Dear Mother Nature…

 

I am writing to you today, as I am unable to get through on your 24 hour helpline. I am growing increasingly annoyed due to having been placed on hold countless times, before being connected briefly and then being cut off, as you ensure something else goes a miss, usually in the form of a screaming baby, a shitting vomiting dog, or this morning (thanks for this one by the way) both at the same time. As you are no doubt aware, I then have to hang up my praying hands and call back later.  (The middle finger at the sky is unnecessary; i understand that, however it is just a reflex at this point. You go too far sometimes ok?)

And besides, your automated system is awful. Continuously asking me to call back later (Magic 8 ball – seriously? If that is not a copout then I don’t know what is! Who thought of that little triangle of frustration? A MAN! A MAN DID THAT’S WHO! AND YOU MADE THEM TOO!) When later is too late. I need to talk to you right this second! I have looked for an address for your complaints department but am unable to find one, another example of your shoddy workmanship, as of late. 

I will not, however, be swept under the carpet like a discarded fish cracker. I will write this letter and I will bloody ensure you receive it on a wing and a prayer. (I will not send it with UPS who seem to LOSE EVERYTHING!!!) 

Basically Mother Nature, my complaint goes a little like this. 

• I wee when I sneeze.
• I wee when I bend down.
• I wee when I laugh.

This used to amuse me.

TEN MONTHS LATER?!?! Not so much. I am sick of buying Tena Lady. Quite frankly I still feel embarrassed and uncomfortable at the checkout. It’s as though buying Tena Lady gives every checkout/new mother/granny an opening to tell you about how leaky they are too. DO I LOOK LIKE I WANT TO KNOW THESE THINGS?!? I just want to buy my wooden cucumber and chocolate bar  (The secret girls guide to a great night in… with the twitter band, OBVIOUSLY) and be done with it! 

• I have no control over my fart reflexes and you know as well as I do, I am back at work soon.

 I do not need to elaborate on this. JUST STOP OK? Just stop!!! 

• I still cry at the Dogs trust advert/anything remotely soppy/tramps and every time ANYTHING sad comes on the telly.

Not good when you are sitting at a friend’s house and Mr lopard (handy frigging Manny) loses his cat (although in fairness it was awful, he was desperate!! Even Addison was wimpering!!) Do you not want me to have friends?? Well don’t you?? Someone asked me if I wanted to sign a petition against child trafficking the other day. It took me 9 minutes to sign it, what with all the tears and wailing about the poor trafficked children. It was for the BODY SHOP! She was way out of her league and kept offering me free lip gloss. (Which I took.) 

• My hair is still falling out but now you have added to my embarrassment by growing it back in tufts at the front. I am, against my will growing a mullet. Not a good look on me.
•  My stretch marks seem to be going nowhere, I appear to have been run over by a sixteen wheeler, or mauled by a tiger in the dead of night. 
• My back is fucked. There is no way of politely putting this. I am like a geriatric. I wince and groan and oof whenever I stand up.

I am 31 for godsake! And now my fingers and wrists seem to be seizing up too!?! What is all that about??

• I have no control of my anger. If I throw the remote/full bottle of milk/poodle at the Irish One, one more time he will leave. (Hopefully. I don’t mean that….. ahem….. oh poor Irish One… here come the tears…. Let me go hug him… poor soldier…. …………………..Wanker said he was too busy for a hug!!!… Ill BATTER HIM!!!.. …..See no control!!)

And finally, 

• Why have you removed my ability to say no to chocolate??  

I used to be able to say no?! Now I find myself sweeping my arm along the confectionary aisle in Morrisons. I have no self control!!!

You’re a bitch is what you are.

Forgive my anger and disappointment, but really, I am sure, even you can understand my utter disbelief at these, simply disturbing and horrifying games you seem to be enjoying playing.

So my question to you Mother Nature, are you taking the piss? What happened to the customer is always right?  As mentioned previously I cannot express in words my disappointment with your recent service.

And before I go on, please rest assured I have not always felt this way, hence my current disappointment. At one time I found myself in wondrous awe at the magnitude of brilliance you seemed so easily to fulfill.

I have watched trees blow in the wind, snow fall in April, and little lambs playing with their sheepy mothers in May. I have seen kittens take their first steps, watched in awe at waterfalls and all manner of beauty over the last 3 decades. I have constantly respected and sang your praises.

However, at this juncture in my life, I have to ask you again.

Are you taking the piss?

What the hell were you thinking when you created childbirth? 

I can’t even enjoy sex anymore. 

You ruined that too. I know how it ends.

I am waiting with NO anticipation for your reply. Although I am sure it will come. I am sure you will rain it down on me in your usual un-adultered and tremendous way.

I will not be wearing white trousers tomorrow.

Just so you know!! I am one step ahead of you!!!

So you’ll have to go away and think of some other way to torture me!! I know I am three days late on my cycle, but I know the minute I reach for those white trousers you will ensure it arrives!!!!

I may be unable to poo without wincing, but I ain’t stupid. I see you coming. 

Yours sincerely.

MammyWoo.

PS –OHMYGODIAMTHREEDAYSLATE!!!!

The Fairy, the Meme, and Me. (Read this, or eat poo.)

Last night I had a dream about a fairy.

She appeared in front of me, wearing the most amazing nylon fairy outfit you ever did see, and told me to stop moaning.

She was quite aggressive for a fairy, it has to be said.

She advised me, that if I was so unhappy with my body (She had obviously been watching the meltdown I’d had in Topshop around 3pm on Wednesday; Turns out shorts are a no go area post nine months of sheer gluttony) she would grant me one concession. Not a wish, a concession, she was very precise about this. (After I had asked if she meant popcorn and she had explained herself fully and bonked me on the head with her plastic star on a stick.) She explained that although she could not get rid of my excess body fat (aggressive and useless) she could help me out in some way with my body image! (WOOP!) She squeaked in my ear that due to the horrendous birth and subsequent alligator attack (It was a dream ok?) I had endured and survived over last ten months, she would allow me, not to lose weight, but to spread my body fat out amongst the rest of my body, as I deemed fit.

(Are you following me here? So, let’s re-cap, essentially annoying, aggressive and useless dream fairy was allowing me to push the fat around my body to enable me to feel more normal and look less rotund around the middle. It wasn’t the ideal deal, but it was the best I could hope for under the circumstances, so I took it.)

The next thing I remember, I am grabbing handfuls of fat and pushing them (in the same way you coax a hidden string back to the open hole of your jogging bottoms – know what I mean? The push and pull? Push the fat! Pull the skin, Push the fat, and Pull the skin!) down in to my ankles. I had, in my dream like world, decided the best place for all my belly fat, all my arm fat and all my chins would be, for some reason, my ankles.

Before I knew it, I was then thanking her and staggering off with a heavy plod of each foot to buy a pair of boots to hide my enormous, donut like, cankles. 

I woke up pissed off. (With very numb feet, oddly enough.)

I mean, for starters, EVERYBODY has a meltdown in Topshop at some point don’t they? It is like a rite of passage. You go in to the shared changing rooms, you are surrounded by 14 year olds parading around screeching ‘Oy Jordan do I look fat in this? I can’t believe I am a size 8!’ and the curtains never close properly. I was trying on a size 16 skirt and I couldn’t get it zipped up. I was pissed off. So ok, maybe I should have acted with more decorum but when the 5 year old changing room assistant asked me if I would be taking the skirt as I was trying to make a sharp exit, I couldn’t help but shove it back at her in contempt and inform her
 ‘I wouldn’t be seen dead in that skirt while i’ve still got a stitched up beehind and by the way, your sizes are all wrong!! DO you hear me? Wrong!!!!’  

Funnily enough though, she didn’t seem too shocked by my outburst. (Probably because she sees it all the time! See! Rite of passage!!!)

She did, however, seem slightly more worried and edgy when I returned an hour later bearing the gift of coffee and burst in to tears while apologising. (Ah well. Such is life.)

I won’t be going in Topshop again, but that doesn’t give a fairy any right to beat me over the head with it.

But the main reason I was pissed off? Why, ON GODS GREEN EARTH did I push all my fat in to my bloody ankles? I could have had the most fantastic, fabulous, fruity, full and fricking amazing set of perky, but bouncy, pert but firm breasts!! What the hell was I thinking? MY BLOODY ANKLES!

Idiot!!

Anyway. Enough  of that. Moving on.

I am not here today to moan about my droopy breasticles and ripped gaping hole, (for once I hear you cheer!) Nope! I am here today because I have won an award! I have been tagged and although I want to, I can put it off  no longer. I have to take part. (The only reason I procrastinated over this, is although I love to blog and write, the whole mummy bloggers world scares me a bit if I am honest. There are so many amazing, wonderful writers, and I am just, well, me. I like to be kind of hidden. Less pressure that way…but anyway…)

Now, let me explain. I have never taken part in a meme before. Mostly because it has taken me the best part of a year to figure out what the bloody word meme means. (See? I am useless! But not aggressive, before you go reading in to the whole fairy dream thing.)

Turns out a Meme is a bit like a chain letter but without all the ghastly ‘you will fall down a hole, have 12 years of bad luck and be forced to eat your own poo for the rest of eternity unless you pass this to nine hundred and eighty eight people in the next seven seconds’ type thing.

So here goes. Thank you to @Theboyandme @themummylife and @tinylittlebaby for the mentions…

Seven things you don’t know about me. (Or something  like that.)

1)     I used to have three nipples. (No! Honestly i did. And before chandler Bing made it cool too) It was a nightmare. I used to erm, spend time (my dad may be reading this!!) with boys in my teen years and keep one hand firmly placed over one breast at all times. It was awkward to say the least (in both the literal and the metaphorical sense.) Turns out there are a fair few activities that require you to use both hands. (One of those activities being unlocking a Chubb lock to let out a startled looking Spanish boy called Pablo. Scarred me for life he did. Or was it the other way around? Anyway…) I eventually had it lopped off in 1999. (If the world was to come to an end in 2000 (remember the millennium bug?) I didn’t want to be buried with three nipples and dug up millions of years later and re- discovered (remember Neanderthal man?) I didn’t want history books to be re-written. Picture big green blob with one eye, (yes i have just watched monsters inc.) ‘Hey ZOC!!  Tik tick, tok tock…. Humans actually had three nipples!’  
‘Right, thanks Dave (there is always a Dave) Tock tok, tick tik… I’ll get it painted in. Does the body have ID?’

CAN YOU IMAGINE THE HORROR?

Shame though really, imagine the fun I could have had breast feeding! Expressing would have been much quicker! I could have been known throughout the land as the breastfeeding tripod!
Ah well, you live and learn.

2)     I have always dreamed of swimming the channel. In 1993 I very nearly made it in to the England national junior swimming team. My brother used to say I could swim like a whippet. (I hope he means fast and not that I looked hairy with a big nose.) I broke my ankle two days before my big debut, spent the summer on crutches and moved back to Spain not long after. (In a mood. My friend had pushed me off a curb and trodden on my dreams. The fact I was ranting at her for ‘stealing my boyfriend’ (ahh Daniel Rubel!) is neither here nor there.) I can still swim very fast, (I have ‘swimmers shoulders’ code for; I am as broad as a portaloo) adore losing myself in the water (not in a kinky way – although… no, no I won’t go there!) and one day I fully intend to realise my dream. (But not until I have lost some weight. Wet suit? With these thighs? I think not!)

3)     I worked in Walt Disney World Florida in 1999 (post nipple removal.) After a year of listening and loving American children asking me all manner of random questions;

• Does the U.K stand for the Ukraine? (NO)
• Do you know the Spice girls? (No!!! Ok i may have said yes once. It made her happy!)
• Do you drive a horse? (I LOVED these types of questions! SO CUTE!)

I moved on to Paris eventually, where I made my childhood dream come true by taking part in the Electric light parade. (I can’t say what exactly I did! I could get sued! But I was crying the whole time, while waving and smiling and listening to hundreds of children shout ‘my’ name.) It was the most magical moment of my entire life. (Except for, you know. Ripping my arse out.)

 4)     My favourite film is ‘The cutting edge.’ I have watched it at least a million times and to this day my heart still skips a beat at the end. (Not seen it? That is probably for the best. It involves a lot of 80’s music and a lot of figure skating.) Go on, take the piss, it is ok. I am used to it.

5)     If I had been a boy my parents were going to call me Nathanial. (I would have made a fabulous gay. Big hair, big glasses and tiny hips… Ah well such is life.) Not that a name like Nathanial makes you gay. I just mean, I would have made a fabulous gay. (I will stop digging now.)

6)     (This is hard! I could go all dark and tell you about my PND or my once upon a time self harming problem or my eating disorders, my drink problems and my phobia of eggs, but I want to keep this light and fluffy so I won’t. But just so you know, I am interesting ok? Even if this post isn’t! ) I am writing a book (isn’t everybody?) It is a dark tale of a woman suffering with PND who self harms, doesn’t eat much and drinks the bar dry . Funnily enough she has a phobia of eggs too…Go figure! It’s going to be a real page turner! (I am joking! I think….Damn!)

7)     Can I come back to you on this one? I am exhausted, my back is shot to shit and Doodle the poodle needs walking. I can’t? You want to know one more thing? Oh bloody hell. My deepest darkest secret?  Ok but don’t run ok?

 Are you ready for this?

Are you sure?

I see dead people…

Was that the door slamming?

Hello?

Anybody there?

Come back!!! I was kidding!!!

But that would have been pretty cool, if it were true, huh? Especially if I got to wear the kind of stuff Melinda Gordon wears. (Ghost Whispererer.) She has everything! A jeep, a baby, big hair and amazing boobs! (Still not a lesbian!!!)

But in all honesty, sometimes I do feel a bit psychic.

Like I know for a fact i will probably eat three ice creams in one go, in the next ten minutes.
I know for a fact tonight there will be no rest for the wicked in this house,

And finally I know for a fact the following people will probably not keep this going!

OY @3bedroom OY @squidmommy and OY @andthenkate and OY @thisismommyhood

You have been tagged! Seven things we don’t know about you by next week please! (If you don’t you will be forced to listen to me drone on about poo for the next seven years!)

Oh and one last thing…

I was once Miss Europe!!! (At disney!) That’s me in the wig!

I told you I would have made a great gay man. (And if I had been wearing that wig last night, there would have been no fat ankles!)

May the meme be with you….

Do not read this post. Or do. Whatever…

Do you believe in fate?

I do.

I think.

I mean, the thing about ‘fate’ (usually you only hear that word on a happy occurrence right?) is, for me it is totally random.

Sometimes I believe, other times I don’t.  I mean, how can I?

Fate is usually exciting. It is usually a happy event. It can be heavenly. It can be exhilarating.  Some events you believe, others you don’t. It is round and round right? (As in, fate can be good, but can be shit too?) It is unusual. It is unbelievable. It is twisted.  It is coincidental. It is bloody confusing. It is stunningly beautiful. It is heart wrenchingly, gutting but it is believable right? It can be hugely overwhelming. But it is believable right?

Or is fate just a fucker? A figment? A nonsense? A total ball ache?

On occasion, when it suits, I can be found sat in a circle of friends, professing to all and anybody who will listen, the benefits and the sheer romance of a little thing called fate.

Mostly I am a believer. Mostly.  

Take this as an example;

In July 2007 two people I have never met, may or may not have been deciding to move house. They may or may not, have almost decided to stay put, but then at the last-minute and as their love was so deep, and they needed a change, they decided to go for it.

Those two people, may or may not, be the reason Woo is here today!

Too weird?

Ok, let me explain.

If the one of those people hadn’t put the effort in, or helped with the decision, or hadn’t been as brave, the Irish one would never have moved to Manchester.

I would never have met the Irish one.

Woo would not be here.

(Which, if we continue down that fast paced motorway, means, I would never have got post natal depression, would never have joined Twitter and would not be writing this today…SHOCK, GASP, FAINT!)

So to that end;

I find it slightly worrying and a little strange that today I may have inadvertently changed the future for someone I do not know by waiting an extra five minutes before leaving the house. Or by ordering a curry instead of a pizza hut (huge diet fail!) this evening, or by giving my opinion to a stranger in the Dr’s surgery this afternoon.

A woman with a perfect bump and skinny thighs (yes I wanted to slap her) asked me for my opinion on having the swine flu jab while pregnant.  I stood there with my sagging belly and thunderous thighs and told her I’d had it at 23 weeks and Woo was fine. She had said ‘thaaanks’ in a sing songy voice and trotted off happily… (skinny thighed bitch.) Once I had stopped staring at her legs, (pretty sure they think I am a lesbian in that office) I suddenly, under the realisation of what i had just said, felt a huge weight land on my shoulders, ‘like what if he is not fine in a few years and I told her he was fine?!?!?’ Cue panicked nationwide search and rescue effort for the pregnant woman with the skinny thighs! (Again, pretty sure they think I am lesbian.) But I couldn’t have lived with myself if she had done it and something had happened and it was my fault.

Turns out she had already had the damn injection and was just ‘checking up thanks hoooneeeyyy’ (knob.)  Skinny thighs and annoying. I nearly died running out to the car park. It has been at least a year since I have run. (Somewhere, someone had a glass of water that was doing a ‘Jurassic park’ with every step I took, believe me. And yes in hindsight she was out in the car park, so this may have been obvious, but I thought she may have been coming back. No. (Secretary at Drs surgery.) I wouldn’t have asked her out. I am not lesbionic. But she did have nice thighs ok? There I said it! But only in an, I want her thighs kind of way. Not in an, I want to… I want to what? Lick those thighs? Ergh. Gross. Moving on swiftly…definately not a lesbian. Not that there is anything wrong with bieng a lesbian. I wouldnt lick anyone’s thighs to be honest. I am going to stop talking about thighs now. This is not the point of this post. Lets move on.)

How many decisions do you make in a day? How many decisions do you make in a week? How many decisions do you make in a month or a year even?  Decisions that, whether you believe or not, could essentially, potentially (and other words ending in ially) be affecting somebody’s life, whom you have never met?!

It is mental, is it not?

Or am I just finally losing the plot?

Did Woo get here by overcoming the odds, hand delivered (HA! Arse delivered more like!) By Fate?

Or am I a total lunatic? Over fantasising with too much time on my hands?

Because, I suppose, (Warning: I am off on one!) if Fate stepped in and ensured my little boy is here today, then was it fate that broke my boiler and ensured a frozen night of hell? What purpose did that serve? Did me calling the boiler man with 2 earrings change his life in some unforeseen way? Did he have to change his plans? Did me shouting ‘PLEASE HELP ME, I AM FREEEEZINNNGGGG’ startle him? Did he make a Uturn on the road? Did he cause somebody else to be late by doing this? Did this affect somebody else’s (let’s call her Jane) life in some way? Is Jane late to pick her kids up? Because of my boiler does Jane get home late and miss an important phone call? Does Jane miss out on a job offer she has been waiting for? Does Jane cry at the missed opportunity because my boiler broke? But I have never even met Jane? Why didn’t she call the company and apologise for missing the call? Will Jane now, never be a manager? Will Jane be ok? Why was the boiler man wearing earrings in both ears? (I was just genuinely perturbed by that last one.)  And why in god’s name, after all this, is my boiler still broken!!! (Perturbed by that too!)

But do you see what I mean?  

I have plenty more too.

Why did the dog have a seizure and shit all over the carpet. What possible good could come from that?!

Why was the flight home as bumpy as a mountain road on a BMX? What impact did that have on the universe? Did my screaming ‘we are all going to dieeeeee’ cause Jon is row 4 to shit his pants on his honeymoon, therefore stopping the conception of his child as his new wife ran away repulsed?

Why did my bloody boiler break? (I cannot move on. I AM COLD!)

Why did I sprain my wrist by falling off the side of a tram stop? Did my embarrassment and subsequent holding back of the tears, while gasping, ‘I am fine, no really, I am fine’ and limping away change the rotation of the earth in some way? Did two people look at one another to share a secret little giggle at my expense and then fall madly in love?

Well if they did? They can sod off.

My wrist is killing. (blogging warrior!)

So what is the point in this post?

I have no idea, but if you hadn’t read it what would you have been doing?

See I have changed your day!

Go do what you would have been doing!!! Stop reading!!!

I can’t handle the pressure!!

And send me a picture of your thighs.

(I am joking obviously.)

Or am I?

From 360000 feet with love…

It is so bumpy, this flight!!!

There have been moments, over the last half an hour, where I have been on the very precipice of a real life, lose the plot, screaming, shouting, throwing myself on the floor and begging the pilot to land, panic attack. (Yes, I hear you gasp in shock. It really isn’t like me!)

I have informed the Irish one if this turbulence continues, they will need to let me off the plane. I need to get off this plane. This fear is awful. Terrifying even. (Not right at this moment like, as I’ve had two beers and I am undeniably calmer. I have learnt in the most recent past on a night involving a lot of darkness, a mountain and an axe murderer hiding in the undergrowth, that with a beer, most things are easier to handle.) But earlier on,  post Stella Artois, I was totally serious.

The Irish one, being as pragmatic as he usually is, just looked at me and said  ‘please do NOT TELL the air hostess you are in labour or something. You do not look pregnant. That woman was bang out of order, and you had just had a whopper.’ (Some Spanish bint in burger king was busy fondling Woo when she turned to her husband and professed how brave i must be to be pregnant again so soon. I speak Spanish. This little tete a tete did not end well.) And damn it he knows me too well.

Another beer then.

It is bumpy now. Holy hell it is bumpy now. Did I mention I am drinking beer to calm me down? It seems to be working so much better than lavender oil.  I am a whole decade calmer than I was an hour ago, plus I can see land and for some reason that totally puts my mind at ease.

Let’s not start to question how absurd that notion is right now. We can examine that when my feet are firmly placed back on Mancunian tarmac.

Right now all I want to do is ensure Woo stays asleep and my over pumping, harassed and confused, medicated heart does not flop out of my mouth and land with a wet splat and a warm thud on Addison’s forehead. (I would also like to ensure the plane doesn’t , well, you know, I can’t actually bring myself to utter the words i hear so often on air crash investigation at 36000 feet. (Mental note to self stop thinking about air craft investigation) but needless to say that one is out of myyyyyyy bloody control.) Fuck it is bumpy. I Bet we are over France. Even French air space is hostile towards me. (I swear the French, yes the whole nation, hate me. I worked there for six months in 2002 and made many enemies, few friends. It had a lot to do with my being English and nothing to do with me thinking ‘Zut alors! On coule! Was a good conversation opener! Damn tricolore GSCE French! )

Quick look out the window… yup, I can still see land.

Another beer please.

The time should be 6.15 pm as we have an entire hour left of this death flight. Instead, the time at the top of my (switched to death flight mode) Iphone reads 2.15am, as Monarch delayed us by a year and a half, to carry out routine maintenance on this very aircraft (of death.)  I don’t mind so much the delay. It was the fact Burger king closed too early and by the time i was hungry again i couldn’t have another whopper (baby) implanted in my belly. Also the El Starbuckso shut at 8pm. Which is ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous. I shall be writing a letter of complaint.

My holier than though, buzzy bee, hackney knee, all things sweet and sour, VERY BLOODY BUMPY JAHAYSUS IT IS BUMPPPYYYYY. The seatbelt sign has been on and off once already. I bet it comes on again now. That is never good. They should change the please fasten your seatbelt sign to; there is a damn fine chance we are about to plough in to the side of a mountain please sit down sign, at least that would be more honest. And you could prepare, say your last goodbye’s etc

Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god. It is bumpy. Some woman once told me when I felt the fear like this I should picture myself somewhere that makes me calm. Picture yourself in a calm, loving, stress free environment she said. An environment that makes you happy.

I am having a lie in curled up with Doodle.
I am having a lie in curled up with Doodle.
I am having a lie in curled up with Doodle.
I am thin.
I am thin.
I am thin, 

What?! It’s my bloody projection!

There is also a mountain of Swiss chocolate.
There is also a mountain of Swiss chocolate.
There is also… oh who am I kidding?

Another beer please!

Still bumpy.

The Irish one has fallen asleep. If this bumpiness gets any worse i shall have to wake him with a swift sharp jab to the nether regions. (And not the ones we are currently flying over!)

I thought it was only supposed to be Ryan Air that had turbulence this bad for god sake! (If you don’t believe me, ask anyone who has been on a Ryan air flight and they will  no doubt, readily regail you with horror stories of Irish turbulence. A Ryan air flight could turn a seasoned pilot to a lump of quivering mess, I am sure of it. I can only assume this is because, A) the flights are so cheap they completely cut a corner, because they cannot afford not to, and miss out the entire semester of flight school that includes how to fly smoothly, or B) more likely because the fact they are in fact pilots, they are too busy shagging slutty scouse air hostesses at 23000 feet to give a shit about, you know, their passengers, being shaken about like a jelly on a thigh master. But hey ho! It’s not like i am bitter or anything. (If you have no idea what i am going on about. That is probably for the best. But feel free to read my earlier post about bumping in to an ex. That should explain it all in perfect detail. Oh and if you do read it, my boobs don’t leak anymore either. So yes, it does stop.)

OH MY GOD I CAN’T SEE LAND!

Where the hell has the land gone? How can land just disappear? That is ridiculous. Oh my god it is soooooo bloody bumpy. I will have to write a letter of complaint.

Oh for the love of god.

Addison just followed through in his sleep (I am shocked I haven’t joined him, and I cannot say I blame him) but I am unable to move from the seat to go and sort the situation as the seat belt sign is back on and last time I checked I still had elbows, so this woman on my left can stick her nose up all she wants, but the smell will have to stay. (Ok, I may have pumped once or twice.)

On the upside I have had a fantastic fortnight, so if I plummet to my death now, at least I will have gone out on a high.

Addison got his first tooth.
I survived a night with an axe murderer.
Addison learnt to walk instead of bounce.
I sprained my wrist.
Addison saw the sea for the first time.
I ate my body weight in prawns.
Addison sat in a forward facing car seat for the first time.
I suddenly developed car sickness and had to sit in the front. (Sleep ploy!)
Addison got gastroenteritis.
I had a screaming fit in my sleep.
Addison had the time of his life.
I had the most wonderful christmas I have had in a very long time.
Addison got to know his granddad.
I already knew he was the best.

And last, but not least I got 12 hours sleep on my first post partum night out. (I Had to mention it again. I am still thrilled by this, even if by now it seems like a distant memory.)

I should probably be trying to sleep now instead of writing this note, but I can’t. I am too stressed out, and besides we should be landing soon.

ARGHHHH yes. I have to go.

The plane is dropping! And with it my arse!

But where is the runway?

WHERE IS THE RUNWAY?!?!?!?!
THERE IS AN AXE MURDERER ON THE RUNWAY!!!!

I am at home, I am thin, I am drinking a vanilla latte.
I am at home, I am thin, I am drinking a vanilla latte.
I am at home, I am thin, I am drinking a vanilla latte.

Wordless Wednesday

We may not be perfect.
But we are what we are.
My family unit.

I am a (perfect) boring old moose. Basically.

By now you know me quite well, I feel.

You know that my bladder is shot to shit, and you also know I have a love/hate relationship with both my post natal body and my post natal wardrobe, (Size 10 fuckers! My jeans that is…) so at this point I feel it only right to give you a little more insight, and a little more honesty about my first proper night out/off since becoming a mother! (Cue marching band!) Five of my oldest friends gathered from all over the world (Spain, England and America) for a get together of epic proportions! We were going to dance the night away! Drink the bar dry! Celebrate motherhood and adulthood in style!

Unfortunately, we were heading out for a night in Puerto Banus. (Groan!) A place I spent a lot of time during a very misspent youth. I say unfortunately because Puerto Banus is the place I blame for the majority of insecurities I have now around  love, money, friendship and most of all ‘the fight to be thin and perfect!’ Because if you are thin you are perfect right? (This is where it all began… Once upon a time in a shit hole called puberty, lived a thin and evil wench called peer pressure who spent alot of time bullying the normal sized kids on the outskirts of puerto sodding banus!)

Ok, maybe that is taking it a little far. (Which really is not like me! As you know I hate the drama! Ahem.)

So ok, I don’t blame Puerto Banus for the all of the above per say, but I will say this; Puerto Jose Banus is not the place you read about.

OK! Magazine describe it as ‘Glamorous’. Heat magazine are constantly showing (every summer without fail) shiny, glitzy photos of celeb’s lounging about in what seemingly appear to be exotic surroundings. Beautifully emaciated women hanging off yachts and jumping in to crystal clear ice blue water in skimpy bikini’s, while their enhanced chests gleam and shine as much as their white, toothy smiles, while their teeny, tiny short wearing football player boyfriends, with their rock hard abs, and arms made of what can only be described, as bionic materials, admire longingly their own personal Barbie doll’s, beautifully enhanced oil clad bones. (And breathe!)

But what Heat! And Ok magazine never seem to show you, however, is the other side. The side of Puerto Jose Banus which greets the mere mortals whom dare to trespass through it’s over priced doors.

Puerto Jose Banus,

• for those of us who do not have 3 to 15 thousand pounds worth of cash ’invested’ under our breast tissue, (Jealous? Moi? NO! I like the fact my nipple can fit in my belly button! Honest!)
• For those of us who do not have an income of over 70 thousand pounds a week, (Jealous? Moi? NO! If you toast stale bread you can’t taste the difference can you Woo? I said CAN YOU WOO?!)
• For those of us who can not have our babies at Harley Street and whom now let out a little piddle when we sneeze. (Yes, I am trying to blame the NHS for this…why not? They get the blame for everything else?! They won’t even notice!!)
• For those of us who read magazines like OK! And Heat as escapism (at the doctors/dentist/gynae/doctors/doctors/doctors/WhSmith.)
• For those of us who get dragged on a hen night, (dognam my younger BFF for daring to get her proposal and walk down the aisle before me. Jealous? Moi? No way! I would say no! I really would….) expecting a day of glamour and frivolous entertainment,
• And for those of us who do not have (gasp, shock horror!) a friggin yacht to hang off, but Volkswagen polo (Jealous? Moi? NO! What would I do with a yacht in Eccles?) parked in the driveway (what driveway?) at home,

This place is a garish, boring, badly airbrushed, turn down the HD, early morning dirty nappy type of shit hole.

Well ok, I can’t speak for everyone can I? I am sure some of you have visited and enjoyed but oh deary me. Gone are the days where I flew off to the Maldives and found little to moan about. Gone are the days I would swan up and down Marbella with my 28 inch hips (when I was 8!) and a superiority complex as big as my perfectly coiffed Hair piece (when I was 18.) Gone are the days when I can laugh at myself while ordering slippery nipples (no down a bit now love…) and gone are the days I can profess to enjoying myself ANYWHERE! (Hair toss, slam a shot, eager smile!) Now I am literally a moaning, yawning, tired and grouchy, old, achy, frumpy mess!

Is it motherhood that has done this to me? Is it motherhood that has made me sarcastically question EVERYTHING with a dismayed eye? Am I (shock horror!) boring now I am a mother?!  

I’ve turned in to a grumpy old woman! And I’m only 26 (cough cough). But I can’t deny it! Who knows why I used to love Puerto Banus in my hay day? I used to think it was cool as hell; I used to look at the gold diggers and admire their energy and envy their gold shoes and matching Vera Duckworth earrings. I used to ignore the men they would hang off while admiring their platinum cards! The thought of returning had made me positively shudder with the insecurity of it all! My thighs are too fat for Banus! My hair is far too Worzel Gummage for Banus! I am not good enough for Puerto Banus! I had worried, and quarrelled with myself, and changed my outfit about 20 times along with bursting in to tears and dreading being, (because surely I would be) judged by all my old friends and perfect strangers. In Puerto Banus you have to be thin. In puerto banus I could never be good enough could I!!!

Looking back now I can’t see why? What a waste of energy! It is not the place I remember. Or maybe I am not the person I remember, but whatever, either way! Puerto Banus resembles Clapham after a cheap dodgy face lift! All fur and no knickers! All sparkle with no spark! All make up no natural beauty! All farts no tarts!

Ok, forget that last one, but you know what I mean.

Having left my yacht parked in the Mersey, we walked in to the port and I immediately expected (and hoped) to be transformed in to a glamorous 6ft skinny model (what? A girl can dream can’t she?) On quick inspection glancing at my reflection in the (finger smeared 8foot window) of Gucci, I was disappointed to notice that I was still the 5ft 3 (not fat, I just had a baby! How old is my baby? Does that matter? Moving on swiftly…) brunette I was upon flying out of blighty.(Darn it, but you know what? I still look quite pretty! Oh my god! and no one is judging me?! huh?!)  And not a single pap in site! (The same paps who missed the birth of my baby, missed my entrance! Where the hell are they?!)

Gucci, Valentino, Agent provocateur, Fendi, Louis Vuitton, Jimmy Choo, but where is baby Primark? Where is Baby Hennes? Where can I get excited about new toys for Woo? Where can I buy some more comfy joggers? (What is wrong with me?)

All of the above shops are a sight to see, and after shopping in Aldi and Primarni for the last 10 months, their shiny topped displays were impressive, even if I only saw them from the outside, face pressed up against the glass like orphan Annie, hands on either side, daring myself to breath on the shiny glass. (Did I mention it was me who smeared all the windows?) But seriously? Do people actually spend eight hundred pounds, I repeat, EIGHT HUNDRED POUNDS, on a pair of jeans? (They weren’t even glittery jeans!) Think of all the nappies! Think of the places you could go! Think of the funky baby clothes you could buy!!

Gasping for a drink (Burger,) we stopped off at a bar called Salduba for a beer (burger,) where we were harassed by coffin dodging (sorry) wrinkly old men in their fake (or maybe not but who cares?) Rolexes, who took great, delight in staring down our tops while asking if we had ever had a ride in an Audi A2.  

Can I stop and ask at this point? When did owning an Audi A2 become slang for ‘hey I’m rich do you wanna go to bed with me? – I can almost, almost understand a Ferrari or at the very least a Porche 911 being slang for ‘worth a second look’ but an Audi A2 – surely the credit crunch is not having that bad an impact that gold diggers across the world are settling for a four door hatch back?

We were quite harrowed by this experience and set off down the road, before we got thrown out for slapping old men, in the hope to find somewhere a little more our age. (Is there a cinema here? I haven’t been to the cinema in years!)

(NB- we were on a ‘hen night’ but I feel it necessary to point out at this point we were not doused in cow boy hats and short skirts (thank god!) nor were we flinging plastic willies about. We are mothers now! (Oh god, it’s true. I am boring!) Onlookers would not have known we were Henning, as this is what the bride requested, and we obliged.) So basically we looked like a bunch of post partum women on a post partum holiday talking about post partum issues. Like post partum thighs, and post partum bladder control issues, and post partum sex. (Code for; sharing post partum excuses.) Those granddads really were wasting their time!

Anyway, we stumbled across a little cocktail bar, (Score!) and spent the next few hours enjoying tall glassed iced drinks (post partum chavs!), that would put the sex and the city girls to shame. (Our outfit changes were a lot less unfortunately and although I looked I couldn’t see Big, (hubba hubba) or Aiden (hubba hubba hubba!.) We sat in those relaxing surroundings with happily, not a single Barney Rubble in sight for a good 3 hours.

I was wankered after an hour.

I think I had three drinks.

My friends were wankered after two hours.

I think they had four drinks. (We are all new mothers!)

Thinking it was about 2 in the morning I suggested going back to the villa.

It was six pm.

But having all been given a random day off from mothering and having seen Puerto Jose Banus by day, and me having finally realised, it is no longer the place to be but the people you are with, none of us had any inclination to stick around, and we headed back for ‘a few drinks and maybe some hilarious frivolity!!’ at the post partum villa.

Although I am coming across like a right old moaning bitch I had a fantastic time. I haven’t laughed (or changed my tena lady) as much in over a year. We absolutely put the world to rights and even though we all live in different countries, and lead very different lives, it was fantastic to see them all and catch up properly face to face.

The evening was finished off perfectly with a glass of champagne while roaring with laughter and discussing times of old, times of present and the times we are bound to have in the future. (It will take us another 10 years, no doubt, to get together again.)

But wow!! What a load of party animals we were!

We were all in bed by 9pm.

I had the first twelve hours sleep I have had in a year.

Screw the old men, (not in that sense!) Screw the gold diggers and their platinum cards, Screw having a yacht! Screw the ‘cool’ factor of being a party animal! Screw dancing until dawn! Screw having to be thin to be perfect!

I got 12 hours sleep!!

Best hen night ever!

And as for ‘the fight to be thin and perfect’ because only thin, rich and perfect people are well, perfect?

Well, I can’t talk now! I am off to meet my beautiful boy and the Irish one for an English breakfast and a paddle on the beach! (I may even have an ice cream for afters!)

Now that is a Happy new year!

On the beach after I’d had 12 hours sleep!  Did i mention my 12 hours sleep???? (Pretty bloody perfect.)