We’re having a new downstairs bathroom fitted and are now the proud owners of a shiny chrome heated towel rail. Having reached my late thirties I thought I knew all my foibles and habits but I now discover that, having used the loo, apparently I turn slightly to the side before pulling up my undies. I know this because I have now burnt my bum on the heated towel rail at least half a dozen times!!
In order to keep our new shower cubicle shiny and clean, Mum and Dad bought us a rubber scraper (like a window cleaner would use). The idea is that you spend a few moments before you leave the cubicle scraping the water off the tiles and the shower screen to leave the whole thing water mark free. An excellent idea. So, after a lovely warm shower, I turned the water off, scraped the shower screen to perfection and worked my way round the tiles. Then I turned around to leave the shower – only to discover imprints of my bum all over the glass from where I’d bent down to do the tiles. Mmm, I sense a theme developing here!
Tuesday, 25 March 2008
Tuesday, 18 March 2008
Wear your hoodie - I want to get my money's worth!
My daughter recently declared that she would like an Abercrombie and Fitch hoodie. I’m sure the concept will soon wear thin but, since this is the first time she’s really shown an interest in clothes, I was quite excited. After a quick Google search I established there’s a shop on Savile Row and offered to take her and her friend up to town for a mooch.
Operation Abercrombie comprised my husband, our three year old in a buggy, the two girls and me. It was quite a cold morning so we set a brisk pace from Charing Cross and were glad to finally turn into Savile Row. The girls got increasingly excited as we passed a procession of glamorous looking teenagers with their distinctive A&F (I can’t be bothered to type it any more!) carrier bags and we hurried along counting the door numbers of the shops. We traipsed down one side and back up the other (OK – I know Savile Row isn’t that long but it was cold and we were pushing a buggy!). No sign of A&F. We retraced our steps. No, definitely nothing resembling a trendy fashion emporium. After much aimless wandering we ground to a halt and I risked total social embarrassment (the girls’words) by asking an A&F bag carrier to tell us where the bloody shop was.
Actually we were practically standing outside it. Although, in fairness to mere mortals, we couldn’t have known since there’s no signage. But there were bouncers on the door. And a topless male model who you could pose next to for a photo. We ventured in. Interestingly for a shop, it was almost completely dark. But the powers-that-be at A&F had obviously taken this sensory depravation into account because what they took from our eyes they more than gave back to our ears – in the form of indescribably loud music. We spent our entire trip communicating in a combination of hand signals, exaggerated facial expressions and amateur lip reading.
Eventually we stumbled across the hoodies, only to discover that this lightweight zip-up cardigan was going to cost me £60! My horror obviously showed on my face. My daughter’s friend tried to cheer me up by telling me that if I’d have bought it in America it would have been $60 and therefore much cheaper. This would have been useful information before we had left the house and risked life and eardrums, particularly since my husband travels to America quite often.
Operation Abercrombie comprised my husband, our three year old in a buggy, the two girls and me. It was quite a cold morning so we set a brisk pace from Charing Cross and were glad to finally turn into Savile Row. The girls got increasingly excited as we passed a procession of glamorous looking teenagers with their distinctive A&F (I can’t be bothered to type it any more!) carrier bags and we hurried along counting the door numbers of the shops. We traipsed down one side and back up the other (OK – I know Savile Row isn’t that long but it was cold and we were pushing a buggy!). No sign of A&F. We retraced our steps. No, definitely nothing resembling a trendy fashion emporium. After much aimless wandering we ground to a halt and I risked total social embarrassment (the girls’words) by asking an A&F bag carrier to tell us where the bloody shop was.
Actually we were practically standing outside it. Although, in fairness to mere mortals, we couldn’t have known since there’s no signage. But there were bouncers on the door. And a topless male model who you could pose next to for a photo. We ventured in. Interestingly for a shop, it was almost completely dark. But the powers-that-be at A&F had obviously taken this sensory depravation into account because what they took from our eyes they more than gave back to our ears – in the form of indescribably loud music. We spent our entire trip communicating in a combination of hand signals, exaggerated facial expressions and amateur lip reading.
Eventually we stumbled across the hoodies, only to discover that this lightweight zip-up cardigan was going to cost me £60! My horror obviously showed on my face. My daughter’s friend tried to cheer me up by telling me that if I’d have bought it in America it would have been $60 and therefore much cheaper. This would have been useful information before we had left the house and risked life and eardrums, particularly since my husband travels to America quite often.
Monday, 17 March 2008
Are you planning to wear that medal to bed?
Yesterday I completed my first 10k run. Conditions were far from ideal. It was cold, rainy, windy, a predominantly uphill course (!) and, since much of it was on grass, a complete mud bath.
As mentioned previously, I ran it with my step son who, as promised, had done absolutely no training but was confident that he could complete the course in less than an hour; whearas I was aiming for a sedate 1hour 5 mins.
Step son set off like a rat out of a trap. I wish I could say that he paid the price for his early speed by not being able to maintain it and that my steady tortoise-like approach won through, enabling me to beat him and teach him a valuable lesson about how slow and steady wins the race. But actually the next time I saw him he was waiting for me at the finish line!!
But I'm getting ahead of myself. The first part of the race was uphill which was hard, but not as hard as the next part which was slighly more uphill. By the time I got to the 2k marker I was ready to give up. In fact, it was only the slight glimmer of hope that if I kept running I might pass Step son panting on the verge that kept my leaden legs moving.
Despite being surrounded by the beautiful Kent countryside, I spend most of the time looking at my feet, trying to avoid the numerous puddles or getting caught in the increasingly slippery mud. My fellow runners all seemed very professional, although I was passed at one point by a very tall man dressed in womens clothes. Bizarre!
Thankfully, my second wind kicked in around the halfway point and I started to enjoy it - in a twisted sort of way. Unfortunately, since the course was twice round a 5k loop, I had to negotiate the hilly bit again. By this point it was so muddy and slippery that it had taken on bushtucker trial-like proportions and it was only possible to pick my way up it gingerly for fear of falling on my face. But never mind because once I got to the top it was only 3k to home!
Everyone seemed to pick up the pace for the last bit of the race. There was one last downward slope to negotiate and then it was about a 200 metre straight run (could have been more or less - I'm rubbish at distance!) to the finish. I heard my daughter shouting me on before I saw her and it was a real boost to have her and my Mum and Dad at the finish line (which I eventually crossed in 1 hour, 1 minute and 50 seconds).
Step son was extremely gracious in victory (he did it in 55 minutes and 7 seconds) and we enjoyed comparing notes on the way back to meet up with my husband, who had been designated driver and babysitter for the morning. I'm sure he must have been delighted to have such damp, muddy and, in some cases, sweaty passengers in his car but he gamely listened to my blow by blow account of the race all the way home. I couldn't help but notice that the 3 year old was asleep before we left the car park though!
As mentioned previously, I ran it with my step son who, as promised, had done absolutely no training but was confident that he could complete the course in less than an hour; whearas I was aiming for a sedate 1hour 5 mins.
Step son set off like a rat out of a trap. I wish I could say that he paid the price for his early speed by not being able to maintain it and that my steady tortoise-like approach won through, enabling me to beat him and teach him a valuable lesson about how slow and steady wins the race. But actually the next time I saw him he was waiting for me at the finish line!!
But I'm getting ahead of myself. The first part of the race was uphill which was hard, but not as hard as the next part which was slighly more uphill. By the time I got to the 2k marker I was ready to give up. In fact, it was only the slight glimmer of hope that if I kept running I might pass Step son panting on the verge that kept my leaden legs moving.
Despite being surrounded by the beautiful Kent countryside, I spend most of the time looking at my feet, trying to avoid the numerous puddles or getting caught in the increasingly slippery mud. My fellow runners all seemed very professional, although I was passed at one point by a very tall man dressed in womens clothes. Bizarre!
Thankfully, my second wind kicked in around the halfway point and I started to enjoy it - in a twisted sort of way. Unfortunately, since the course was twice round a 5k loop, I had to negotiate the hilly bit again. By this point it was so muddy and slippery that it had taken on bushtucker trial-like proportions and it was only possible to pick my way up it gingerly for fear of falling on my face. But never mind because once I got to the top it was only 3k to home!
Everyone seemed to pick up the pace for the last bit of the race. There was one last downward slope to negotiate and then it was about a 200 metre straight run (could have been more or less - I'm rubbish at distance!) to the finish. I heard my daughter shouting me on before I saw her and it was a real boost to have her and my Mum and Dad at the finish line (which I eventually crossed in 1 hour, 1 minute and 50 seconds).
Step son was extremely gracious in victory (he did it in 55 minutes and 7 seconds) and we enjoyed comparing notes on the way back to meet up with my husband, who had been designated driver and babysitter for the morning. I'm sure he must have been delighted to have such damp, muddy and, in some cases, sweaty passengers in his car but he gamely listened to my blow by blow account of the race all the way home. I couldn't help but notice that the 3 year old was asleep before we left the car park though!
Friday, 7 March 2008
You paid how much, for a what?
My husband is concerned that, in blogging terms, I sound like a single parent. In other words, there’s not enough about him in it! So this is for you, LL:
Late last year we were the subject of an identity fraud – a situation I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It’s annoying, time consuming and invasive. The only positive thing to come out of it is that we are now slightly more careful about checking our bank and credit card statements. So when, just before Christmas, I spotted an entry for £90 to a pen shop in London, I was straight on the phone to my husband. “Oh no, it’s fine,” he told me. “That’s for my propelling pencil!”
£90. For a pencil. Not just a pencil, I was told indignantly, a propelling one. Sensing that the ‘propelling’ angle wasn’t really working in terms of presenting this as a value for money purchase, he brought out the big guns: “And it matches my existing fountain pen.” Oh, well that makes all the difference. Money well spent then.
I’m afraid I struggled to contain my amazement at this purchase and over the next few months canvassed opinion from anyone who would listen about whether they too thought this was exorbitant (women did, men professed to find it reasonable.). As a result, his pencil became quite the celebrity among our friends and family.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when last week he announced that his £90 ‘pencil for life’ had broken and he’d needed to take it in for repair!!!! Apparently it had stopped propelling! He returned it to the pen shop and was impressed when it was whisked straight into the back room and repaired immediately. I resisted the temptation to suggest that the back room was probably empty save for a wizened old man operating one of those mechanical pencil sharpeners that Primary School teachers used to have attached to their desks.
Anyway, suffice to say that the lead in my husband’s pencil is now in full working order once again!
Late last year we were the subject of an identity fraud – a situation I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. It’s annoying, time consuming and invasive. The only positive thing to come out of it is that we are now slightly more careful about checking our bank and credit card statements. So when, just before Christmas, I spotted an entry for £90 to a pen shop in London, I was straight on the phone to my husband. “Oh no, it’s fine,” he told me. “That’s for my propelling pencil!”
£90. For a pencil. Not just a pencil, I was told indignantly, a propelling one. Sensing that the ‘propelling’ angle wasn’t really working in terms of presenting this as a value for money purchase, he brought out the big guns: “And it matches my existing fountain pen.” Oh, well that makes all the difference. Money well spent then.
I’m afraid I struggled to contain my amazement at this purchase and over the next few months canvassed opinion from anyone who would listen about whether they too thought this was exorbitant (women did, men professed to find it reasonable.). As a result, his pencil became quite the celebrity among our friends and family.
Imagine my surprise, therefore, when last week he announced that his £90 ‘pencil for life’ had broken and he’d needed to take it in for repair!!!! Apparently it had stopped propelling! He returned it to the pen shop and was impressed when it was whisked straight into the back room and repaired immediately. I resisted the temptation to suggest that the back room was probably empty save for a wizened old man operating one of those mechanical pencil sharpeners that Primary School teachers used to have attached to their desks.
Anyway, suffice to say that the lead in my husband’s pencil is now in full working order once again!
Thursday, 6 March 2008
Is this seat taken?
Met Mum in the High Street today and decided to go for coffee. Opted for Café Nero (known as Café Nerd in our house ever since I misread the signage!) and witnessed, not for the first time, a phenomenon that is the modern equivalent of towels on sunloungers.
A large area in the middle of the café was totally taken up by half a dozen women each with a small baby, a large pushchair and a variety of baby paraphernalia. Despite spreading themselves across four tables they didn’t seem to be drinking an awful lot of coffee because they were too busy using their extremely loud voices to discuss the daily routines of their babies in minute detail.
They were totally oblivious to the increasing irritation of both customers who, having actually bought coffee, had nowhere to sit and of those with seats but who didn’t find the problem of leaking breasts a suitable accompaniment to their hot beverage.
But maybe this small rant is actually prompted by jealousy. Because, contrary to my own experience of taking a small baby to a public place, not one of those babies fussed, screamed or projectile vomited over their coffee drinking mother!
A large area in the middle of the café was totally taken up by half a dozen women each with a small baby, a large pushchair and a variety of baby paraphernalia. Despite spreading themselves across four tables they didn’t seem to be drinking an awful lot of coffee because they were too busy using their extremely loud voices to discuss the daily routines of their babies in minute detail.
They were totally oblivious to the increasing irritation of both customers who, having actually bought coffee, had nowhere to sit and of those with seats but who didn’t find the problem of leaking breasts a suitable accompaniment to their hot beverage.
But maybe this small rant is actually prompted by jealousy. Because, contrary to my own experience of taking a small baby to a public place, not one of those babies fussed, screamed or projectile vomited over their coffee drinking mother!
Monday, 3 March 2008
Whatever happened to jelly and ice cream?
My 10 year old daughter was invited to a classmate’s birthday party at the Royal Opera House this weekend. Don’t get me wrong, I know this is a fantastic opportunity to experience something completely different, and I hate to sound middle aged – but what on earth is going on with children’s birthday parties?
To be honest, the first couple of years are great. It’s generally a group of Mummy and Daddy’s friend, who may (or may not) have similar aged kids, hanging out and drinking wine. It all culminates with the little one slobbering out the candles while assorted relatives crowd round like seasoned paparazzi trying to capture the moment on film.
By the age of about three or four you have to lay on some entertainment for the kids - usually in the form of a bouncy castle or soft play arrangement. You also have to feed them and it generally occurs to even the most inexperienced parents to a) limit the party to a maximum of 2 hours and b) hold it in a venue other than their own home. By this age, the child is probably at pre-school or nursery. This means they will want to invite their own friends, who will be delivered by parents keen to scurry off and make the most of a couple of hours free time. Of course, your own relatives and die hard friends will probably still stay for the duration but apparently it’s less socially acceptable to serve them wine now that they are effectively helping to supervise other people’s children.
And then they start school. This is where the real fun begins. Obviously the guest list for an event where potential invitees fall in and out of friendships several times a week is fraught. And that’s before you’ve even decided what sort of party you might have. Clearly, there are the basics – entertainer, Pizza Express, swimming, football, cinema, and bowling. Then the slightly more adventurous - laser shooting, discos, make-over, sleep-over, paint balling and limousine. And finally, not for the faint hearted – baking, soap making and even reptile experience (I’ve seen this one in action). It’s now definitely not OK to serve alcohol to attending adults (the more sober people available to round up the spiders, the better!) but they won’t be at a loose end because there are the party bags to organise. In my experience, you can get away with cheap tat until about Year 1 (possibly Year 2 or 3 for boys) but after that these seem to take on a life and significance of their own in terms of determining the success of the party. Even the bags (or if you are very posh, boxes) that the stuff goes home in is important. So, when you budget – take the cost of the party and allow the same again for bags. Still, at least you’ll be saving on wine!!!
The final phase hits when they decide they want to be involved in organising their own parties. I think it’s a good idea to reintroduce the wine at this point! My experience is that boys are much easier to steer than girls: “Mmm, rifle shooting at night followed by camping out sounds fun. Or, we could have a couple of your friends round for pizza and you can watch a slightly inappropriate film?” But girls live for their birthdays. Kate Moss-like endurance seems to be a common requirement. My daughter will suggest starting first thing on Saturday morning with a trip to a theme park, then back home for tea, a film and a sleepover, before taking everyone out to breakfast on Sunday morning. No thank you. Themes are also big. Earlier this year she was invited to a ‘celebrity’ party. They were all assigned identities and had to come dressed appropriately. I believe Lily Allen attended, as did Katie Price, Paris Hilton and many more. My daughter was asked to come as Amy Winehouse. And she was quite particular about her outfit. I had to buy two wigs to get the right volume to the beehive and gallons of liquid eye liner. For a laugh, her Dad suggested that she take an empty wine bottle as a prop. “Or a crack pipe,” she quipped. Bloody Hell, I must start hiding those celebrity magazines.
If it’s any consolation to parents of small children, my 15 year old step son has been totally independent in terms of birthday celebrations for a couple of years. He generally requests his favourite meal, which we eat in the company of close family and friends, and then he opens his pressies, blows out his candles and disappears off with his mates. Leaving us to finish the wine. Funny how things come full circle!
To be honest, the first couple of years are great. It’s generally a group of Mummy and Daddy’s friend, who may (or may not) have similar aged kids, hanging out and drinking wine. It all culminates with the little one slobbering out the candles while assorted relatives crowd round like seasoned paparazzi trying to capture the moment on film.
By the age of about three or four you have to lay on some entertainment for the kids - usually in the form of a bouncy castle or soft play arrangement. You also have to feed them and it generally occurs to even the most inexperienced parents to a) limit the party to a maximum of 2 hours and b) hold it in a venue other than their own home. By this age, the child is probably at pre-school or nursery. This means they will want to invite their own friends, who will be delivered by parents keen to scurry off and make the most of a couple of hours free time. Of course, your own relatives and die hard friends will probably still stay for the duration but apparently it’s less socially acceptable to serve them wine now that they are effectively helping to supervise other people’s children.
And then they start school. This is where the real fun begins. Obviously the guest list for an event where potential invitees fall in and out of friendships several times a week is fraught. And that’s before you’ve even decided what sort of party you might have. Clearly, there are the basics – entertainer, Pizza Express, swimming, football, cinema, and bowling. Then the slightly more adventurous - laser shooting, discos, make-over, sleep-over, paint balling and limousine. And finally, not for the faint hearted – baking, soap making and even reptile experience (I’ve seen this one in action). It’s now definitely not OK to serve alcohol to attending adults (the more sober people available to round up the spiders, the better!) but they won’t be at a loose end because there are the party bags to organise. In my experience, you can get away with cheap tat until about Year 1 (possibly Year 2 or 3 for boys) but after that these seem to take on a life and significance of their own in terms of determining the success of the party. Even the bags (or if you are very posh, boxes) that the stuff goes home in is important. So, when you budget – take the cost of the party and allow the same again for bags. Still, at least you’ll be saving on wine!!!
The final phase hits when they decide they want to be involved in organising their own parties. I think it’s a good idea to reintroduce the wine at this point! My experience is that boys are much easier to steer than girls: “Mmm, rifle shooting at night followed by camping out sounds fun. Or, we could have a couple of your friends round for pizza and you can watch a slightly inappropriate film?” But girls live for their birthdays. Kate Moss-like endurance seems to be a common requirement. My daughter will suggest starting first thing on Saturday morning with a trip to a theme park, then back home for tea, a film and a sleepover, before taking everyone out to breakfast on Sunday morning. No thank you. Themes are also big. Earlier this year she was invited to a ‘celebrity’ party. They were all assigned identities and had to come dressed appropriately. I believe Lily Allen attended, as did Katie Price, Paris Hilton and many more. My daughter was asked to come as Amy Winehouse. And she was quite particular about her outfit. I had to buy two wigs to get the right volume to the beehive and gallons of liquid eye liner. For a laugh, her Dad suggested that she take an empty wine bottle as a prop. “Or a crack pipe,” she quipped. Bloody Hell, I must start hiding those celebrity magazines.
If it’s any consolation to parents of small children, my 15 year old step son has been totally independent in terms of birthday celebrations for a couple of years. He generally requests his favourite meal, which we eat in the company of close family and friends, and then he opens his pressies, blows out his candles and disappears off with his mates. Leaving us to finish the wine. Funny how things come full circle!
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