The iron, the bitch and the wardrobe.

Every time I open my wardrobe I can hear my size 10 jeans calling me a fat arse.

‘Soon’ I used to whisper to them, fingering them idly ‘Soon!’ and then I would proceed to torture myself rotten with guilt, anytime I put anything in my mouth. (Food I mean, you smutty lot!)

Now though, I ignore them completely. I don’t whisper anything. I just grab my one pair of size 14’s from right under their snooty little noses, and shake my love handles at them, as I turn around to get dressed. They might miss me, but the truth is, I don’t really miss them.

(‘BITTTCHH!’ – Sorry about that. They can obviously hear me.)

But the truth is I don’t miss them. AT ALL.

(‘BITTTCHHH!’ – Sorry! – For the love of god shut up!)

Body image is something I have always struggled with, that I will admit. But to be honest, at the moment, I am struggling more with mammy image than body image. I am, for the first time in my life, and I am being totally honest here, at one with my body. It feels great.

Which is odd considering I am probably the biggest I have ever been. But I am so amazed by my body and what it has created (yes, yes the sperm was there too darling, what WE created…) that when I look at my stretch marks, wobbly thighs and killer love handles, I am no longer reduced to tears.

I was, I will admit it, disgusted. When I saw my post partum body in a full length mirror at the hospital (WHY, why in gods name, is that mirror there?? Just take it down! You go from hero to zero in 2 minutes flat!) I came out of the bathroom after my first shower nearly hysterical- LOOK AT WHAT PREGNANCY LEFT BEHIND!!! So worked up was I, that the Irish one sent me off for a brew and a biscuit to calm down. On my return, however, I noticed him stood pressed up against the bathroom door gently murmuring sweet nothings to whoever was inside. ‘baby you are amazing, your son loves you, I love you. Come out and give us a cuddle.’ Imagine his shock then, if you will, when I hobbled up and questioned who he was talking to? He was mortified! He had heard crying from inside, (SEE! Just take the damn thing down!!) and had assumed I had gone back in, to continue my hissy fit! The poor unsuspecting woman on the other side of that door must have been thinking, ‘As if things weren’t bad enough, I now have some weirdo outside calling me baby!’ But anyway I digress – I went from being disgusted to being in awe of my body and all its little changes, eventually. (There were a few months of self loathing thrown in for good measure in between though, but alas, I have learned to love my body again.) I am now proud of my body for what it has achieved.

So my size 10 jeans can just feck right off. (They cant hear me now, its ok, they are being suffocated by the gusset of my size 14 tights.)

So when I look at all my old clothes, the fact they are all too small seems redundant. They seem……well….. not me. They just aren’t me anymore. Do you know what I mean?

I don’t want to wear butt cheek skimming skirts and tank tops (god forbid) with a push up bra. (I was a right tart.) I don’t want to wear ripped jeans and tiny t-shirts. (I was trying to stay young) and I don’t want to wear leather chaps and nipple spinner corsets. (Joking! Or am I?) I want to wear….. Well that’s just it. I have no idea what I want to wear.

All I know is, I need to give in, and buy a few more clothes that fit. I am finally comfortable in my skin. IT FEELS GREAT TO SAY THAT! And its time to put a couple of pennies aside for a few new items of clothing. Items of clothing that can smother my size 10 jeans and banish them to the back of the wardrobe for a rainy day. A rainy day when muffins stop being my food of choice. (Have you tried O’Brien’s muffins? They are scrumdiddlyumptious! And I can say that guilt free. Have one!)

I am quite excited really as I love to shop! Bargain hunting is a new thing for me but, you know, I am up for a challenge. If I can have 3 stitches in my rectum I can find a bargain. I am a mother now. I can do anything. I can rule the world if I so choose.

So will I be stylish mammy? (I doubt it.)

Or flowery skirt mammy? (I could braid my hair and call myself Inga! HALLO! I am Inga from Sveeeden!)

Or biker mammy? (I’ll buy a red and black thriller leather jacket with matching leather pants! I could get a tattoo! I could get a Doberman! Call it butch!)

Or pyjama mammy? (This is blatantly, what I will end up as. (cough cough continue to be you mean, cough cough) Not used the iron in months, dried Rusk in my hair, spit up down my top, last nights make up crusting up round my wrinkles…)

Or Greek mammy? (I could buy a toga and a gold headband!…. But then I’d have to shave my legs… no, forget that one…)

Or German mammy? (All I need is a towel, (for the sun bed) and some socks and sandals! I am up at six every morning anyway!?!)

Or Disney mammy! (I would love to be Disney mammy. If I could I would dress like Cinderella everyday and flounce around singing about the washing up and the amount of hair on the carpet, while Doodle the Poodle did the Charleston in the background and the local wildlife changed the baby’s nappy…)

So much choice!! I am just not sure!

One thing I am sure of though, is I am happier with my body now than I have ever been. Tena-lady included.

I would recommend to anybody miserable with their post partum body to stand in front of the mirror naked (I also recommend whacking the heating on first) and give a memory to each and every stretch mark. All of mine have a memory attached. For every thigh wobble I have a smile off my gorgeous son to match it with.

Post partum body? Totally worth it.

Which Mammy image to go for?

How’s about Pirate Mammy? (I can buy a parrot to go with my eye patch then! And meet Johhny depp!! And take Woo on a rowing boat! And teach him about booty!… oh no wait, forget that.)

Wordless Wednesday with Addison.

Whassssuuuuuuuupppppppppp!

Live fast, die young…

Sometimes when I wake up in the morning,
For a split second,
I forget.
If I hear the theme tune for the sopranos,
For a split second,
I forget.
When I see a motorbike zooming past,
For a split second,
I forget.

When I hear a voice in a crowd that sounds like you,
For a split second,
I am hopeful.
Every now and again I hear you laughing,
For a split second,
My heart soars.
Sometimes I see your face in a stranger,
For a split second,
The pain is gone.

When I look at my son and I know how much he would have loved you,
For a split second,
I am angry.
When I drive past your old house and feel the need to talk,
For a split second,
I am overcome.
When I see your name still in my phone,
For a split second,
I am crushed. 

When I think of growing up without you,
For a split second,
I hate you.
When I think of the years gone by and the fun we had,
For a split second,
I love you.
When I remember the times you held my hand,
For a split second,
I feel safe.
When I remember all you meant to me,
For a split second,
I am proud.

After all of these years, when my heart is still screaming,
For a split second,
I feel your hugs.
When I look at your photos, my face all stained,
For a split second, 
You are here.

If you could return to me just once,
For a split second,
I’d shout at you!
And when I’d finished giving you grief,
As is my job as your sister,
I would tell you how lucky we were to have you,
In our lives,
Even for a split second.

I love you Jason.
I will miss you forever.
Wherever you are now, pull out a barstool for me.
But this time, you are right,  I won’t have a Guinness.
I will have a hug.

Not for a split second, but forever,
Proud to be your little sister.  

Inspired much?

Miss Ellis.
Motivated, focused and looking for inspiration!

At least, this is what it reads at the top of my Cv. So it must be true! Because clearly nobody ever lies on their Cv do they? I have also been 27 for the last 4 years, am an award winning tap-dancer, and in 1984 I swam the channel while wearing a teeny weenie yellow poker dot bikini. Which interestingly, I had worn for the first time that day.

But i am looking for inspiration. That bit is true. And i am a lover of all inspirational quotes! I love the fact, one sentance can set you on course for a good day. (I am also easily pleased.) I will even admit to enjoying the 1999 classic anthem about ensuring you wear sunscreen. You know the one. Remember the compliments, forget the insults… you are not as fat as you think you are…look after your knees you will miss them when they are gone. He was right too! I do miss my knees. I curse this one anytime I bend over. (Said the actress to the bishop. Sorry. Couldn’t resist. Maybe I should add smutty to my Cv too.)

‘You are never too old to dream! Choose a job you love and you will never work a day! Faith is taking a step even when you cant see the staircase! Do not protect yourself with a fence but with your friendships! If the wind will not strike, take to the oars! You can not plough a field by turning it over in your mind! Fortune favours the brave! Nobody can make you feel inadequate unless you let them. Change the empty toilet role useless man-type, or be banished from this house forever!

Ok that last one isn’t very inspirational. But it should be. I know most women will agree. (Why are they so incapable of doing this??? The bin is right there! Why is it so hard? No woman should ever have to be made to do the ‘shake and vac’ (to put the freshness back) in her own home! It’s an insult. Im not arsed, leave the seat up, ill spot that! But I won’t realise there is no loo roll until it’s too late. Just change the roll or leave my home ok? I think that’s fair.)

However! As of last night, there is now one type of inspirational quote I will avoid at all costs.

‘Face the fear and do it anyway.’

Now clearly. Whoever came up with this little gem, never drove from Carlisle to Manchester at 7pm on any given Friday night in the most tremendous, torrential and purely evil rain storm. Clearly they have never had to cuddle the steering wheel to stop the wind driving them off the road while concentrating on a fading white line, while driving blind as eighteen wheeler trucks chug, wheeze and creep past, spraying them with gale force sheets of pure water. They have never spent 3 hours with an overtired baby screaming them deaf, while trying to navigate through four lanes of traffic in the middle of a tornado! (Oh the drama!)

‘Do something everyday that scares you’

Clearly the person that wrote this. Has never spent anytime AT all on the M6 at night. (Seriously? We live in an age where we can watch 3Dtv in our own living rooms but we cant afford floodlights on the motorway? What the feck? How’s about we stop paying for banker wanker bonuses and start paying for safe roads for the nations mum’s to drive on! Huh? Huh? Huh? Its hardly rocket science…aaaand dismount…. And don’t even get me started on the badgers!…..aaaand dismount again. (I borrowed the horse from the last post. Its high. Just in case you didnt get that…. i’ll shut up now.)

‘I am facing my fears and I am doing it anyway. I am facing my fears and I am doing it anyway. Im facing my fears and I am doing it anyway. I am facing my fears and I aaaaammmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm (Lorry) doiiiinnngggg it anyway. I am facing my fears and I am doiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiing (white van) ittttttttttttttttttttttttt anyway, I am facing my feeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaarssssssssssssssss (18 wheeler) annnnnnnndddddddd for the holy love of gooooooooddddddddd I canttttttttt seeee shiiiiiiiitttttttttt, I am doinnnnggggggg it annnywayyyyy…

‘Do something everyday that scares you’ sounds great in theory. But there is no way that the person who came up with it, thought it through properly. I mean yeah, it sounds great. I am sure it can sound very motivating. (If your fear is say, orange juice. Or getting out of bed. Or play-doh!) But the reality would be a frigging nightmare!

‘I’m sorry I couldn’t come and see you today honey, I was looking for a cliff to dive off. I will be doing the same tomorrow, Wednesday and Thursday. Yes I know I’m scared of heights love, but I went on google and I was inspired. I know I’m shaking like a shitting dog love, but its ok, Because I am inspired. On Friday I shall be spending the majority of the day researching base jumping love, but I shall make sure I kiss a poisonous spider, just to ensure I follow the rules correctly you see, it’s inspiring.’

‘What scares you Alan?’
‘Big hairy dogs Frank’,
‘Go find one Alan, and anger it, it’s inspiring! ‘

‘I apologise for keeping you waiting sir. I was busy facing my fear and having my fingers ripped off by a rabid Dalmatian, now if you just lie back I will have a look at those molars…’

Do something every day that scares me?
Piss right off.

Miss Ellis.
Motivated, honest and enjoys a cup of tea and a chocolate biscuit.   Inspired enough!
Thanks.

 

I love you, but please don’t bring a horse.

Choosing a god mother and father has been something of a dilemma for myself and the Irish one. Actually I take that back. It has been a dilemma for me. (The one with DRAMA QUEEN stamped under her passport picture.)

The Irish one picked his best friend. Who is brilliant, lovely and funny as hell. I don’t know him very well yet, but he is fantastic with Addison and only lives half an hour away, so I am sure this situation will be rectified over time. His girlfriend has a fondness for shopping and vodka I can totally relate to aswell, so I was pleased with the Irish ones choice. Great godfather who comes with a wicked new friend for me! Winner!

See and that’s where we differ. The Irish one faces a problem or dilemma and he fixes it. (The Irish one with Jim stamped under his passport picture. – As in, Jim’ll fix it. His real name is not Jim. Its Alan. Just in case you were wondering. The Irish one that is. Not the godfather. (Cue freaky music and a dead horses head.) The godfathers name is Foxy. I don’t know why. It just is. They are Irish!…… I’ll shut up now.)

For me on the other hand it wasn’t so easy. Not because I am a lonely cow, who nobody loves (cough cough lying cow cough cough) But because I am hugely popular and desirable and everybody loves me. (cough cough that’s what you think cough cough.)

In all honesty though, it was a tough call because I have so many beautiful and lovely women in my life, I wanted to chose them all. Which I very nearly did. (I got a bit giddy on gas and air during the labour and apparently was asking anybody who gave me an internal, to be my sons spiritual guide. Including the lunch lady. She didn’t give me an internal. I just asked her. To be godmother that is. Not to give me an internal…… Ill shut up now.)

I am not religious. My understanding of god mother was always ‘she who shall look after my child if I was to be hit by a bus’ and ‘she who shall baby-sit at a moments notice and guide my son through girls, smoking and the importance of using a condom.’ (When he is older, that is. MUCH MUCH MUCH OLDER!) and obviously -‘she who shall take a haggard mother out on the piss following a horrific birthing experience and hold her hair back while she vomits up three glasses of wine, a vodka cranberry and a dodgy chicken kebab’

So who was the lucky woman?

Well obviously my oldest and bestest friend in the whole world. The friend I made secret ‘dens’ with when I was five. The friend who’s mum was allowed to tell me off for being cheeky. The friend who came with us on every family holiday growing up. The friend who got me in trouble. The friend who I got in trouble, and the friend who carried me through the death of my only brother in 2005. She is more than my friend. She is my family. She is somebody I admire and somebody I want my son to love as much as I do. She is charming, gorgeous, caring, kind, sensitive, a total nutcase and most of all? She is a bloody great laugh!!!!! If I get hit by a bus? I want my son to laugh.

(Not by the fact I was hit by a bus but later in life. I want him to have laughter in his life. But not directly after. A little bit of grieving would be nice. I mean, I held his butt cheeks apart to help him fart, for godsake. So yes son, laugh, but not straight away. You know what I mean right?…..I’ll shut up now.)

So well done Kate! You are Addison’s God-mummy! He loves you, I love you, we all love you!

 Can you baby-sit Friday night?

Dance your cares away (clap clap)…

 
‘We’re going on a trip, on a little rocket ship, flying through the sky, LITTLE EINSTIEN’S!’

Bang!

That noise you just heard wasn’t a firework. It was me shooting an imaginary bullet directly in to the Sky HD box. At close range.

(No Mr. Sky HD technical man. It just stopped working, I have no idea why! What’s that? I need to reboot? You’ll be here between 8-1 on Tuesday to check the scarf/start/scarb lead? Shall I hold my breath from 8am onwards? No? Because you might not make it? Oh right. Will you let me know if you cant make it? You won’t. Ok then. Thanks. I look forward to sitting in all morning in the vague hope you may turn up and fix this gaping hole where Playhouse Disney used to live.)

‘Three special steps that’s all you need, three special steps, all you need to succeed… ’

 Bang!

 Once again, not a firework.

I’m not being funny, but seriously! When did children’s theme tunes become so annoying you would seriously consider chewing your own ears off, in a vain attempt to escape the sheer banality?

In my day theme tunes were funky, funny and friendly. Nowadays its seems the only pre-requisite of a theme tune is it needs to be catchy (and annoying as hell). I can picture the marketing managers at Disney sitting around a big table, (all telling each other to ‘have a nice day’) deciding on theme tunes for the next up and coming cartoon.

‘Well we like this calm one here, its intelligent and quiet, in fact you can barely hear it at all’ - Says marketing manager one while jumping up and down wearing a Tigger costume. (I also find Tigger a mild irritant. Stop jumping up and down, for the love of god!!)

‘Well in that case let’s go for the one that will annoy the shit out of every mother in the western hemisphere. The one she will sing to herself while walking round the supermarket, doing the dishes and having a well-earned bath. The one that she will wake up singing! The one that means she will never escape!!’ – Says marketing manager 2 while caressing his pitch fork. (As in, he is the devil. I am not using ‘pitchfork’ as some dodgy euphemism here.)

Now Fraggle rock! That was a theme tune! That was a theme tune that was both funky and friendly. (And ok yes, a little annoying but compare it, to, hmm I don’t know… ‘Claude Claude he’s a little white bear….’ for instance, and you know I’m right. I mean seriously! Who comes up with this crap? Give us some lyrics to play with!!!)

Fraggle rock was so clever and so cool a theme tune they even made a grown up version. When I say them, I mean some total randomer who clearly had too much time on his hands. (Total randomer is definitely male, because the females were all too busy reading ‘forever’ by Judy Blume behind the bike sheds… ), and when I say grown up version I mean it had a rude word in it. Do you remember the grown up version?

Whenever I think of fraggle rock now, my mind automatically thinks about grabbing a fraggle by the cock. (Or the pitchfork.)

I remember the naughty lyrics perfectly, but have no idea what the real ones……Oh! Ok! I get it now.

Maybe there is a reason they keep them simple.

Sometimes.

 
Sometimes I feel I cant breathe,
Like I’ve no energy left for this fight!
There is all this routine and this pressure
For a mother to get everything right.

We could throw all the dishes at the wall,
And leave the frigging house in a tip!
We are all so frightened of failing,
We could all disappear on a trip. 

Sometimes we feel like dancing,
And wish we could just be free,
Sometimes we feel like escaping,
And having some time just for me!

I am told I am a good mother,
But really I know I am not.
How can I succeed on autopilot?
Walking around like a frumpy robot.

Sometimes we look in the mirror,
And all we can see is the lard!
We were expecting motherhood to be difficult,
But who knew it would be this hard?

Sometimes we are walking through fog,
We don’t always want to be boss!
‘I just need someone to cuddle me.
I am feeling so isolated and lost.’  

Sometimes I feel like screaming,
I want to spend a day in the sun!
Do you even know who I am anymore?
I used to be so much fun!

Sometimes we lie there and wonder,
If things could be different somehow?
If we were alone, single and rested,
Would we feel a bit better right now?

We know deep down in our hearts,
We are never really alone,
There are plenty of mummy’s just like us,
Just at the end of the phone.

My baby and my friends keep me going,
When everything feels a bit rough.
With them I don’t need to keep smiling,
To hide the more worrying stuff.

We do miss the freedom and independence,
We are guilty of having this thought,
But we wouldn’t change a thing to be honest,
Because these moments with you cant be bought. 

Sometimes I feel like running.
But my heart lives here with you.
Sometimes I feel like escaping,
But Mammy couldn’t live without Woo.

If she is a size 12, i am a supermodel.

God I wish I was naturally thin.

I don’t know about you, but the word ‘diet’ makes my skin actually crawl. The word ‘gymnasium’ makes me want to shove as many salt and vinegar square crisps in to my mouth, as quickly as I possibly can until I feel like I am happily chewing on broken glass. (Anybody who loves square crisps as much as I do will know all about the pain/enjoyment factor of said square crisps.)

Both words spoken in the same sentence, and I automatically want to hide behind the sofa and sleep. I’m being honest. Just hearing them used in the same sentence exhausts me. And if you even mention the dreaded WieghtWatchers , I instinctively reach for the Revels.(A grab bag that is. Not a single bag. Obviously.)

 If I close one eye, when looking in the mirror. I can lose half of my body fat, in an instant. If I take out my contact lenses, I am transformed in a heartbeat, in to a blurry, foggy, squirming mass of gorgeousness. I can be any shape I like, and I choose waif -like please! If I close my eyes and concentrate on the fantasy; I am a size 10.

 Unfortunately though, when I have my contacts firmly stuck (usually as crispy and dry as Ryvita, the perils of being awake 23 hours a day) in both eyes. I am what I am. And it is what it is. I am a size 14. (Code for; 16, possibly an 18 on a bad day.) And right now this instant, there is nothing I can do about it. (This simple fact however, will not stop me from having a major strop, throwing all my clothes out of the wardrobe, my dummy out of the pram, giving my other half a load of abuse and bursting in to tears at any given point. It will also not stop me from ordering a Chinese later tonight either, so go figure.)

I have never ever been thin. Even at my slimmest, according to the pie chart of doom at the doctors office, I was still obese. Which at 5ft 3 and 11 stone strikes me as a bit harsh! Ok, 5ft 2 and 12 stone.. But still! There is no need to be rude!! So even when I was slim(mer) than I am now. I was still curvy. I was still voluptuous. (I hate that word!)

 It was right after the evil pilot had been knobbing the slutty hostess at 32 thousand feet  (see; once upon a time in a fairytale) that I lost a lot of weight. Seemingly, playing the part of the jilted wife made me angry, and even seemingly-er, the only time I can not eat is when I am angry. (Who knew?) So even though I was obviously devastated *reaches for tiny violin* I was actually secretly thrilled by the affect all this anger was having on my dress size. So much so, that I fraternised with it. I encouraged it. I supported it, and I invited it in to my daily routine. I was the hulk! (but thinner and less green.. ) Sponsored by starbucks.

 I drank coffee like a woman possessed. I ate nothing but fruit. Meaning, if you needed me. I was usually in the toilet. (TMI? Tough!) It was the first time in my life I was proud of my body. It was the first time in my life I felt good on the outside. It was the first time in my life I could shop in the high street shops and experiment with my style. (Everything fit me! For the first time ever!) It was also the first time in my life, it began to dawn on me, that maybe ‘the outside’ wasn’t all that mattered. (Clearly being dumped and shit on from a great height (do you see what I did there? No pun intended…much!) had inadvertently made me less shallow. Another of the very many, great lessons, I learnt that year. The most important being – never trust a pilot.)

 My body began to fall apart on me, bit by bit. It was like a modern version of Death Becomes Her. I was suffering heart palpitations, dizziness and I was prone to hot flushes and fainting. (Most embarrassing moment ever; fainting in the buff while trying to ‘impress’ my other half!) I was permanently cold and permanently paranoid! (I convinced myself over a six month period, that I had a number of different ailments, ranging from the more common of cancers, to the Ebola virus. How my other half did not have me put down I will never know. I was Annoying.com)

 And yet walking in to the doctors office with a nasty cough, (another awful side affect – I constantly had flu symptoms!) Dr. Quock took one look at me and gasped ‘Wow, look at you, Im very proud of you! Congratulations! I bet you feel so much healthier don’t you?’ (Patronizing cow.) No. Actually knob face I don’t. I may be ‘in the green’ on the pie chart. But I couldn’t be further away from ‘healthy’, than if you rammed my mouth full of lard and kicked me in the elbow. Which just goes to show, actually, how absolutely inconsequential and unimportant those pie charts are….

Getting pregnant soon put the brakes firmly on the ‘I want to be the slimmest woman that ever lived’ trip and pressed the accelerator down hard on the ‘I can eat what I want now I’m pregnant and I intend to, so fuck off’ voyage. Yes, I wanted a healthy baby, but really my actions were selfish. I just wanted to eat. It was a relief. I felt able- bodied, ‘bright eyed and bushy tailed’ (and lots of other annoying ways to describe healthy), in what felt like an instant! Safe in the knowledge that when the baby was born it would ‘drop off’ right? That’s what everyone told me!!

Turns out everyone frigging lied.

There’s me shoving chocolate down my face at a rate of knots, telling myself (with my mouth full) that it didn’t actually count. As it was pregnancy chocolate, and pregnancy chocolate magically drops off! Lying bastards.

In all honesty I have probably lost about 3 stone (code for; 2 stone) since Addison was born. Its been hard work. And I probably have another 2 (code for; 3) stone to go before I reach my ideal weight. (I hate that term. Ideal weight. Because my ‘ideal weight’ if we are being totally honest with one another here, is about 7 stone. But only so I could eat my way back up to a healthy 10 stone!) The problem though, is my lack of motivation. I am SO unmotivated.

 The way I see it, I feel healthy and I think I look half decent. Im a new mother for gods sake. (Although in all honesty, I’m not sure how much longer I will get away with that) Plus Im busy. He is teething! Donuts dont count if you eat them before the sun comes up!!

 And seriously if Vanessa Feltz can happily look the world in the eye and state she is a size 12 (lying cow!) Then So can I. (I’m also a lying cow) Because its your state of mind that’s most important isn’t it? She is happy (apart from the break down!) and I am happy (apart from the PND) so clearly being thin is a state of mind!!

In which case, I am a River Island size 10! (Which everybody knows is an 8 really….)

Sweet and sour chicken anyone?

 Or maybe a revel?

Is there a therapist in the house?

When I was little I wanted an eye patch.

One of my earliest childhood memories, is of a little girl appearing at my front door with her over -dressed mother  (for some reason when I remember this moment, I always picture the mother wearing a red and white poker-dot ball gown. But I’m sure that can’t be right. Unless her mum was Minnie Mouse… and then wouldnt i just remember the ears? but anyway.. )

I had first noticed this little girl hanging around by the slide at the playground.

I was also aware, little busy -body that I was, (not much changed there, just call me Noris) that she had only just moved in next door with her mummy and daddy. So when the doorbell rang, and there she was stood in all her glory, her mother dancing to ‘hot dog hot dog hot, digetty dog’ in the background (teehee), it wasn’t a huge surprise to me.

It was unscheduled though.

She had turned up out of the blue, as my mother would say. Had she not heard of the phone? Was she born in a barn?

I was a planner as a child. I couldn’t plan a glass of milk in a dairy farm now, but there you go. Back then anything unscheduled threw my whole diary out of whack. I was a pain in the arse, even at the age of five.

Now I remember very distinctly being in a mood on this day. I was ‘huffy’ and ‘puffy’ that this girl should step foot in my house because;

A) I was totally intimidated by her, only the brave and rough kids hung around by the slide!! Anybody reading this who grew up in England during the 1980’s and earlier will understand why. Do you remember those death slides? They were the highest, narrowest, steepest and scariest looking apparatus ever constructed and allowed within 30 feet of a child. With at least a million tiny steps leading up to the tip and only 2 little (wobbly) bars at the top to stop you falling off the side and plummeting 100 feet on to the tarmac below, it really is a wonder any of us made it in to our 30’s. There was no shredded cork in my day! If you fell off that slide it was game over. (Do not pass GO!, do NOT collect £200!) When you were at the top of that slide you could literally see Morocco. Your friends waiting down below looked like jumping fleas. And if you did manage to sit your podgy arse on the narrow slip of metal at the summit without falling to your untimely death, you would usually reach the bottom shaking like a shitting dog and covered from head to toe in heat burns. This would be from attempting to slow yourself down from warp speed to light speed during the shaky, terrifying and usually painful decent.

If those slides were about now, The Department of health and safety would be all over them like a rash. (not unlike the graffiti that was always all over them at that time! Sharon luvs Derek 4eva!.) The children of this decade would (quite rightly) be made to wear harnesses and helmets, and would only be permitted to climb, said death trap under the supervision of the Greater Manchester fire service. They were really scary! Forget a sky dive for cancer research! Come and try this 80’s torture slide! You’ll crap yourself!

And B) She was a big girl. I don’t mean this in the literal sense. I mean, at a whole six months older, she was in the year above me at school and was unattainably cool. I did not want her to see my collection of Care bears and their Care bear friends lined up neatly against the radiator, keeping their bums warm. Or my collection of Polly pockets (which FYI! Were pocket sized then! Have you seen Polly recently? She ain’t pocket sized! They should change her name to Polly -carrier bag!) sitting in a circle having a pocket séance (Did i mention my family may as well have been the Adams Family?) And I definitely did not want her to see my He-Man and She-Ra giving in to some much needed grown up love action, in the barbie house upstairs, while Skeletor watched from his castle of doom. (Joke! I was five for gods sake!) So I was well and truly in a mood. If it had been planned, I could have tidied! (or at the very least shoved them all under my bed!)

But mostly I was in a mood because I was jealous.

I recall she was dressed to kill in a neon pink pair of cycling shorts with a matching neon pink and black tank top.

ALL THE RAGE!

On her feet she had some pink glittery slip on’s (which I wasn’t allowed until I was six! Bitch!) and some neon pink pop socks! And it got worse! When she turned around, to hug her mum goodbye, (clearly on purpose to show off – I may have been five but what was I stupid?) she had the most perfect, baby blonde, soft and flowing curls stretching out all the way down her back, complimented perfectly with the most divine pair of plastic, shimmering fairy wings! (Double bitch!) She was perfect!!

Except for the eye patch.

Did I covet the neon cycling shorts? (Im ashamed to say) Yes.

Did I covet the perfect, plastic shimmery fairy wings? Definitely.

Did I covet her perfect bonce? Maybe…

But did I covet the pale peach, fraying, NHS standard issue, slightly lifted on one side, leaves a dirty grey sticky mess on the side of your face, eye patch? More than anything in the world!!

I remember standing, frozen to the spot, glaring at her (with my perfectly healthy eyes) and thinking lucky cow. She’s got a dodgy eye.

Here is one for the psychologists.

I was a lucky child.

I had a loving mother, a loving father and the best big brother in the whole world.

I did not feel unloved or jealous or forgotten.

I was spoilt but grateful (most of the time) and I was deliriously happy. (My family life was great until the age of 13. Then all hell broke loose. But that’s another post altogether! A password protected one!)

My only worries were; Could I push bedtime back another half an hour if I sat here quietly? Maybe they would forget I existed? And how many times can I whine ‘pleeeaase’ to my dad for a another bag of crisps, before he goes mental. So what gives?

All I know is, that was my first experience of lusting after some sort of medical badge of honour. An eye patch showed you were different! An Inhaler said you were cutting edge!

(A couple of years later, I moved on to wanting an inhaler. All the cool kids had them and if you remember, they were pretty funky back then. The 80’s equivalent of an Iphone. But better. Because it helps you breathe! You missed a trick there Apple.)

A cast said you were popular!! (A few years later I went through a stage of trying to break my own leg, I wanted a signed cast. They was cool!)

Braces gave you a certain ‘Je ne sais quoi!’  (I also wanted a retainer I could gently manoeuvre in to my mouth in front of the teachers, that would clearly show I wasn’t able to answer any questions in class, but meant I could sit with a knowing look while others struggled…AND If you were cool enough, you could have little red stars melted on to it! Ooooo!) and the list continues…

It was only last week, after having endured numerous broken bones, with casts that are bloody fibre-glass so cant be signed!!! And having grown bugs bunny teeth (I knew I needed a retainer!) And after having finally being diagnosed with Asthma, (meaning I finally got my inhaler! 27 years later!)that I remembered my somewhat random and strange childhood ambitions of being, well, poorly? Most kids dream of a holiday to Walt Disney World. Not me. I dreamt of spending a week in Hope Hospital.

It took me back. It made me smile. It made me bloody think, that perhaps I should be a little more careful about what I wish for. (Especially after having to use my boring, brown square inhaler in front of a load of snowboarders! So not cool!) It made me shudder remembering the 80’s dress sense but most of all it made me feel excited that Addison has all this to come!!

You can buy child size, funky eye patches now you know?

He is going to look SO cool! (AND SO AM I!!)

What goeth around must cometh around…

‘What goes around comes around’ is a saying most are familiar with right?

‘He’s left you?’ ooo what goes around comes around.
‘She stole your last kit-kat?’ ooo what goes around comes around.
‘He is sleeping with your best mate?’ ooo what goes around comes around.
‘He made you cry?’ ooo what goes around comes around.
‘BT never turned up, all day?’ ooo what goes around comes around.
‘The milkman is shagging Doris?’ ooo what goes around comes around.
‘The window cleaner saw you in the buff ?’ ooo what goes around comes around.

 It’s a phrase that can lift you up or strike you down. It’s certainly a phrase I have mumbled to myself and uttered to others on occasion. Usually when one of my friends is hurting, or when someone stole my last chocolate biscuit. (Pointed look at my other half sitting innocently on the couch.) But it’s also a phrase I think about quite often.

 Im not a religious person, I am not an atheist. I don’t know much about Buddhism or Scientology or even Kabballah or Catholicism. (Although I do like those little red stringy bracelets!) I could be a religious person, I suppose, if I studied enough, and learnt enough and believed enough in one subject to have an opinion. To be swayed in to understanding, But the truth is, I don’t know much about any religion and for that reason, I am not sure what I believe.

 (DISCLAIMER- I am not trying to start an argument or discussion here, and I apologise if the above paragraph upsets anyone, this is just where I am right now. One day I may look in to religion a little deeper and believe whole heartedly in one particular faith. And for those that do believe, I respect your beliefs and your opinions wholeheartedly. I hope one day I get time to study and research and am lucky enough to experience the feeling of warmth  and protection i have heard, you can feel.)

 I do believe in fashion. (Although I’m not very good at it.) I do believe that chocolate can be a healer (I am very good at healing myself) and I do believe in the almighty power of the universe. (Bam Bam BAMMM! If I could, I would have that last sentence scroll on screen, like the introduction at the start of the star wars films!) I am also a very firm believer that without Starbucks, I would be half the woman I am today. (I wouldn’t have made it out of the house for one thing, as id never have had the motivation and their bloody muffins are to die for!) I’m just not sure about religion yet.

 But for now, as well as believing in ghosts, (thought id slip that one in!) I believe there is good in the world. I believe there is evil in the world and I believe in the above statement.  What goes around comes around. Because it’s like with anything, there has to be some give, to run along the side of take, right? You have to put something in, to get something back? You should treat people the way you would like to be treated? (Which includes respecting peoples last bloody chocolate biscuits!! Sorry.. And breathe..)

 I ask the universe for a lot on a day to day basis. I do so without even realising. On a typical day I could probably ask for 100 different things to go my way, without even knowing I am actually asking. I won’t list a hundred, (thankfully, I hear you whisper!) but as an example, this morning alone (it is only 11am) I have already sent out;

Please let the baby have a decent nap.
Please let me look thinner today.
Please let my car have enough petrol to make it to the shops.
Please let the dog NOT piss on the carpet in rebellion while we are out.
Please let my bank account have magically doubled in funds overnight.
Please let the baby’s teeth give him a break today.
Please let them have that coat in my size.
Please let this ache in the pit of my heart go away. (Slipped that one in too!)Please let next year’s harvest be full and fruitful…

 Ok that last one is a lie. But you know what I mean right? And you may read that and think shallow bitch and actually, looking at that, you’d probably be right. But it’s the day to day you know? I’m not after world peace here! Im just after a bit of an easy morning!

 So what comes around goes around… Some days everything goes your way. Your theme tune (because don’t we all secretly want a bit of slow motion and a theme tune every now and again? Don’t tell me you’ve never pointed the hairdryer at your face and pouted while imagining yourself in a music video. We have all done it.) would be something jumpy and upbeat. (Mine is usually Chumbawumba, you know the one.) Nothing can go wrong. You find a tenner on the floor, you feel thinner, you feel lighter, and you are invincible! (Can you feel the however approaching? There is always a however… are you ready for it? Here it is…)

 HOWEVER!  Then you have those days that balance out the universe. The days when our old acquaintance ‘Mr. Sod and his bucket of many mishaps’ arrives at the door, big evil smile on his face, and your name tattooed on his forehead. You put your smug smile away, you knew he would be visiting at some point, and trudge back to whatever meaningless task you were fulfilling with him in tow, waiting for the shit to hit the fan. It’s on days like this my theme tune changes to Benny Hill, and the slow motion speeds in to overdrive and the hairdryer blows up in my face.

 It’s on days like this you apply your eyeliner, just as the window cleaner decides to bang his sponge on the bathroom window. Your hand veers off in shock and you are left with a Harry potter lightning bolt on your forehead. You go to wipe it off but the baby starts crying, or the doorbell rings, or the dog chooses that moment to pee up your leg and before you know it, you forgot all about it and it’s the end of the day. You look in the mirror and notice, with a sigh, you have spent all day walking around like Adam Ant’s ugly sister. Or you wake up and the house is a bomb site, you rush around, juggling morning tasks, breakfast, baby, getting dressed, washing up, feeding doggy and cleaning, all the while wiping here, and dusting there and tidying here and hiding mess there. It takes you a good couple of hours before the house (or the living room at the very least) is finally spotless. The baby is finally asleep, and you’ve put a nappy on the dog (joke!) You deserve a rest, a break, 10 minutes of peace! You make yourself a brew and sit your aching back down heavily, on the couch, proud of all you’ve achieved, a slight sweat on your forhead. You turn on the telly and pick up your drink, but somehow, in the commotion of reaching for the remote and your brew at the same time, you knock your mug of well deserved, hot wake-up juice all over yourself and the floor. You stomp in to the kitchen to get a sponge, as Mr. Sod stands there smirking at the mocha coloured stain, seeping its way in to the fibres of your brand new cream carpet. And as if things couldn’t get any worse, legs on flipping fire, you stomp back in to the living room just in time for the dog to trundle over and have a peep and a sniff, and you now have little brown doggy footprints leading from the stain in circles back to the fireplace.

 What goes around comes around, working in conjunction with sods law. 

 Right now, at this point in my life, I have everything I have ever wanted or needed. A warm, happy home. (Although don’t quote me on the happy bit at 2am!) A loving partner, (although if he keeps eating my chocolate…) and enough money in the bank to eat (beans) and have the occasional day out. (Code for; buy the occasional pair of shoes or totally useless, but gorgeous coat!)

 Would I like a smaller waist? Yes. Would I like perkier boobs? Yes. But ask me if I would really like these things, or would I really like to win the lottery? My answer will always be, yes, in an ideal world. But not if it means I have to lose something I already have. Because I am very happy and lucky to have the life I live. And because I know if I did win the jackpot, Mr. Sod (-ing git) would be at my door quicker than you could say ‘Whatshouldidowithmymillions, imoffshopping’ and I don’t need him in my life right now! Thanks.

 Saying that though, I would give thousands to my closest friends, thousands to the NSPCA and the RSPCA and thousands to Cancer research and thousands to the homeless… so maybe the law of sod wouldn’t apply to me in that case? Maybe he would leave my personal life alone?

And I would really like to take Addison to Walt Disney World…

 I’ll just check my numbers. Hang on, is that the doorbell?