fashion, and good on her I say. I did see last night when she calmly sat in the diary room and said she wasn't bothered one bit by Jade and what hurts you makes you stronger. It was a consummate performance and good luck to her. I hope she wins now.

It does strike me though, that if Channel Four were panicking about ratings, and the success of the show, then this was a brilliant way of getting everyone talking about it. Which apparently we all are. And lest you think I'm a cynic, apparently yesterday pulled the third largest number of viewers for the series. Surprise, surprise.

I feel deeply heartened that over fourteen thousand people in this country care enough about people behaving like racist bullies that they bother to write to a tv programme to say they don't think it acceptable behaviour on our tv screens. It gives me hope that we aren't as I often think, witnessing the fall of Rome.

But...

There are questions being asked in Parliament.

There are apparently effigies of Channel Four execs being burned in India.

Is it me, or is this just a little excessive?

I think Shilpa's family have taken exactly the right tack - they've issued a brilliantly calm and dignified email in which they express thanks that so many people in the UK have supported their daughter and that she is strong enough to withstand the bullying. I think she is too.

But it really shouldn't be happening, and Channel Four should be ashamed of themselves that they have sunk so low in their search for controversy to let it happen. Deeply ironic from a company which has always had projecting a positive image of minorities as part of its remit.

I do think it is educative though, to us as a nation. For those bigoted tiny souls out there who think Jade and co are right (and sadly I think they exist) perhaps they might compare Jade, Danielle and Jo's small minded bitchiness with the calm and dignified response from Shilpa and her family. I know who I think is more civilised.

And to leave on a positive, which I shamelessly have pinched from the Jeremy Vine show it was so good. Wouldn't it be hilarious if Jade Goody was the person who caused the demise of Big Brother.

Now that's what I would call a result....

Cooking up a Storm

Me. I like cooking. It's just making meals every single day that bores me.

So I was thoroughly delighted when no 1 received a copy of Sam Stern's Cooking up a Storm for Christmas. To those not in the know, this is a fantastic cookery book for teens written by an improbable cooking prodigy. However, I'm not complaining, I tried his scones recipe and it was fantastic. Plus, if my children learn to cook from him, in a few years time I can put my feet up, while they LOOK after me (ah bliss). I am trying to get them trained to see that cleaning bathrooms isn't something their mother should always do, but funnily enough that doesn't seem to have quite the same appeal.

However, the cooking thing seems to be really tickling their fancy. So the other week, no 1 announced she wanted to cook us a meal. She and no 2 poured over recipes in the book before plumping for pizza and chocolate roulade. Actually, this wasn't quite as straightforward as it sounds as they made the mistake of consulting their little sisters about the menu and no 3 refused point blank to eat chocolate roulade (not that she knew what it was, but still...) and then going off to have a huge strop. As this is par for course at the moment with no 3 (she seems to have taken over from no 2 as my drama queen. It is REALLY trying to have not just one, but TWO middle children), everyone of course ignored her.

We then realised that the roulade recipe called for five eggs, and of course we didn't have any (mainly because Spouse does the shopping and he doesn't like eggs, so ergo he doesn't buy any. It never occurs to him that you can use eggs elsewhere in cooking, and just because HE doesn't like fried eggs, other people might). Neither did we have any chocolate. So the chefs had to go to the local corner shop before they left - though not before they had made the dough for the pizza. I think they both need a few lessons in forward planning before they really get the hang of this cookery thing, but at least their dough was rising while they were shopping. (Miraculously, I did have yeast in the house.)

They came trotting back from the shops and then, with a bit of supervision they made a really yummy roulade mixture. Separating the yolks from the whites was a little interesting and no 2 spent rather a long time fishing egg shell out of the bowl, but we got their in the end. The only trouble was I had a very thin baking tray, so while the roulade cooked beautifully and tasted scrumptious, roulade like it was not, as the whole thing crumbled up when we got it off the tray. Never mind... it was rather an ambitious thing to cook on your first attempt.

This weekend we held a dinner party and no 1 rather startled me by offering to make the starter. Call me a control freak, but I like to plan my menus myself, even if I leave it to the last minute (a trait that never fails to infuriate Spouse, who can't understand why, on Wednesday I cannot think far enough ahead to Saturday and work out what we're having.) He and no 1 plumped on making vegetable kebabs using tomato/feta/olives, which didn't really go with my plan of chicken in wine and onion sauce, but hey ho, I cannot complain about no 1's culinary enthusiasm.

She also decided to cook burgers and potato wedges for our friends' children who were coming round too, but having still not worked out that cooking takes time, she left it till the last minute. So while I was in the bath, Spouse took over and defrosted some burgers for her, though she did do the wedges.

I am now looking forward to her suggestion for next weekend. Is she going to try rack of lamb or herby chicken? Anything but pizza again (they made so much first time, we froze two and had them for Saturday lunch)...

If she'll let me, I'll teach her how to do a roast, and then I won't have anything to do on Sundays.

In the meantime, I can thoroughly recommend Sam Stern's book to anyone with children old enough to cook. It is quite possibly the best investment you're ever likely to make...

Is It Me?

As my favourite Radio 2 DJ would say.

I have been pondering the fact that though I am probably completely out of tune with the rest of the world and am about to commit a sacreligious act, by even thinking it, let alone saying it, I just don't get the Beatles.

There. Now I feel much better.

Don't get me wrong.

I was born half way through the sixties so the Beatles formed the soundtrack to my early life. When I was a teenager everything was retro sixties, and to those of us who boogied our way through the eighties there was always some slight feeling of having been cheated that being in nappies at the time, we somehow missed out on the biggest decade of the twentieth century. (Mind you, maybe that's just youth - my niece felt the same about the eighties...)

Nearly every party I went to in my teens featured I Want to Hold Your Hand/Hard Day's Night/All You Need is Love etc, so maybe my feeling of bafflement about the Fab Four as I approach middle age is simple ennui. I was overexposed to them at such a tender age, it is no wonder that now I can't bear to listen.

But actually, the simple truth for me was, that once I got to hear the Kinks, the Stones, the Zombies, I just felt the Beatles were overrated. Sure they wrote some catchy numbers, but maybe they only hit the big time because they were there first... I wasn't even born when they had their first no 1 so how should I know. And anything John Lennon wrote on his own was just a pile of crap as far as I'm concerned. I always fantasised about having some rock god writing me a fabulous song when I was young. But Woman would have had me pouring water on his head (Had it been Layla, then you'd be talking...) And as for Imagine. Well. What a load of idealistic nonsense that was. Possibly the most pretentious piece of musical writing in the history of pop music.

Still.

The Beatles.

They are iconic.

And we have just been given the new George Martin remix album for Christmas.

Spouse put it on in the car while we were driving back from Shropshire, and I have to say I listened with great anticipation. Maybe George would reach the aural parts that normal Beatle tracks couldn't...

I have to confess it was a little tricky listening, as the kids were watching a DVD at the time, but I got the general gist, and the answer is ...

Nope.

Sorry George it didn't work.

At least not for me.

All you need is love irritates the hell out of me more then ever.

I am the Walrus is plain stupid.

And Hey Jude sounds even wetter twenty years on. (We always used to hate that one as kids).

Having said that the ones that always worked for me: Eleanor Rigby, Lady Madonna and While My Guitar Gently Weeps still blow my mind.

But - is it me? This album has been hyped to death. Does it really sound so different?

I didn't think so.

But then.

I'm not a big Beatles fan. And I don't really get it.

But then I don't get: Big Brother, Russell Brand or Pop Idol either.

There's obviously no hope for me...

There are mushrooms growing in my bathroom...

I kid you not.

Spouse got up this morning to have a bath and came back with the astounding news that we appear to have some fungal growth underneath the sink.

This news in fact is less astounding when I tell you the story of our bathroom...

Be warned it's not pretty.

We moved into our current abode nearly eleven years ago. We were fortunate to purchase at the moment before house prices rocketed (a year later and we couldn't have afforded it), but the downside was we bought a house from an old lady which was in dire need of an overhaul. The place had to be rewired immediately, and before our first winter set in we had to get some heating in place.

Apart from that and decorating no 1's bedroom we did little else in that first year (oh, we did cover the vile bright orange kitchen walls in magnolia just to make it look vaguely respectable).

In our second year of habitation, though, we really got going with a vengeance. The lounge and dining room were redecorated, the front drive was ripped out and a concrete base put in ready for our pyrotechnical builder's mate to lay a driveway at the point in time when all concreting at the back of the house had been finished (several years later as it turned out, but we weren't to know that then).

In the meantime we turned our attention to the room that has become our bathroom. We were sold the house as a five bedroomed abode, on the basis of this room. Given that is off our bedroom, the only convenient way of using at as another bedroom would have been to put a corridor in our own room and making that much smaller. So we decided to make an ensuite bathroom instead. As this would have been rather large, we also decided to divide it in half and rather pretentiously to make the room between the bathroom and our bedroom a dresssing room. We realised quite quickly this was a silly idea, so now it's actually my office. A bit odd I know, but it does mean I can check my emails while the bath is running.

Anyway, back to our bathroom.

The course of construction didn't run smooth. Mainly because initially we used a mate from our local (generally known as Trigger, so I think you can probably guess where this is heading) to help out. Spouse felt sorry for him at the time because he was out of work. I did too, to begin with. However after watching him scratch his head and ponder problems for hours, that even I could see solutions to (but I am A GIRL, THEREFORE I KNOW NOTHING), I got rather fed up with having Trigger on the premises. The crunch came when he came downstairs and told me he'd spent over an hour trying to work out which way the architrave slotted together. Now call me stupid, but actually although it is the kind of thing you say, oh yes it could be that way, really looking at it logically there is only one way architrave goes. And if you can't work it out, GO AND LOOK AT ANOTHER DOORWAY! My response was to say just go that way, I don't really care, it's for a bathroom door, no one but me and Spouse are going to look at it, but Trigger wasn't going to let me make such an important decision. Heaven forfend. He might have had to do some work. Instead he downed tools for the day and met Spouse in the pub later to discuss this important issue over a pint.

Scroll on a few months and we were ready to get the bathroom fitted. By now Trigger was working with another decorator mate of ours, and together they were going to tile and decorate the bathroom. We got a plumber of our accquaintance in to do the plumbing, and a Sparky we had known a long time to wire up the shower.

First off, we discovered somewhat belatedly that our Sparky who's always been a heavy drinker (ok we did meet him in the pub) has gone severely off the rails since his wife left him, and now shakes rather alarmingly when he's at work. (The DTs are not something you really want your Sparky to suffer from, but we didn't know anyone else at the time). He was also somewhat less then reliable. Spouse was having enormous trouble getting him to the new surgery he had just opened up at the time, and when he did get Sparky there, the light fittings he put in were questionably dangerous. It's a miracle our shower hasn't caused a housefire yet...

Thanks to several non appearances from Sparky, we ended up in a situation where no one could proceed to the next part of the job, because he hadn't fitted the wiring for the shower. The plumber couldn't fit the shower till he'd done his bit, and without the shower being in place the tiles couldn't be done. Everyone fell out and they were all blaming each other. There is no honour among builders...

At one point I was threatening to lock them all in the room and not let them out till they'd finished, but somehow eventually the job got done.

At the same time our bedroom was being decorated, so we were in the spare room next door. By now I was heavily pregnant with no 2, and the chaos caused by her arrival meant it was some months before we got back into our own room and started to use our lovely shiny new bathroom.

The first problem we discovered was that the shower didn't work. It was still within guarantee so I called the man out to find that far from it not working, the bloody thing had been fitted so close to the tiles that the switch didn't work properly. The buggers charged me a call out fee as it wasn't covered under guarantee. Of course by now it was too late to get Trigger and friends to pay for that, besides which none of them would admit responsibility.

Problem two was that the taps on the sink are at such an angle that when you turn them off, the last drip runs back down the tap and pools on the top of the sink. If you don't turn the taps off incredibly tightly the sink ends up overflowing onto the carpet (now are you surprised we have mushrooms in our bathroom?)

We checked with the plumber who said it was the fault of the manufacturers. They claimed it was the way it had been fitted. The decorators claimed it wasn't their fault. So we were stuck with it.

To add insult to injury within weeks I dropped something heavy onto the side of the sink and smashed a bit off, ensuring when the leaks occurred they quickly became a flood. The cold tap developed a permanent leak which couldn't be resolved except by shutting it off. We live in a hard water area and Spouse is constantly changing the washers on the bath and the sink.

We also made the mistake of buying a spa bath - Spouse got excited by using one in a hotel we had been in. It was fiercely expensive and is actually a damned nuisance. The pipes get clogged up and we hardly ever use it as we're both a bit paranoid about it harbouring legionnaire's disease (I swill it out from time to time with bleach, but still...)

A further problem ensued when we realised how cold and damp the room is. None of our helpful builders had the wit to notice there are no party walls on the outside, so within weeks our lovely shiny paintwork was peeling off, we have damp in the ceiling which we have dealt with about three times now, and I have come to hate the room with a vengeance.

Rip it out and start again, I hear you cry. Well, yes, I agree, that's what it needs. But to do it properly we have to smash up the tiles and properly insulate the walls and start again. Ok, the sink is a nightmare and needs replacing, but the bath is perfectly ok (legionnaire's disease not withstanding). I appreciate I am probably out of step with today's throwaway culture, but I balk at replacing a bathroom which is less then ten years old and still works.

However.

Mushrooms.

In my bathroom.

I think it's time to throw principles to the wind.

Bathroom shops, here I come...

In the meantime I have a mushroom outbreak to deal with.

Suggestions anyone?


Oh ... and a happy New Year to one and all. Do hope yours has started somewhat better then mine!!

Hullo I must be going...

I can't stop long as I'm off to Shropshire to visit my mother, the children are unclad, unwashed and unfed, and the house looks like a bomb's hit it. Spouse is at work pulling the teeth out of all the people who got a sixpence stuck in their mouths courtesy of a Christmas pudding and I have just run down the road in my dressing gown to put the wheelie bin out in case the bin men miraculously do come today. If, as I suspect they don't, I shall be dashing over to the tip before Spouse is back... hence my lack of time.


The Christmas festivities passed in a pleasantly bucolic haze. Christmas starts for us with the children's nativity service at 5pm. (That makes five I've attended - count them, five - but it was charming and I do like the carols). Then it was home to rush round doing last minute tidying before toddling over to the neighbours who every year bravely hold a drinks party on Christmas Eve. There was some talk of cancellation this year as the host was in India up until recently, but their children all decided that everyone would still come anyway...

We staggered back from there at 11.30pm, and for once could sit down as we had wrapped all the presents. Actually not all. One of Santa's gifts was two dalek battle packs which I had forgotten about. Santa also had to write a note to the children (with his left hand so no 1 couldn't tell me it looked like my writing) and then of course I spilt red wine over all the presents. So I didn't get to bed till 3.30 and the kids woke up at ... 4am!

Luckily, they know better now then to wake us too, but I did stagger out of bed at 7.30 to put the turkey on. And we all went to see what Santa had left by the chimney. After weeks of angsting from Spouse and I and many trips to Argos (Nos 2&3 had requested the entire catalogue, and half the things they were after ended up being out of stock), No 1 seemed delighted with skates, no 2 was over the moon about her doll's house, no 3 was thrilled to bits with Polly Pocket, though it wasn't the right one, and bizarrely, no 4 was ecstatic about getting Scooby Doo, which seemed a bit of a crap present to me. But he does talk, so I suppose that makes up for it.

They all loved their daleks sets, but of course though we had wisely bought lots of batteries, they were the WRONG sort... So Spouse had to dash out and get some more.

Meanwhile I went back to bed (hurrah, my children are now old enough that I can), leaving the turkey to sizzle at the bottom of the oven.

However, when I got up I realised that it was cooking too slowly, but as it was on a trivet, it was too high to put anywhere else in the oven. With the help of my sil and watched by bil, mil and Spouse (who I ended up banishing from the kitchen because of the stress of it all), we removed turkey from trivet and put it on a plate. Stupidly, I then forgot to put something to catch the fat, so when we did get the bloody thing out finally gallons of the stuff poured onto the floor. Mind you, it did shine the floor up nicely...

In the meantime my Christmas pud which I had made the day before (great recipe for lazy mums...) was a disaster as I forgot to put the suet in, so it had no fat to bind it. It ended up a glutinous mess, in a vaguely puddingy shape, but it did burn nicely and it tasted edible. Luckily sil had provided another pudding.

Bil meanwhile had chopped enough vegetables to feed the whole of England. So yesterday I decided to make soup from the leftovers. I was halfway through blending the remains, when my blender literally caught fire (it was a wedding present seventeen years ago, so I suppose it's done pretty well really). I then got out my smoothie maker to finish off what was left, and managed to chop the end off the plastic thingie which I was using to push the vegetables down. So that lot got thrown away. I think someone is trying to tell me something...

Still, we had a lovely day, which ended with us watching Dr Who en famille. An hour of David Tennant is enough to make this particular mum's Christmas absolutely perfect....

Ahh, bliss!

A Happy Christmas One and All

I know I've been a bad tempered old bat about the festive season, while the offspring were doing their many and varied nativity things. But now it's upon us, I do find it hard to be bah, humbuggy, much as I would like to. I took the kids to the nativity service at our local church this evening, and it was really lovely. So I'm not the Scrooge I like to pretend to be.

So to all the readers of maniac mum, I extend my grateful thanks that you've bothered to read my blog this year, and my merry felicitations for the festive season.

To end on a frivolous note. It's past 3am, and I have just spilt wine over a load of christmas pressies. One of them was to my mil from her eighteen year old great nephew. The package was so wet, I stupidly ripped open the paper so I could repackage the present. To discover that he had given her a bra. My mil is 83. He is 18. Minds and boggling don't come into it. Needless to say I've rewrapped it and forged his signature. I just hope she doesn't notice a thing....

A very merry Christmas and Happy New Year to you all.

Maniac Mum might be a bit quiet over the next few days, but hopes to resume normal service in the New Year.

So little time, so much to do...

If anyone is still out there, you may have noticed I've been rather quiet. (oh good I hear you say).

The main reason was I was up to my eyes in my pesky deadlines.

I can now reveal that one of them is for my first novel - the allotment book is going to make into print next autumn, published by Harper Collins, it's going to be called Pastures New. Which is all very exciting. But having spent eight years writing pretty much for myself it's a wee bit scary suddenly having to live up to people's expectations. Every line I wrote now seems crass beyond belief, and in the end I just had to send it off otherwise I thought I'd be tinkering forever.

My other deadline is for a children's story called Awkward Annie, which will be published by Evans, although I'm not quite sure when. I'm really pleased about this as the character is based on no 2, so not unnaturally, I'm rather fond of her...

In between all of this of course, I have been attending all the various Christmas events for the children.

So far we've had:

No 2 as a cool wise man wearing shades. I know I'm biased, but she and her confederates stole the show. Sadly I don't have a picture as years of returning from these things with crappy pictures of my offspring means I tend not to bring a camera these days.

While we were doing this Spouse went with nos1 & 3 to be ecowarriors and cut down our Christmas tree (along with about twenty others - the deal is you help clear the heathland and then take a free tree home. Or four in our case. Spouse got one for mil and the kids decided they needed one each in their bedrooms. Right....)


Last Tuesday saw nos 1&2 at their carol concert. The church where this is held has very little vision so I was lucky to spot no 2 at all. No 1 surprised me by leaping up halfway through the service, to do something, I knew not wot. It turned out she'd lit a candle.

They do a repeat in the evening to which I normally don't go, but as the littlies are a bit bigger now, we all went on a moonlit walk through the allotments, which was actually rather nice. I felt a momentary pang when I realised this is no 1's last Christmas effort at her current school, till I realised I still have six more performances to go. Poor no 4, I'll be cheering when it gets to her last show...

No 4 put in an appearance as a villager last Wednesday. She had to say WE WANT PEACE AND QUIET, which she did very loudly. She then complained that she only had one line...

Last up is no 3 who is narrating in a Christingle service tonight.

Then that's us done and dusted till Christmas Eve when we go to the family service at 5pm.

So I am thoroughly Christmassed out, but in quite a nice way.

At the weekend Spouse and I did some last minute panic shopping as we were all out of ideas for everyone. Nos 2&3 have copied out the entire contents of the Argos catalogue for their Santa lists. I told no 2 she wasn't getting the Bratz house, because a) it's too expensive and b) as Spouse rightly points out, it looks like a bordello. However, her cool response was well, Santa doesn't pay for presents does he? Oh damn...

We also had the surreal experience of singing carols at high speed in our local pub on Sunday night. It's great fun, but not such a good idea on a Sunday, as neither of us felt very clever yesterday....

And we still have a week's heavy drinking to go...

Thanks to a heavy cold I can't even be virtuous and say I'm exercising.

But I have done this...

Never one to miss a trick me. I've just posted this on You Tube. The soundtrack should of course be Running on Empty, but Vivaldi can't sue!


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PVV7aXpg8B0


Happy Christmas!

What's a girl got to do to get out of the house?

After weeks of having a fairly lazy time my life has suddenly gone MAD....

I have three looming deadlines. One for the end of the week. One for the end of next. And one (the most important one) for 21 December. I feel like I am chucking three balls in the air and just watching them drop... The trouble is a 9-3 working day just isn't long enough.

Last night was another mum's night out. This time it was no 4's, and a) given that I had run out of excuses for not attending and b) by the time no 4 is left at school on her own all my other mummy friends will be long gone so I facultatively reckoned I should start cultivating some more, if I am not to be left mournfully standing alone in the playground contemplating the glory days when I knew everyone in it

As well as the mum's night out, it was also no 2's first brownie carol singing adventure. This takes place annually at our local train station, and is followed by a Christmas party. Now me, I think this a tad ambitious myself. And having one year had the dubious pleasure of walking twenty over excited little girls back to brownies, trying to prevent them from death by walking under a car, I also think it is plain bonkers. This year my friend kindly did the brownies bit, while I looked after her other little girl.

First off, I get to school with no 2's brownie uniform and discover that she could actually wear her own clothes, so she is in a strop as she doesn't want to borrow friend's clothes. So friend's mum kindly pops by our house to pick up the clothes. No 2 also informed me at 8pm the previous night that she has to write a three minute talk for today. Nothing like leaving it to the last minute... So, she agrees she will write it at her friend's house. Flatteringly, the subject of her talk is My Favourite Book, and she has chosen my marathon book. I suspect because it mentions her... I am still not sure I should have let the children read it, but they all seemed keen, so I'm hoping any rude bits will have gone over their heads.

When friend had departed, I decided to sweep leaves in the front (as you do) as we now have a new brown recycling wheelie bin for garden waste. Which is great, as rather then digging stuff up and dumping it down the garden, I can dump it in the bin instead. Meanwhile no 4 and her friend had fallen out, so I had to leave the leaves half done and sort that dispute out. Then I grabbed a quick hour on the computer for my serious deadline (of which more in another blog), and then handed over the computer to no 1 (who is rapidly becoming more computer literate then me) and went to make tea.

Being a girl with a lot of foresight, and not fancying tuna pasta, I cooked Spouse and I salmon instead. My aim was to eat it at 7.30 after the littlies were in bed, before I collected no 2 from her party. Oh, the best laid plans....

At 6.15 the doorbell rang - it was no 4's friend's dad who was collecting her. This prompted huge wails all round and no 4 didn't let up for nearly half an hour, which was trying to say the least.

No 3 then decided she HAD to go on the computer too. So I let her play on our old knackered computer while no 1 looked up information about the Amazon for her geography homework.

Then I put the bath on and spent a fruitless ten minutes trying to persuade 3 &4 that they really did need to get in. By this time it was 7.20, I still hadn't eaten and the phone rang. I handed it over to Spouse and tried to extricate the littlies from the bath. After much bad tempered splashing, I got them out and in their pyjamas. No 4 was demanding a story, but I had no time, so I left no 3 on storytelling duties as Spouse was still on the phone, and I really, really had to go.

I got to brownies at 7.5o, and went to the party room to discover nary a brownie in sight. They were all downstairs rehearsing for the nativity on Sunday. Oh bugger. It's not as though they'd been doing anything else that evening. Who in their right minds would organise a programme of carolsinging/party/rehearsals for a bunch of eight year olds? And the old dear in charge looked like she was going to keep them till kingdom come, till I intervened and said I really really had to take them home now, as it was a school day today.

Then it was back to drop friend off, and pick her mum up as she was coming to mums night out too. We got back, I ran upstairs and got changed, and then we hoofed it straight out again...

And no, I didn't get to eat.

This morning no 2 presented me with a crumpled scrap of paper. Can you type that up mum, she asked. What in between making lunches/breakfasts/chasing children to brush their teeth?

Luckily she is a child who goes for the quickest option, so she hadn't actually written very much. It was full of spelling mistakes, but very funny.

So here for your delectation and delight is no 2's three minute talk.

Ah, praise from an eight year old, is praise indeed....

(incidentally, she can spell, so she tells me, but she was in a hurry...)

My Three Minute Talk

My three minute talk is about Running on Empty: Diary of a Marothon Mum, by Julia Williams, otherwise known as My Mum.

This book is about how my mum fought to run the marothon.

It all started with a seriol non-runner (my mum) who wants to lose weight but doesn’t know how, when suddenly she gets a call from her twin sister Ginia who asks if she would like to do the marothon with her. Julia wants to say no, it’s her disire to scream noooo, wich is wy of course she says …. Yes.

This book is special to me because it was written by mum & it explains how hard it was running the marothon.

My fave part is when she says she couldn’t have done it without five special people( I wonder why, Mum)

I’d recommend this book to anyone.

Thank you for listening to my three minute talk.

Little Donkey, Little Donkey...

The levels of pre-Christmas insanity has gone up a notch in our house as the offspring are beginning to start practising for their Christmas services.

At last count I have to attend the following:

Wednesday evening no 2 is carol singing with the Brownies at the local railway station.

Saturday afternoon she's singing in the local shopping centre from 4-5. No 4 has a party from 3-5 and no 1 a party from 5-7. Something's got to give...

Sunday morning no 2 is a wise man at the United Reformed Church courtesy of Brownies. We aren't actually members of the URC but what the hell. I'm all for ecumenism.

Sunday afternoon is the Christingle service at the CofE church attached to their school. None of them are performing but they'll all want to go, because mercenary little buggers that they are, they want their orange and sweets.

Sunday morning is also the time allotted for us to become eco warriors and go and dig up a Christmas tree. We did this last year and it was great fun. Basically you drive to a clearing in the middle of nowhere and are led onto the heathland by someone who's a cross between David Bellamy and Ray Mears, and then have to dig up as many Scotch pines as you can. They are not native to the heathland and are destroying it. The charity that runs it gets some free help, we get to take home a free tree, along with a halo for having done something good for the environment. Exchange is no robbery and all that... As no 2 complained last year of cold feet so won't be disappointed about missing out. Instead Spouse is going with a variety of children, his brother and sil, while I do the nativity with mil. As usual, I get the short straw...

Tuesday afternoon is the Junior school carol service - two for the price of one, as nos 1&2 are both singing. I do quite like this one, but the only trouble is it's held in the church which has awkward pillars so you spend most of the service craning your neck to find your own child.

Wednesday afternoon it's no 4's turn. I think they're doing the nativity, but it is a bit difficult to tell, as her part is that of a villager who has to say WE WANT PEACE AND QUIET (ironic since she is so noisy), and apparently has to wear pyjamas.

No 3's event takes place the following Tuesday, in the evening. It's another Christingle service, held at school and we can't bring siblings. Great... She miraculously is reading - none of mine have been so blessed before. Her teacher is notorious for having favourites and usually the same kids get picked again and again.

So I have two lots of carol singing, two nativities, one carol service and two christingle ceremonies to attend.

I clearly have too many children....

PS I will NEVER EVER mention cricket here again. How could it have gone so tits up. You have to hand it to the Ozzies though, they played brilliantly. And to dear old Freddie Flintoff, who is a prince among men and still gamely saying the series can be won. Freddie me darling, pigs and flying spring to mind, but hey, we applaud your fighting spirit...

Going, Going, Gone...

This being the start of the festive season, Spouse and I have suddenly found ourselves in an unusual whirl of social activity.

Last Wednesday I had to forswear the pleasure of a night out with mums (no 2's lot) for a birthday dinner with my bil, and on Friday I had to pass up on a night out with mums (no 4's lot) for Spouse's work Christmas do.

And because it is the first time in MONTHS that we've managed to go out anywhere together, I came down with the mother of all colds. No, anyone of the male persuasion reading this, I didn't have flu, I had a very very bad cold.

It started last Monday night. I had been for an epic swimming session at my triathlon club (for news on how the training's going, or not... hop over to http://RunningonEmptyLaunchParty.blogspot.com) - after many months I have finally got to grips with swimming crawl (well ish) and can manage about 500m continuously now. Believe me this is good for someone who used to die halfway down the second length. Normally in our sessions our trainer makes us gumbies in the beginners lane do a variety of drills, so we don't get much swimming in. He was away last week, so while the cat was away, the mice decided to play and follow the routine laid down for the slow people of the next lane. We as it turns out are even slower, as we barely got beyond their warm up. But we did manage fifty lengths, of which I was inordinately proud.

I should have known, however, that I was heading for trouble when I started to struggle more then I have done of late, and found myself rather out of breath at points. I got home, feeling fine, but woke at 2am with a sore throat. Which not only stayed, but made sure I didn't sleep till about 6am.

Great.

By Tuesday night I was feeling like death warmed up so I went for an early night to no avail, as I woke at 3am completely bunged up. In the morning no 1 was similarly afflicted,so I took everyone to school and then we BOTH went back to bed. Cripes. I can't remember when I last did that. I can probably count on one hand the number of times I've done that since the kids arrived. What a relief they are all in school and finally I can collapse if I feel like it...

So I staggered out on Wednesday evening, convincing myself that I felt better, and after a few glasses of red, I didn't feel worse. However, Wednesday night followed the same relentlessly tedious pattern and again I was up half the night.

On Thursday I had to catch up with everything I'd missed on Wednesday so no more lie ins for me... And I ended up getting to bed latish because I was keeping an eye on my neighbours' teenage kids while she was out.

By Friday I was feeling absolutely dreadful and got through the day in a haze of lemsip and hankies. I really wanted to cry off the work do, but I knew Spouse wanted me to come and thought maybe I could find a second wind halfway through the evening.

Second wind, my aunt.

What happened instead, dear reader, was that I lost my voice. It disappeared about halfway through the evening. So I spent a very (un)merry night gesticulating wildly at people I barely know and just thinking I want to go home....

Around midnight after imbibing a rather large brandy it miraculously returned enough for me to at least talk at a low pitch for the rest of the night.

Thankfully, our Saturday morning routine has now changed since no1's exam so we don't actually have to get up that early anymore (huzzah), though I did have to go and watch no 3's modern dance lesson, during which I felt I might just keel over. By the time we got back my voice had gone again. Where's it gone? enquired no 4 in an interested manner - good question. The rest of them were just rubbing their hands with glee when they realised that whatever mayhem they committed Mummy couldn't shout at them for once.

When I woke up my voice came back temporarily, so the next time it disappeared they were all helpfully suggesting I just go back to sleep and it would come back again.

We ended the day with my huddled under a blanket sipping hot milk laced with brandy and honey and watching Robin Hood. Which I have to say was somewhat better this week. The Sheriff of Nottingham had captured someone who apparently had the secret of black fire, which looked suspiciously like gunpowder to me. I know nothing of these things but Spouse reckons black fire was something completely different and gunpowder probably hadn't been invented then. But hey, this version of Robin Hood hasn't so far bothered to stick with the facts, so plus ca change. I do like Keith Allen's Sheriff, but Guy of Gisborne is way too sexy. Robin looks like a puling schoolboy by comparison. If I were Marion I'd give Robin the heaveho and go off with Guy. He's a much better bet...Anyway, I digress as ever. There was good fun to be had this week in terms of Much being made (in a highly unlikely manner) into a lord and a nice good old fashioned explosion to end it all. But it's still not a patch on Dr Who...

Sunday was spent having lunch with friends and luckily my voice returned for the duration of the day.

I still didn't feel one hundred per cent, but at least I could speak. And I managed to stay up to watch Torchwood instead of hiving off to bed as I'd planned.

That too was better this week.

Having had the unlikely pairing of Gwen and Owen to contend with a couple of weeks ago, and the even more unlikely pairing of the girl with the unpronounceable name and the alien last week, it was nice to have NO SEX this week. Someone should tell the makers of Torchwood that adding gratuitous sex scenes does not an adult programme make... Although I didn't quite get what was going on with Jack and Ianto at the end when they were talking about stop watches (unless it's some kind of gay thing that I don't get) - and they still seem to be sending each other significant glances, so no doubt we'll see them in bed before too long.

However, that aside, this was a cracking episode, in which Susie who was killed in the first episode got brought back to life and then proceeded to drain the lifeblood from Gwen, before Jack eventually killed her again - though not without her telling him there was something in the dark coming to get him. Great stuff, and just what I hoped Torchwood was going to be like.

So it was well worth staying up for last night ... even if I can't speak today....

PS And my cup of happiness is complete to discover this morning that Matthew Hoggard took seven wickets overnight. Yay! (Sorry Bec) After the first test debacle it's nice to know our boys aren't going to go without a fight. And if (unlikely though it is - I think we're heading for a draw meself) they manage to pull it off it looks as though we've got a fight on our hands. The only thing is, after the last Ashes series I'm not sure my nerves can stand it...

Now there's strange...

I have no idea what is going on. For months now I have been trying (and failing) to get my link list into the sidebar on my blog. I followed the instructions to the letter, but they kept appearing right at the bottom of the blog. Terrified of losing everything if I start arsing about with things of which I know nothing, I ended up leaving it. I've recently converted to Blogger beta. I have no idea what this means. I presume it's an upgrade, but it seemed Like A Good Idea. And today I came visiting and lo and behold, all my links are on the sidebar. Amazing. And I have nooooo idea at all why. Or why, when I tried to sign in the sign in bit disappeared and I could only sneak into post this by going via my profile page.

I also have just realised that my email addy seems to have disappeared off the face of this blog since my conversion. So Mad Muthas if you were failing to get ahold of me, you can email me at: jules@marathonmum.com.

It's all Greek to me. But I am pleased as punch about my links. They look soooo much better.

I'm tempted to play around with the design as well, but a) I haven't got time at the moment and b)I'm terrified of losing everything. So you may be stuck with this plain old template for now.

And after my bad tempered postings about Chrimbo, I have finally dipped my toe into the water, and started shopping. Mainly because I woke up at 2am the other night having had a dream that it was Christmas Eve and I hadn't even started... Plus as my mil is very elderly I end up doing her shopping too and it is much much better if I am present when she starts buying things, or we end up with everything in the shop.

Ever since no 4 ended up in hospital just before Christmas one year, I refuse to get stressed about the festive season, but it does have a way of coming and biting you on the backside, so despite my best efforts, the stress does eventually get to me.

Never mind. I've sorted out my letters: P for purse (left over from some kids' party), and C for candles (bought cheap from the Natural World Shop); I've started the shopping; I'm looking at the Christmas cards (in loathing it's true, but the sooner I start...) And as mil has a shaky hand I end up helping her too. Now that's fun, as she zips about the address book from K to A and back to Y in the most illogical manner. As she's German, I also get to write in Deutsch too. Which is all very well but she wants to write a different letter to everyone. The worst year was when I accidentally told someone she hated them, instead of using the verb to have.

No 2 seems to have gone into overdrive with Brownies on festive events, so she is taking part in a nativity on Sunday (she's a wise man), singing carols next Wed and the following Sat, and having a Christmas party to boot. No 1 has declined to sing carols in favour of going to a friends' party and was mortified when I suggested I might accompany them.

No 3 is going to be the narrator in her Christingle service. No 4 doesn't know what she is going to be but has to say We Want Peace and Quiet - which is ironic as she is the noisiest of my children.

So I'm girding my loins, taking a deep breath and looking straight ahead.

It's all downhill from here....

PS. As soon as I posted this there was a thump on the doormat. Yes... our first Christmas card has arrived. It's the same every year. My cousin from Canada always sends us a card on or around the 29/30 November. How does anyone, ever get that organised? Particularly when they're sending from abroad. Times out of number my foreign cards have got posted on Christmas Eve because having missed the last posting date of six months before Christmas, I think by then, what the hell? I prefer the French approach - who send cards for the New Year. Now that's a civilised solution....

More Humbug

After my very bad tempered post about Chrimbo the other day, I have discovered that I am supposed to be providing items for the Junior School who are holding a twelve days of Christmas raffle. So for one child I have to provide something with the letter P and the other, the letter C. In a moment of glorious rebellion Spouse suggested I send in a potato. Or a parsnip. Or a pea... Oh I wish I had that much nerve... But I do have to meet these people in the playground for at least the next seven years, so I think I'll hold fire on that one till no4 is leaving.

Despite sending no 1 to Guides last night with four letters regarding various activities and £35 to sponsor said activities, I somehow managed to miss the very vital letter which said she should bring some cash in because they were having a bric a brac stall.

And today I totally forgot (even despite having made such a hoohah about paying exorbitant amounts of money for raffle tickets) that it was mufti day in the infants. So after stopping to listen to no 2's assembly I had to hare back home to pick up clothes and a bottle of plonk for the tombola.

And I haven't even BEGUN to think about Christmas shopping yet.

Tomorrow is also the BIG DAY - no 1 is sitting her grammar school exam. So we have to leave at 8am (on a Saturday, aaaah!!) and I have to twiddle my thumbs in the school canteen with all my other anxious mummy friends, while waiting for her to complete her test. After weeks of angst about it and more tears then I could care to mention, she seems to be remarkably sanguine now the day is finally here. She's spent most of the week discussing with her friends which room they're going to be in. Methinks she has been pulling the wool over our eyes a bit. As she brought herself to admit that if two of her other friends get in, actually she wouldn't mind going after all...

We're going out for lunch afterwards (nothing like a bit of bribery) and then I am hoping we can forget all about it till March.

By which time I am praying that if she does get in, she will have come to terms with the idea. Knowing my luck, she won't get in and will suddenly decide she wanted to go after all...

Ho hum.

It's never straightforward being a parent...

Save Kids TV - a very modern dilemma

I don't often stray into the political on this blog, but I have recently become aware of the very serious threat to children's tv that is being posed by the loss of advertising revenue now that food ads are likely to be banned.

Here I find myself in the horns of a dilemma, as principles dear to me in both my private and professional life have clashed thanks to the laws of unforseen consequences.

As a mum I have always hated the ads on CITV, and my kids rarely watch it as a result. Mind you, I have always told them advertising is a form of lying, so perhaps I should expose them more. I was also a keen advocate of Jamie Oliver's school dinners campaign, so I am hardly likely to weep at the loss of ads for junk food that will make my kids unhealthy. I also appreciate the points the wonderful Mad Muthas raised on their blog today about the shameless and frankly immoral way advertisers target our children (to see more, go to:http://themadnessofmodernfamilies.blogspot.com/2006/11/kgoy-wtf.html)

However...

ITV have already cut down on their output for kids because kids tv is so expensive to make, and the loss of revenue that will result from losing food advertising will have catastrophic results well beyond what could have been imagined by the very well intentioned idea not to advertise crap to kids.

If ITV stop making kids' programmes that pretty much leaves the Beeb with a clear run at it. No problem you might say, CBBC is way ahead of its rivals anyway.

Actually, I think it is a problem. And a very big one.

The BBC itself wants the competition, believing it is better for the industry as a whole and our kids as a result.

And the independent companies like Ragdoll and Cosgrove Hall who over the years have provided such a huge number of children's favourites cannot simply rely on one customer - the Beeb.

With my professional hat on I can also the knock on effects it will have on my industry. There has long been a healthy and symbiotic relationship between publishing and kids' tv. Many children's classics: Postman Pat, Rosie and Jim, Tots TV, to name three I have worked on, spawn a whole slew of children's books. And while some licensed product is without doubt rubbish, not all of it is, and it provides much needed revenue for publishers to give them the freedom to take risks on less commercial but more literary projects. The relationship works both ways - a tv adaptation of a book can have huge implications for both publishers and authors, and the resulting sales can boost many a publishers' profit margins.

So a serious loss of children's tv output will have a hugely detrimental effect on my industry. Not only will our children have less choice about what to watch, they may well end up with less choice about what to read too.

Which is why though my initial response from my mum's head was to say, YAY! when I realised tv advertising for kids was being banned, when I understood what the implications were I stopped cheering. With both my heads, as mum and children's editor, I cannot but look at the future of children's tv with alarm.

And why I would urge you to join the campaign to Save Kids TV. To find out more, go to www.savekidstv.org.uk

In the meantime, send the letter below to all your friends. The more we as parents lobby, the more notice they will take...




September 2006
Dear Parent,
Did you know that ITV has decided to stop making children’s television? They have closed down their children’s department and haven’t commissioned a new show since last December, which means pretty soon Citv will only show repeats. You might think there’s far too much kids’ TV anyway, so isn’t that a good thing? Sadly, the answer is ‘No’.
British children’s TV has been strong for decades because the government requires broadcasters to make it so. ITV has a legal obligation to provide 8 hours of kids’ shows a week. In doing so, it has enriched the lives of generations of children with programmes as diverse as My Parents Are Aliens, Art Attack, Magpie, Children’s Ward, How?, Tiswas, Press Gang, Jungle Run, Engie Benjy and Robin of Sherwood.
But ITV has stopped commissioning new kids’ programmes because quality kids’ TV is expensive to make and rarely recoups its costs. With a likely ban on some forms of advertising to kids, the pressure on commercial broadcasters is even greater. What they would like to do is stop showing children’s programmes on ITV1 altogether and replace them with cheaper adult shows that attract more advertising revenue. There is the new digital CITV channel and with 10 hours of programmes a day ITV will try and tell you this fulfils its commitment to kids. But without new shows, what will be shown in those 10 hours? Repeats and cheap foreign imports.
It’s true there are many commercial kids’ channels but they are all owned by foreign multi-nationals, which don’t have the resources or the commitment to make UK shows for UK kids. Relying solely on the BBC is hardly giving children a choice. Besides, without ITV’s competition the BBC could reduce its commitment to kids. The BBC is already discussing moving kids’ television off BBC1.
At its best, British children’s TV nourishes young minds and spirits with culturally relevant drama, news, factual shows, and fun. But without new sources of funding, our children face an unhealthy diet of low quality repeats and imports.
It’s not too late. To help save quality children’s TV in this country, ask OFCOM, at Riverside House, 2a Southwark Bridge Road, London SE1 9HA, to hold the broadcasters to their legal obligation to support quality and diversity in children’s television. Write to your local MP, (to find your MP, go to www.writetothem.com), urging him or her to support proposals to create the additional funding needed to guarantee quality UK programmes for UK children. Finally, sign up at www.savekidstv.org.uk for more detail, future news and campaign ideas.
Yours faithfully,Save Kids’ TV, a campaign set up to defend children’s televisionwww.savekidstv.org.uk
Our children deserve the best television…

tis the season to be jolly...

Well, nearly.

Although it is still only November and I absolutely REFUSE to think about Chrimbo till 1 December, it is resolutely forcing itself into my periphery vision.

Viz today, when doing the housework, I picked up a letter from the infant school detailing the plans for the Christmas Fair, which occurs this Sunday. I'm already down for helping on the cake stall for an hour. Oh joy. That's what comes of going to a mums' coffee morning. I knew there was a reason for not going.


The letter has been sitting there for over a week. It came with a picture of stockings for the kids to colour in and enter into a competition. The school do this every year and every year my kids dutifully colour them beautifully, and so far, after six years at the school not one of them has won. That maybe about to change. As last night no 3 announced that the stocking had to be in today. At bedtime natch. I was on the verge of saying, tough luck, but Spouse is much kinder then I am and as it was an emergency allowed no 1 to cheat and colour the stockings in for her. A ten year old colouring instead of a six year old? Our chances of winning have just doubled. (Considering most of the kids who win look like they've had help, I will only feel marginally guilty if we do win).

The reason I nearly missed the deadline, was because I am still in It's Only the Middle of November I Refuse To Think About Christmas Mode. Had I not been burying my head in the sand, I might have been taking notice of why there seemed to be a group of very active members of the PTA hanging about the school gates for the past week. I read the vital letter which has only been knocking about for a fortnight (in my defence, four lots of letters every other day takes some reading and I often fall down in this department, plus quite frankly six years in the school Christmas Fair is of even less interest to me then when no 1 started there. I think I am suffering from a sever case of Christmas Fair Burnout).

Anyway. Turns out (which of course I would have known had I looked) the enthusiastic PTA members have been collecting stuff for the fair for the past week. Plus selling tickets for Santa's Grotto. This is a new departure. Normally you buy tickets on the day, so I usually whizz mine in straight away. However, in an attempt to beat the queues Santa is seeing children at intervals of ten minutes and won't be selling tickets on the day. I envisage a disaster here, as someone somewhere will be even less aware then me and not have picked this piece of vital info up, so their will I suspect be some very disappointed children on Sunday. Thanks to my dilatoriness all the tickets up to 4pm have gone. And I'm helping on a stand till then. I was in a panic as my name appeared to be down twice, so I thought the kids were going to be deprived of Santa which would have taken some explaining. Luckily I just managed to get in on the 4.10 slot, at which point my ire about the whole thing was raised even more to discover Santa now costs £2.50. So that's a tenner gone before I've even started. Coupled with which I am expected to part with another tenner for raffle tickets for each of my offspring at the school, so now we're thirty quid down. As I've just spent twenty quid on a sponsored dance I balked at the raffle tickets and said so. Now I realise I am becoming deeply deeply sad as have just spent ten minutes berating the poor chairman in the playground for changing things that worked perfectly fine. As a veteran I know these things... But I am distressed that I seem to care enough about them to even have the conversation. Aaagh... I need to get a life. And fast otherwise I risk causing world war three in the playground.

I haven't yet tackled the junior school where they have a Christmas craft fair (groan) and more raffle tickets. (Double groan).

Or Brownies/Guides who are carol singing twice and having a nativity play in which no 2 seems to be taking the part of a wise king.

And that's without no 4's nativity, no3's Christingle and no 1 &2's Carol Service.

Do you think it would be acceptable to emigrate?

Preferably without the children...

Radio 2 Music Marathon

Any fans of Radio 2 out there today?

If like me you are listening to the Music Marathon for Children in Need, you probably have your dancing shoes on. Me too. And am on the floor listening to Keith Chegwin on the Jeremy Vine show. He's barking.

I donated this morning to Terry Wogan but didn't have time to see if he read out my request. The children will be disappointed...

I've also just bought the Janet and John CD, which I can't wait to listen to.

I love Children in Need. It is cheesy and naff beyond belief, but the sight of the newsreaders doing whatever they do is worth it alone. It is a particularly gloriously English kind of thing, and of course they raise loads of money.

Fab... Jeremy is just playing The Weather Girls. How good is that???

If you haven't donated yet, go on do...

And if you're too mean, at least tune in for the great music.

I shall be plonked on the sofa later with a bottle of wine, several children and Terry....

To my bloggy friends across the pond or in Oz, guess what you can listen online and find out why Radio 2 makes my day....

I'm Going to make you a Sta-ar-arr!

I've been a bit busy for blogging this week, so I'm catching up with the tale of the very important TV Audition which took place in our house last week. I was going to try to replicate the Dr Who music at the start of the blog, but I tried to transcribe a phonetic equivalent to the theme tune, and decided that no one would have a clue what I was on about, so you'll just have to hum it to yourself instead.

It is a sad fact that even at the age of 41 that tune and particularly the new jazzed up modern version still gives me shivers down the spine and has me heading for the sofa...

Roll on Christmas and the next episode say I...


If my children have anything to do with it, they are of course going to have starring roles in the next series.

Blue Peter has been running a competition for a lucky child to win a part and they just had to have a go.

There were three scripts to choose from and they chose one each. (No4 being unable to read had to be discounted from the project).

I was going to be organised and get the filming done the week before last as the deadline was last Friday but of course, one thing leading to another, etc etc the week came and went, the weekend came and went, the deadline was fast approaching and we had done no filming.


So it was that last TuesdayI realised we had reached the point of no return and we had to have a go at it. No 2 was nigh on word perfect and sat on my bed and did her piece. She was actually not too bad, although the last bit of her perfomance consisted of staring down at her toy cat, so the words came out a bit muffled. Being 8 she was probably at the perfect age, not too self conscious but aware enough she had to put some effort in. No 1 on the other hand was totally embarrassed about the whole thing, hadn't learnt her lines, kept fluffing them and then got in a huff. So I left it till the next day and promised we'd do it then.

Wednesday of course represented our last chance saloon attempt as the tapes had to be in by Friday. No 2's best friend was coming to play before Brownies and she wanted to have a go too, so I promised her mum I'd video the pair of them (having decided that No2 needed to speak to the camera more) before taking them to Brownies. Nos 1 &4 had gone to tea, and I told no 3 we'd do her after we dropped the others off.

Our first attempt was a disaster as no 2's mate hadn't learnt her lines and was reading her script and kept getting muddled up. We did it again and she was much happier.

I recorded over no 2's previous attempts and then realised that her friend was rattling a plastic bag, so had to start again. The next effort lead to her friend kicking the end of the bed, so I had to start again. Then I realised that I had still got bits of no 2's previous attempt cut into her new version, followed by no 1's rubbish attempt. So I abandoned that tape to start again, just as Spouse walked in the door and said, Anyone home??

By now the kids were late for Brownies and I was ever so slightly stressed, so I sent no 2's friend off with her tape, and went to pick up no 1 before going onto film no 3.

When we got back it transpired that no 1 had forgotten she had homework to be handed in the next day. What about filming? I said. Well, she said, I think we've got no chance of winning (you're dead right there) so I don't want to do it...

Good, it was just no 3 to go then. It then transpired, she didn't know her lines either and had chosen the longest scene to do. So I tried to prop up her script so it wouldn't look like she was reading it and got her to have a go. There were lots of pauses and the odd occasional bit of acting, but it was pretty much a disaster. We were in the middle of version 2 when the others came home and no 4 decided to shout alot. No 3 and I retired upstairs, where I managed eventually to get through the whole thing without her tripping up or no 4 screaming too loudly. I did realise when I played it back that you can see Nos 2&4 reflected in the mirror, but what the hell.

I quickly filmed no 2 for the billionth time (sadly not her best effort), but hey...

It's done. We've posted it.

They don't stand a cat in hell's chance, but aaahh, the hopefulness of youth. They are both absolutely convinced that the part is theirs....

I am soooo looking forward to the day when they discover it isn't....

That Pesky Glass Ceiling Part 2

There must be something in the ether....

Thanks to the lovely MadMuthas who came visiting my blog, I found the lovely Glamorouse Bec of the Ladies Lounge, and discovered on both blogs some of the issues I had raised in my recent post about the glass ceiling being discussed fairly vigorously. You can find them by following these links:

http://themadnessofmodernfamilies.blogspot.com/2006/10/breastfeeding-algebra-with-emphasis-on.html

http://ladieslounge.blogspot.com/2006/11/balancing-act.html

One comment that interested me from Bec's blog was the notion that there should be a divide between working mums and stay at homes, so not only do we have a glass ceiling, but also a glass wall which we've erected between us.

Personally I don't give a stuff about whether someone opts to be a mum who goes to work, or one who stays at home to work. Both involve sacrifices of some kind. We were sold a lie by whoever told us that you can have it all, because quite frankly, in my view you can't. But whatever sacrifices we choose to make, they are our sacrifices, we have to live with the consequences, and no one else should give a damn about it.

I have to confess, I hate both ephitets - working mum is just daft because all mums work, period. Some go out to a job, some work at home - and stay at home just conjures up horrific images of prozac junkies of the Stepford wife kind (as indeed it is probably intended too).

Anyway, as usual I've digressed from the point in hand.

Tuning into my favourite radio station yesterday at lunchtime, I heard Jeremy Vine talking about this very issue. Apparently figures out recently suggest that there are fewer women reaching the boardroom then there were a year ago, which not unnaturally led into a discussion about the glass ceiling and whether or not women just can't cut it at the top. Finger on the pulse or what...

I found myself in the rather odd position of agreeing in part with Erin Pizzey (I always thought of her as 70s lefties radical, hence my surprise), who quite rightly said that it is very difficult for women to reach the top and keep their family life going. There was a businesswoman who was arguing the opposite point of view, but I felt her position was weakened because she didn't have children. She was clearly very successful in her field (and hurrah for her say I), but she hadn't had to ever face the dilemma that those of us who choose to have children do face. Do we still keep struggling up the coalface, against more and more odds, or do we call it a day and slide gracefully out of play?

For many women, the guilt of going out to work, the strain of juggling two lives and the natural desire to spend more time with the children, make this decision a no brainer. I also have plenty of friends who weren't particularly wedded to their careers, for whom being at home has come as a glorious liberation, allowing them not only to be with their families, but to explore other interests which they would never have done while in the workplace.

I count myself in that too - I would never have started writing had I stayed at work as all my creative energies were going into other people's ideas. I doubt I would have started running/triathlon training either, as working for me was so all consuming, exercise often came a very poor second. Taking time out of the ratrace has been very good for me personally, giving me pause for thought, and making me reassess my priorities. Which is not to say that I don't miss it, and wouldn't jump at the chance to get back in, if I could only work out a way of figuring how to do it without the family collapsing.

On the other hand, there are also plenty of women who love their children but hate domesticity (I'm one of those too!), and for whom the day to day drudgery involved in bringing up children just isn't sufficient reward for being at home. For those women, the domestic environment can be very very stifling, and personally I think they are better off being in the workplace, and probably better mothers as a result. Surely being forced to stay at home day in and day out will only breed a resentment that can do more harm then good?

The thing that always gets me about this discussion though, is it is always seen as an either/or. And always with reference to women, never ever to men. More and more we read about how bad it is for children not to have a fatherly influence, but on the whether mums should work or not debate, they barely get a mention.

So yesterday on the radio we heard from:

a neanderthal, who began his comments with the immortal words, I'm not a male chauvinist, but a woman's place is in the home (really, he did. If you don't believe me, go to the listen again facility!!), and claimed that his wife was happy at home (I'd have loved to have heard her version of events) ;

a granny who told us how brilliantly hard her daughter worked and how proud she was of her, then in the same breath undercut all that with the fact that her daughter's children were out of control because she worked ;

and finally (and this was the one that really did me in) a bitter old hag who claimed that she can spot a stay at home mum at a hundred paces. Apparently we are sad old hagbags, who don't have a political opinion and just pathetically talk about our children all the time.

Really? Really? I was throwing brickbats at the radio in response to that comment. That's how come last week at the tennis club I was in conversation with half a dozen mums about the state of our local hospital (same conversation also came up at a coffee morning); going out with friends last week we covered: Iraq, teenage pregnancies, a friend's divorce and another friend's possible impending move abroad. Sure we talk about our kids (in the same way that anyone at work talks endlessly about their job), but shoot, we all have other things in our lives too.

Of the sahms I know, one is a flute teacher, who learned music in Paris and is trying to revive her stage career; another went back to work for a mental health charity and is now a mental health commissioner; a third is a homeopath, a fourth doesn't work as such but does lots of voluntary work, a fifth gardens and so on. Plenty of my friends work in the NHS, with term time working contracts, so they can combine work and home very successfully.

Like everything in life there are no absolutes, only shades of grey, where people find the right balance to suit them and their family life.

And as to granny and her unruly grandchildren, all I would say, is one of my sisters has five children (yes I did say five) and works full time. And they aren't out of control...

The MCP doesn't merit a response...

What this debate needs I feel is a slightly different focus. Rather then beating women up for going back to work (terrible heartless crap mothers that they are) or for staying at home (Sistah! You have just betrayed the feminist movement by your actions and will be condemned to a male chauvinist hell), why not have a discussion about family life in general.

How about making it easier for men to spend time with their families, for men to be allowed to take time out from the workplace and get more involved in their children's lives? I do know one or two couples where the childcare is shared and the parents box and cox between them, but they are far and few between.

Mostly it is probably a case of money - in my case my husband's earning potential is probably three times my own, but on the other hand I would love to be able to work a way of him cutting back even if it is only one day a week, so I could work some more. It would be good for both of us: he gets vital time out from the workplace (why should men be deprived of that particular perk of parenthood?) and I get some time to feel more like a grown up and less like a faceless parent (don't you just hate being introduced to people as x's mum?).

So many of the dads I know work stupidly long hours and barely see the kids in the week - it is no fun for them, the children or their wives and I don't think it is healthy for family life.

So forget the glass ceiling.

Forget the working mum/sahm divide.

Let's call for more family friendly working conditions for all. (And that includes people without children - they should have the flexibility to deal with their own crises like dealing with elderly parents/sick pets etc). It's got to be a more rational and civilised response to the demands of modern day life.

And who knows society might even improve a tad as a result...

Remember, Remember the Fifth of November...

Well it being Guy Fawkes this weekend, we were as usual terribly unpc and held a fireworks party. Actually, pretty much everyone our way holds them. And there are usually several impromptu affairs on the allotments too (funnily enough a bonfire night party scene seems to have wormed its way into my book...) So I am very sorry for all the pets around and about, because it is a tad noisy.

In our defence we don't go on that late, but er, we do have a lot of big bangs.

This is Spouse's fault. He is at heart a pyromaniac. So Saturday afternoon, not unnaturally was spent building the biggest fuck off bonfire you've ever seen. And one of our mates arrived with a scarily lifelike guy. He had apparently made it for/with the children, but I suspect he'd have done it anyway. There is something about the 5 November that seems to bring out the inner child in men. Another friend arrived with two of the biggest rockets you've ever seen. His wife raised her eyebrows to heaven as she described the excitement engendered by the purchase of said items. And all for something that disappears in a puff of smoke, in oooh... seconds.

Me being Scaredy Cat Wuss Mum (see the MadMuthas blog for a truly frightening depiction of what kind of parent you are!), means that I hate bonfire night. Mainly because our garden is very big and dark and I have palpitations about all those sprogs running around. The only rule I give to guests is, your offspring are entirely your responsibility, I am not going to even THINK about taking them on...

So on bonfire night you'll always find me in the kitchen at parties, which also has the added bonus of keeping my feet warm (ice blocks for feet are another reason for detesting Guy Fawkes Night).

Though being a tad paranoid about Elf and Safety, I still wouldn't go as far as having a virtual bonfire as one local authority allegedly did this year. Is it me, or has the world gone mad? Though I do confess, Terry Wogan's virtual firework display on the radio on Friday morning (totally safe for pets and children) was pure glorious radio genius. I've been trying to resist it, but I'm definitely turning into a Tog...

As it happens, the kids tend to lose interest in the fireworks before the dads do, so this year Spouse did us all a favour and called it a wrap after about forty minutes (still sufficient time to beat the neighbours hands down, with whom we have indulged in friendly firework rivalry ever since New Year's Eve at the Millenium).

So then it was onto the serious stuff - adults drinking and kids running amok in the dark, while our pyromaniac builder mate helpfully burnt up all the remaining rubbish he could find.

We eventually retreated indoors around 10pm, when the children left standing retired to watch Dr Who, and the grown ups indulged in grown up conversation, which by now was mostly of the unintelligible kind.

The last guests left around 11.30pm, when I carried no 4 to bed (she had crashed out on no 2), and no 3 walked upstairs wailing, Daddy says it's four hours past my bedtime... and some. Nos 1&2 took some persuading to get to bed, but eventually it was lights out all round - Spouse by now having gone into that other realm he tends to inhabit on these occasions, when a good night's sleep is definitely called for.

At 2am I was awoken by the sound of thudding feet and screaming. What the hell? I leapt out of bed, but the thudding feet had already made it past our bedroom and down the stairs. The yelling by now was at high pitch. I followed it to the back door, where I found no 4 rattling the door knob and screaming, Where are the others? I want to go out and play.

None of my children have ever slept walked before, but it don't get much more dramatic then that...

Needless to say she didn't remember a thing in the morning, and kept me awake most of the night elbowing my back. So Sunday was a bit of a washout, and everyone flaked out rather pathetically on the sofa.

And we still haven't done the videoing for the Dr Who competition...

Halloween, Halloween, Happy Halloween...

This blog is amazingly a year old. And funnily enough when I started it I seemed to be posting about the same kinds of things. My first post was about the hell of half term, and my second about Trick or Treating.

Now let's get one thing straight here. I don't have a problem with Halloween per se. Though I was brought up a catholic, it wasn't banned in our house growing up. Indeed, we often had Halloween parties, with bobbing for apples, dressing up, and ghostly happenings.

I am also rather partial to Tim Burton's fabulously imaginative Nightmare before Christmas ( so are the kids - No 4 has spent most of this week singing, Halloween, Halloween, This is Halloween) - so it isn't the festival itself I have a problem with.

However, I do have a big big problem with the rampant commercialisation of Halloween and this stupid bloody notion of Trick or Treating drives me insane. It isn't OUR tradition I want to scream. Why do we have to follow the Yanks on this one??? (Well I suppose we followed them into Iraq, so why not?)

If you were reading last year, you may remember that no 2 gave me not inconsiderable grief last year when told she couldn't go out Trick or Treating (telling her that we consider it begging didn't go down too well). So this year to preempt matters I made it perfectly clear that we were NOT doing it.

Spouse sensibly thought we might need a fall back position, so we could at least offer them some Halloween fun, so he suggested them dressing up and face painting.

I also had another fall back, which is that nos 1&2 are planning to enter a Dr Who competition Blue Peter are running - they have to send in a video of themselves acting out a scene from Dr Who, and if they win, tantara they get to be in an episode of Dr Who. I am not unnaturally encouraging this aim - which mother wouldn't turn up the chance to chaperone their child just in order that they can drool over the thoroughly gorgeous David Tennant? Of course, the chances of them winning against the many thousands of children no doubt applying are about zero, but hey, it's worth a shot. Anyway, after the Torchwood debacle I figure Russell owes me...

Anyway, my fallback position was that they could do their videoing instead of Trick or Treating. Which worked really well until teatime, when no 2 started with, So why can't we go Trick or Treating.
Because we don't agree with it.
But why not?
Because we think it's like begging. Because we think it's dangerous. Because it's dark and cold and I can't be arsed...
But everyone else is doing it, came the inevitable wail, you are soooo unfair.

I know. I am the most majorly unfair parent on the planet. But I have to get my kicks somehow.

In the end, realising she was on a hiding to nothing, she sulkily agreed to paint her sisters' faces instead. And after tea, when no1 hit on the idea of decorating doughnuts with spooky faces, that seemed to knock the Trick or Treat rubbish on the head. Phew.

Here, I have to say one of the joys of having four children is they can create an instant party. Which is how it was, that come 6.30 last night, the kitchen floor was covered in flour (we played find the sweets in the flour), the family room was full of paper (Wrap the Mummy) and the children were soaking wet (bobbing for apples).

They went to bed far too late, all on a huge sugar rush, but huzzah! We didn't have to go out Trick or Treating and no one complained too much.

And, we only got bothered by two lots of trick or treaters, neither of which we knew, so they didn't feel too hard done by.

And do you know what? I reckoned they actually had a better time...

PS We still haven't done our filming (the scenes in question didn't call for a witch and a cat), so that's got to be put on hold now till Friday as we're busy tonight and tomorrow. No1 is too shy to let me film her (oh dear, I can't imagine how that will turn out) and doesn't know her lines anyway, but no 2 is already word perfect. Totally lifeless, but word perfect....

A Bloody Tale

In view of the interest that seemed to be generated in my bloody finger, I thought you might like to know that it runs in the family. So here, for your delectation and delight, is a tale from three years ago, when no 3 then aged three (it's all three to me) decided that putting an umbrella in your mouth was a really, really good idea... (Do look away if you are of a feeble disposition!)

No 4 who was then quite small, was asleep and as no 3 was happily pottering about in the hall, I decided to whizz upstairs to do some tidying.

Suddenly there was a bloodcurdling yell. Holy shit, what's she done? I thought, detecting a certain panicky note that sounded like something really really bad. I flew down the stairs to see no 3 kneeling on the floor, screaming her head off with an umbrella handle stuck firmly in her jaw. (And yes, the question, Whyyyyyy? does spring to mind) I gingerly tried to get it out, and failed. I could see she was bleeding, so applied a little more force, to considerably louder yells. A pool of black blood was welling up in her mouth, and I couldn't see what damage she'd done, but it looked pretty bad to me. I ran to get kitchen roll, repeating the mantra long drummed into me by Spouse that mouths bleed a lot and they heal quickly. As I applied the tissue, and the bleeding didn't appear to be stopping, I was trying to ignore the panicky messages flying to my brain, saying helpful things like: "Are there any arteries down there?" and "How long does it take a three year old to bleed to death?"

I eventually stemmed the flow, after what seemed like hours, and inspected the damage. There was a nice big tear in her bottom palate. It probably needed stitches, but by now it was 2.15 and in an hour I had to collect two children from school. I rang my neighbour who is a nurse, to seek her opnion. She was out. I rang my friend to get her to pick the girls up. She was also out. By this time, no3 was saying she felt sick (well I suppose you would if you had just swallowed a pint of your own blood), and was shaking like a leaf. Now I was panicking about anaphylactic shock. "Don't go to sleep whatever you do!" I admonished her, but cheered myself up by thinking that as she was still yelling loudly, it couldn't be too serious.

I managed to get another friend to pick the girls up, and flew to the hospital. No3 was in such a state by the time we arrived, I had to carry her, and try to stop no4 who had only recently learnt to walk from falling over. We got there eventually, and then (at this point let me sing paeons of praise to the NHS), were miraculously seen straight away, by a wonderful nurse who produced calpol and lollipops, and a rather gorgeous young medic, who cheerfully told me that though it was a good tear, it didn't need stitches. So all's well that ends well...

The next day on the way to school, I met one of my friends. "You were the talk of the playground yesterday," she informed me. "You have such an exciting life. Mine is so boring by comparison."

This kind of excitement I can do without.

But it is a testament to the fact that my life has finally moved on, that now it is more likely to be me providing the bloodfest...