Be Careful What You Wish For…

I just assumed it would all come true.

I was destined for bigger things.

I was so sure I was.

I believed in it so deeply; that while I waited for ‘it’ to happen, life became grey and dull.

Whatever ‘it’ was, I wouldn’t need to try at all, as I was just so sure, it would be thrust upon me.

It would find me.

It being ‘the greatness.’

One day I would wake up and all of my wishes, dreams and desires would have come true.

I would lie flat on my back in my single bed on those long lonely nights, listening to crappy 90’s music and imagining myself in to a life where I wasn’t miserable, wasn’t lonely, bullied, forgotten, but was stood waiting to perform in front of crowds filled with millions of people.

They would all be screaming and chanting my name in fevered excitement that they were about to enjoy my company, and I, of course would be slimmer than a stick insect, with massive hair, huge sunglasses and obviously acting as cool as a cucumber.

‘Yes’ I would smile in my imaginary life ‘I have made it.’

Every dream was different. (But I was always as shallow…)

I was going to change the world with my singing voice, with my dancing, or even possibly with my intelligence, (it was MY DREAM ok?) or maybe with my immense knowledge of all things 90210 and Melrose Place related, and of course I would never ever look back. (Unless it was for a fabulous photo shoot image.)

My name was going to be remembered throughout the sands of time, and I would be happy and rich.

When my time in the spotlight was up, after I had, had a slow movie montage of my life played to me while Take That sang Never Forget live! And everybody clapped and told me I should be knighted for my services to Fashion/Singing/Wearing sunglasses, I would immediately become like a mother Teresa type figure but with better outfits (and with no issues with gay marriage.)

I may even win a Nobel prize for being fabulous.

The fact I have always been unable to so much as hum, without forcing previously perfectly healthy blackbirds to come over all suicidal and fly headfirst at 40mph in to a brick wall, and mostly when I dance people end up calling the paramedics as they assume I am having some sort of epileptic fit, was besides the point.

In my dream world, everything would be different.

By the time I was 30 I would be a superstar… at something, and all of my dreams would have come true.

I remember all of this, as last week I was cleaning out schoolbooks and diaries and basically, crap, from all those years ago when I was a teenager, and I came across a diary entitled ‘Dream book.’

(I also came across my old school shirt with all the sixth form leaving signatures on it. Why did everybody draw willies at that age? My school shirt is peppered with balls and odd shaped ballooning cocks with smiley faces. Was there really any need?)

(To lexy, I will miss you, here is a smiley knob and hairy balls to remember me by… Laura.. xxx) 

It was filled to the brim with utter bollocks. (The dream book AND shirt.)

But it made me smile, because at the time, writing that utter bobbins in that dream book was how I carried on.

I was dreaming of how I thought my life would go.

It was those dreams that made me get out of bed in the morning.

I was 16.

As I tipped open one of the diaries, I was thrust immediately in to a melancholy moment, when on my lap an envelope, fell. (See, I’ve even slipped in to melancholy prose…)

I knew instantly what was in it.

At the time, the way I saw it, geography IGcse could just bore off because I was destined for bigger things.

While my classmates learned about cloud formations and how to recognise a Small Crack from a Gaping Crevice (which actually, may be a good title for a book I am writing on the after effects of labour) on field trips, I searched for four leaf clovers and stars to wish on.

(10 grand a year on private school fees well spent then, yeah dad?)

From Inside the envelope, as I opened it, with my fat fingers trembling, out fell, wrapped in tissue and sealed with a note, a four-leaved clover.

My wish, the wish I made 18 years ago at the age of 15, was written in bold pink ink.

‘I wish to never be normal.’

I probably should have been more specific.

The MAD Blog Awards 2012 (Squirm.)

I think in the end I had to promise him I wouldn’t get drunk.

‘You will though!’ he had huffily called through from the bedroom where he was busy slamming down his work bag and heavy handedly taking out his frustration at me, on the bedroom fittings, opening windows making sure they banged and clattered loudly.

It was his own special passive aggressive way of letting me know just how annoyed he was that I had a social life and I intended to use it (whatever!)

‘You always say you won’t get drunk, but you always do, and Lexy, I am sick to death of having to pick up the pieces the next day!’ he said, padding barefoot in to the kitchen behind me.

During this unnecessary (completely necessary) and totally unfair (so fair) tirade I had slowly and carefully, so I didn’t miss a single word, taken two slices of bread out of the toaster and placed them on the counter.

‘You are irresponsible and out of control once you have had a drink Lex ’ he continued from behind me with a heavy sigh.

I placed the butter knife down, closed my eyes and counted to ten, trying to keep my temper in check.

I hated it when he behaved like a geriatric!

Why must he be so boring?

‘Anyone would think you needed alcohol to have a good time, but then you never do, you are always sick, usually all over me and then you cry for hours on end and blah blah blah. I mean I am sure if blah blah blah it would be a danger and I blah blah blah…’

It was once I had picked the knife back up and was busy buttering my bread and ramming the ham on top of it, as if the pig itself had personally done me an injustice, that I eventually could not bite my tongue any longer.

“You’ve gone too far!!! Screw you Irish one!’ I eventually exploded turning to face him angrily, in a whirl of butter knife, bread and hair. “If you don’t like being with me, then how about you hit the road! We aren’t married! I am an adult you loser, and you are not my sodding dad! I have enough people …”

‘Fuck off Lexy. One day maybe I will.’

And that had been the end of it.

We finally did make up, we made up the way we always made up, the tried and tested way.

We made up by Successfully ignoring each other for the rest of the night and eventually letting 9 hours of unbroken sleep clear the air.

I must pause here at the mention of 9 hours unbroken sleep,

I need a minute’s silence for the death of the 9 hours unbroken sleep.

May the 9 hours unbroken sleep rest in peace.

I was 28.

We had been together 6 months.

He had moved in.

(I am still thinking about 9 hours unbroken sleep.)

He was trying to control me (he wasn’t) and I was sick of it.

I wanted to go out, and ok, so I promised eventually that I wouldn’t drink so he would stop having a go at me but how Dare he try to suggest I couldn’t even go to a concert with a colleague without getting raging drunk and making a fool of myself (I couldn’t) in the first place?

How dare he moan at having to look after me! That’s what he was there to do!

That’s what a REL-ATION-SHIP was!

And really! I mean I hardly ever got drunk (on a Tuesday) anyway! SO who the hell was he to try and tell me what to do?

I do not remember much from that fateful evening as it happens, but my colleague told me 3 days later, when I dared to show my face in work again, that there had been a giant elephant and the band of my youth, who I had been so desperate to see, had all climbed on, and they had indeed played my favourite track and that yes I had been there and had sang along.

‘I sang along? How can I not remember that?’ I asked as Bev recounted the concert and I sat shaking my head slightly in the cafeteria, picking at a salad with my fork and trying to avoid the Irish one’s glare from over by the coffee stand (we had broken up again on the back of me vomiting all over him.)

‘Yes.’  Beverley replied with a glint in her eye ‘you did. Surely you must remember, because That babes, was right after you wet yourself.’

I coughed on a particularly spiky morsel of salad and inadvertently spat a full cherry tomato back on to her plate, where it plopped in to her spaghetti Carbonara with some force, and caused a little back splash of gloopy sauce to splat on to her nearly neon pink shirt.

As she picked my half chewed tomato from her plate with a look of amused disgust on her face and popped it in to my white plastic drinking cup, I coughed and spluttered and died a little, in the chair opposite her.

Eventually silence resumed and I sat, aghast for a jolly good while.

She said nothing, letting the full meaning of what she had told me sink in.

‘I wet myself?’ I asked in whispered tones, leaning in to her now, pushing my plate away, my appetite having completely vanished, and glancing over at the Irish one on the other side of the cafeteria still shooting me evils, in case he had developed super sonic hearing and could actually radio in on the extent of my bad behaviour ‘oh my god.’

Although there is the mystery of my wet jeans solved, I thought to myself, resting my forehead on the damp Formica table, not caring now, who saw me.

‘Yes you did.’ Bev’s voice continued from above me, ‘That was right after you told the ten year old standing next to you that you saw dead people and hated it when they woke you up at night.’ She paused for dramatic effect and I groaned in response.

‘I was busy arguing with her mother trying to defend you and what you have been through and when I turned around you announced you had peed and you were soaked.’

‘Oh my god. I am so ashamed. Why didn’t I go to the toilet?’ I asked lifting my head up only slightly so I could make eye contact with her. Begging her silently to tell me none of this had happened.

‘You said it made sense to wee where you were standing, as no one would notice and you really didn’t want to miss your childhood song.’

I squirmed in my seat.

I was this girl’s manager.

Did I forget to mention that?

Yes.

At the time of the concert I was Bev’s manager.

She had invited me and I probably shouldn’t have gone.

But as I mentioned earlier, my intention was not to drink.

‘Then you showed me your nipple.’

My head hit the Formica table once more as she howled with laughter above me.

‘Oh Bev. I can’t believe it. Did it end there? Tell me it ended there! In fact, Can we just forget it ever happened?’ I begged this from below the table, staring at my thighs and wondering if it was too late to invent a time machine.

She tore off a tiny piece of garlic bread and as I brought myself upright once more, glancing towards the Irish one who was now staring over, Puce, she fixed me with an evil grin.

‘Nope’ she said as she popped the bread in her mouth and methodically began to chew. She was enjoying this. ‘I feel it would be cruel if I didn’t inform you of your complete goings on during the tram journey home.’

‘Oh please don’t!’ I semi laughed, trying to win back some humility by pretending I was ok with how I had behaved and not absolutely dying of shame inside.

‘But it was very exciting. You decided you needed a wee urgently this time, so you crept in to a bunch of trees. I stood on the road waiting for you and after a while you emerged informing me, and all the other people leaving the concert that you had just been fingered by a bush.’

I just stared at her.

‘At the top of your voice.’ You then repeated this, numerous times on the tram, and rang your dad to tell him, and then you rang the Irish one.’

That explains radio Silence off my dad then.

I may have been sat there for an hour, or it may have been 3 weeks. But I just sat and let this all sink in, while she grinned at me.

A bush fingered me? I was fingered by a bush?

Oh my god.

It’s like a truly awful version of Dirty dancing.

No carrying a watermelon for me though, this wasn’t Hollywood!

Just a porno bush.

‘I hand delivered you to the Irish one practically in a coma.’ She finished, throwing her napkin on her plate ‘you were brilliant. Hands down Lexy, you are the best manager I’ve ever had.’

If it wasn’t for the cafeteria closing, I honestly think I would still be sat there now, just staring off in to the deep cavern of my shame!

That was the same night I had laid on my back after apparently unsuccessfully convincing the Irish one I wasn’t drunk and hadn’t been drinking at all! Honest! And had then gone on to nearly choke to death in my sleep but instead had just vomited all over him and me (and the dog – he just shouted this from the kitchen) in the middle of our king size bed.

A month later, as I hadn’t left the house, I got pregnant. (Make up sex.)

And we all know what happened then.

To this day, I am unable to listen to Take That without cringing.

Thankfully Bev is now one of my best friends and I no longer manage her.

But this kind of explains why I have been absent since… well since the awards.

I have been suffering with an illness commonly known as ‘mortification.’

A mortification of Take That! Sized proportions.

You know that filter thing that most people have that stops them talking to Myleene Klass about vaginal discharge and scabies? Yeah…Well although I have spent a lot of money in therapy searching for mine, well, it turns out- I don’t have one.

I am really sorry Myleene. *Cringe*

You know that voice in your head that says ‘smile nicely’ when you see a camera, don’t lie down and fake depression and definitely don’t try and cram a whole cake in your mouth, give people the V’s or show people your bottom? Well that voice was comatose by booze.

I think in my acceptance speech I may have called the Irish one annoying and said that my little boy wasn’t the point of my existence but that actually twitter was.

I absolutely don’t mean that. (Much.)

(Apart from the Irish one being annoying, bit.)

My little boy is the reason I am still here. He is definitely the point in my existence ok? (Oh the shame!)

I think what I meant to say when I drunkenly stumbled on to that podium to accept my award was;

Thank you for your countless support, for carrying me through the hard times and for enjoying the good times with me. My readers, my friends and my family, I couldn’t have done it without you, my little boy and, really, the Irish one isn’t that annoying (on a Tuesday.)

I also should have Thanked Sally, because the thought of this event did keep me going during some tough times over the summer.

Thank you.

I won’t be back here until I can talk about the evening without cringing.

So it may be a while.

On the plus side though I learnt a valuable lesson.

I can’t hold my Vodka. (And now it is not only Take That, which makes me cringe, but looking at my award does too!)

I’d also like to thank The Boy and Me for being brilliant and sharing a room with me and for not laughing when I did a million embarrassing things. She is wonderful. Truly precious. I’d also like to thank her for educating me on what frost bite feels like and teaching me to appreciate Central heating.

I’d also like to thank the Sainsbury’s lady for the Ipad and also apologise to the Sainsbury’s lady for pretending to grab her boob in the acceptance photo, and thinking this would be funny.

It wasn’t big and it wasn’t clever.

As far as nights go though, it was wonderful. ( I wasn’t sick on anyone as far as I am aware!!! RESULT! (Especially for the Boy and Me.)

Thank you to everyone who voted for me and who has written me in to follow up blogs and not mentioned I was paralytic and at one point managed to nearly rugby tackle Myleene. (Sorry Myleene – you are fabulous. Sorry for swearing. But seriously, who is Caitlin Moran?) I am sorry if I upset, annoyed or irritated anyone (so so sorry Sonia!) when my paranoia got out of hand…

I  loved every second. I think, from what I remember…

Wanna see my nipple now?

Fortune Teller. (Don’t grow up yet.)

Dear Teenage Me,

Please listen.

I may be able to help you…

Your stepmother isn’t evil so stop writing in your diary that you hate her and just wish she would die.

You don’t.

But you are right she has got crap hair, but bless her, it’s the 90’s and to be honest your hair could use some work too.

In about 20 years, something called GHD’s will be invented and you will be transformed, so until then, tie it up and find a better hiding place for your diary BECAUSE SHE IS READING IT!

(Which is why your dinner is always the burnt one and why she never sticks up for you!!! Can you blame her? You are wishing her dead for crap hair?? A little dramatic don’t you think?)

Actually, once you have hidden your diary, pull on your new and funky in line skates, go to the bookshop if you can make it that far without breaking an elbow, and look up how to make hand held iron’s for frizzy arse hair, then stop wasting your time playing on the Super Nintendo and spend your time inventing them.

Believe me when I say, you will make a fortune and be revered as the frizzy haired wonder who invented Good Hair Days.

Jennifer Anniston will love you.

She’s the one you fancy out of that new show ‘friends’.

While we are on the subject of your hair? Erm… purple? Really?

Also, pay more attention in school, it may be funny now to try and Bunsen burn your boobs but seriously in a few years you’ll wish you payed more attention to what you were actually being taught.

Specifically when you get a U in biology at IGCSE and get kicked out of school.

Also, when you use a pipette to squirt water at Laura’s head, remember to make sure it isn’t boiling water. Poor Laura. It really isn’t funny what you put that girl through.

Actually, while we are on the subject of school, in 1996 there will be a cheese and wine night to introduce you to your new six form college, do NOT go behind the bike sheds with Hubert. He isn’t cool and neither is his name, also Mrs. Almeida will catch him fingering you. This will not go down well with your dad and even when you are 30 you will cringe at the memory. Nobody likes to remember being caught, getting fingered. Seriously. Getting fingered is not cool. 

Do not let Laura drive your moped 2 days after you buy it, she will crash it and while you are weeping she will be trying to find what is left of her ankle. Neither of you will see the light of day for at least 2 years.

Being grounded is not fun, and yes her ankle is more important than your bike. GO HELP YOUR BEST FRIEND PUT HER ANKLE BACK TOGETHER!

Do not drive up a one way street by accident on the day you are finally let free and then in a panic at possibly being grounded again, try and win a high speed chase with the Guardia civil.

You are on a clapped out moped, they are in a 4 by 4. It is the most pathetic short lived high speed chase ever, even if you did feel like Penelope pitstop at the time, You will inevitably get grounded again.

Nobody likes to see their daughter in handcuffs.

Do not leave Spain, ever.

EVER.

You think you want to live in England but all that awaits you there, is misery and a life of falling in to drugs, and friends who manage to let you down at the very time you need them the most.

Call your brother and tell him you love him everyday.

Do not drunkenly stumble in to your mum’s bedroom at 2 in the morning after a night out with a ‘new lady friend’ and announce very loudly to her sleeping head, that you think you might be a ‘Lezzy Lesbian.’

There are ways to potentially come out of the closet, and this isn’t one of them.

Make your mind up about which way you swing by yourself, then do what most people do if they decide to be gay and send your parents a letter explaining things, before boarding a plane to Guatemala for a good while.

Then at least, if you decide you are straight, it will be because you chose to be, not because you weren’t allowed to be anything else but.

Also Lezzy Lesbian?…Really??

Forgive yourself everyday and eat more cheese while you can, you have an amazing body right now.

When you are 19 you will move to America.

STAY AWAY from Matt Marioux.

He will break your heart in to a hundred thousand pieces and it will take you years to recover, meanwhile, he will barely remember your name.

Also don’t get drunk and try and park Peter’s car.

Yes.

It was your fault that it ended up in the Lake.

AND NO.

It isn’t funny.

A car in a lake is no laughing matter Lexy Ellis!

You could have drowned.

Sigh.

When you go on the Disney cruise do not have a strop about how fat you are and refuse to leave the room the entire trip.

You are not fat, go and pick up a prescription for some anti-depressants and eat more cheese.

Never walk backwards on a raised train platform to get the attention of a hot boy. You will make a total cock of yourself and having pins in your arms?

Not fun.

Or attractive.

Just ask Laura, poor Laura, her ankle never recovered.

Call your brother. Chat to him and tell him you love him. Do it now. Tell him if he is sad and depressed he can get help. Tell him you understand. Tell him he is loved and you will always be there for him. Tell him he isn’t alone. Tell him you need him and not to die. Tell him never to die, because you need him. Tell him not to die. Tell him you are his little sister and you can’t live, you wont know how to live without a big brother. Remind him of all your memories. Remind him how you rode on his shoulders, remind him you can’t live without him. Beg him not to die. Never let him go. Tell him you need him.

Don’t stay in and cry because nobody loves you, go out and dance because there is nothing to be ashamed of in loving yourself.

Always wear knickers, especially when meeting the mother of your new boyfriend. Just take my word on that. Seriously.

Enjoy your life, young one, and I’ll see you when you are 32!

Oh and Lexy? One last thing…

What he is doing to you isn’t right.

You are still a child.

Tell somebody. Tell anybody.

Tell your brother. Tell your dad.

You may think you can make him stop, but you don’t have that power little one.

It isn’t your fault.

(Also he better god damn hope he never comes in to contact with the 32 year old you, because she will stamp on his face, hard, before ripping out his heart and squashing it up in to his face, while kicking his balls out of his back passage.)

Forgive yourself as you grow up.

But don’t be in a rush to grow up either, one day you will know that ‘Immature’ is just a word old people use to describe fun people. (Kind of…)

Much Love, Lexy.

Be yourself.

Me x

Ps- Accept an epidural earlier. Believe me, you’ll thank me the first time you sneeze.

Hickory Dickory STOP!!

I had an argument with my mother last week.

This isn’t an oddity, as my mother and I, well, although we do get on famously well when discussing anything important like  ‘handbags, make up, perfume and when the Selfridges sale starts’, we don’t always seem to see eye to eye when it comes to the more miniscule of life’s details, like, oooo I don’t know, successful parenting?

She has her tried, tested and successful parenting techniques you see, parenting techniques that ‘did you no harm’ and ‘worked fine with you so I don’t know why it’s all changed now’, and I of course have my ‘new fangled, totally wrong but go ahead and try it, I look forward to saying I told you so’ techniques.

*DO not ever bring up Baby led weaning in our presence PLEASE. I’m serious. Just don’t. Baby led weaning is the root of all-evil! I have been reliably informed it was to blame for the bubonic plague and also that the Queen and Kate Winslet themselves think it is cruel, just cruel!!! It is obviously also the reason Addison doesn’t like vegetables now too, as I ruined his early childhood memories of eating. (Obviously.) So just don’t mention it ok? Please.

I love my mother, I love her lots, Addison adores her, she has done us countless favours and even though over the years we have had our differences (usually because she has been right and I don’t like to admit it)  I have to be honest, she has and is right most of the time when it comes to stuff like… handbags and make-up.

And ok, I relent. She has been right occasionally when it comes to Addison too. (Turns out ice pops aren’t full of goodness and aren’t one of the daily recommended 1 of 5! – Who knew?) ok, she is always right. Thanks mum. I love you.

Anyway, last week as I approached the drive to her house at a sensible 60 miles an hour with ‘that awful Rihanna’ blaring out and Addison ‘head banging in the back of the car’ (this is how she would describe it) we ended up having a little tete-a-tete about suitable childhood music, and I like a naughty teenager, was duly handed a CD of nursery rhymes for the drive home.

Much to my dismay, Addison seems to prefer it to Eminem (It was radio 1!!!! Its not my fault what they play is it? But ok whatever) so I have been forced to endure HOURS OF MINDLESS NUMPTYNESS over the past week instead of the usual array of musical greatness we usually head bang, I, erm, I mean, listen to and I have, in fact come to this conclusion.

NURSERY RHYMES, or EARLY LEARNING SONGS as they are called on this CD actually teach much crueler and much more careless lessons than Rihanna or black Sabbath ever could. (….I don’t actually listen to Black Sabbath, I’m more of a Chesney Hawkes kind of girl, but that’s totally beside the point….was I the only one who grieved when he got his mole removed? Anyway… )

Don’t believe me?

Check these out!!

5 little ducks went swimming one day, over the hills and far away, mummy duck shouted quack quack quack….  Ok, first off, who in their right mind lets their children swim over a hill and far away? Even if it’s a sunny day, that just bad parenting, I mean, and to let them keep going even though she seems to be losing one at a time?? DOES SHE NOT CARE? She is lucky to get any of them back I’m telling you, I’m seriously considering ringing duck protection services the next time I forget to take my meds!!

Hickory Dickory dock…. Ok there is too many things wrong with this song. Firstly why have they rhymed dock with clock and why use dickery? That’s just too funny and I intend to use it the next time The irish one and I are trying not to swear. ‘WHAT THE DICKERY ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?’ and then lets see if mum thinks it’s appropriate huh? And also, Have these people never heard of pest control? Mice are vermin for godsake!! If it’s run down the clock may I suggest a) setting a trap? And b) sealing the hole in the back of the clock? I mean what if it messes with the time? Then what!!!! You’d be dickery Docked!

12345 once I caught a fish alive, 678910, then I threw it back again…  Did you even stop to consider the impact this would have on the fish? It’s just inconsideration.

This old man (what old man?) he played… KNICK KNACK PADDY WHACK ON YOUR WHAT??? Who is this old man and why do I need to give a dog a bone? Is he rolling home from the pub? What kind of lesson is that? I am trying to teach Addison to respect women and not drink in pubs, sure he is only 2, but you can never start too early, and what if he asks me what knick knack paddy whack is huh? What do I say then? His daddy is a paddy!!! Is that not politically correct? WELL THEN NIETHER IS THE SONG! (Just go with me.)

Please pudding hot, please pudding cold? Please pudding in the pot nine days old…some like it hot, some like it cold, and some like it in the pot nine days old… SERIOUSLY? Yes, and some prefer not to get GASTROENTERITIS.

Pat a cake bakers man…– now I like that one. Apart from all the tossing and pricking that is. Just give me the damn cake and baby isn’t getting any. It’s mine.

Do your ears hang low, do they waggle to and fro, (?!?!?!) can you tie them in a knot? Can you tie them in a bow? Can you throw them over your shoulder like a regimental soldier? – Why? What if they did? WHAT IS THE POINT IN THIS SONG???? Is it ok if I can’t do it with my ears, but can with my boobs? DO I still count????

There was a farmer who had a dog and bingo was his name… STOP RIGHT THERE PLEASE DON’T SPELL IT… oh my god. You spelled it. 40 times. And now I need to go back to the mental hospital. But seriously, what was the name of that dog? I forgot.

Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, (OK SHE HEARD YOU THE FIRST TIME!) Polly put the kettle on, we will all have tea. Suki take it off again, Suki take it off again, they’ve all gone away… I’m unsure as to whether they all left because you refused to stop singing at Polly or because this song is trying to teach children it is ok to mess with kettles. IT ISNT!! THIS SONG IS DANGEROUS!!!

I’m a little teapot… HERE IS MY SPOUT?  Really? I am re-naming willy to spout from now on. IRISH ONE! KEEP YOUR SPOUT AWAY FROM ME. That is an order, and I will throw my boobs over my shoulder like a regimental soldier to prove it.

Wind the bobbin up… What is a bobbin thank you please? To be honest, it seems to involve a little too much effort for my liking. Why am I pointing to the ceiling? Why am I pointing to the floor? And WHY do I need to put my hand on my knee? IM DRIVING!!! HAVE YOU NEVER HEARD THAT OPERATING A BOBBIN WHILE DRIVING IS DANGEROUS?  I should have this CD reported to the DVLA.

And don’t even get me started on the spider ones!

I like hey Diddle Diddle though. It was clearly written by somebody on day 2 of new medication while staying in a mental institute. I remember it well.

It was me who jumped over the moon, and the dish did run away with the spoon. I KNEW IT!!!!

ANYWAY, as of tomorrow we will be listening to Rihanna again*.

‘When the sun shine, we shine together, told you I’d be here forever, said I’d always be your friend, took a note and now I’m gonna stick it out till the end, now that its raining more than ever, know that we’ll still have each other, you can stand under my umbrella…EE EEE EEE EEE !!!’

Those lyrics say more to my son, inspire more hope in me, and ensure more smiles, than 5 little speckled frogs sitting on a speckled log eating poop (not original lyrics) ever could. (That’s my excuse and I am sticking to it.)

HEAD BANG ADDY HEAD BANG!

*I may change to nursery rhymes sometimes. If I have to. On a Wednesday. Between 10-11. If it’s raining… or if he tantrums… which is likely…  you know what? I’ll just buy ear plugs.

To the loony bin, and beyond!!!

Mammy mission Log.

. . . All signs point to this planet as the location of Sods Law’s fortress. . .

I am finding it difficult to write at the moment.  I have too much on my plate (and not in a good way.)

There is no time! There is no energy and there is no motivation!

My body is no longer my own. It no longer belongs to me. I am not pregnant, no! I have been invaded by a much deadlier and amusing force!

I have been invaded by the spotty baby and the anal abscess gremlins.  

. . . Mummy’s round up, It’s time to catch the show, It’s the onnnnnne with the chickeeeen and the great big hairy lump, yes it’s time for mummy’s round up, you reallllly must catch the show. . .

Addison has the chicken pox. Or does he? He is covered in spots, they do not itch and his fever has broken. So is it the Chicken pox? Who knows?

Doodle has an anal abscess. Or does he? Could he have been mauled by a cat? Either way he has a sore bum and is constantly running around in circles thinking something is biting him.  

The vet says it is the chicken pox. The Dr says it is an anal abscess.

. . . But there seems to be no sign of intelligent life anywhere. . .

No, wait, that isn’t right. Strike that and reverse it. I don’t have the energy to do so myself.

Either way, I have not had a minute’s peace since the dawning of time.

My biscuits are a burning, I am no longer the rootinist, tootinist cowboy in the wild, wild west.

Hang on. Wait, that isn’t right. Am I cowboy? I certainly don’t feel like one, but these jeans could now pass for chaps I suppose, judging by the size of the rip which is growing bigger daily.  

I’ll just ask Mr. Potato head if he would like a cup of tea. No, wait. I mean Daddy.

I am so tired!

 . . . stating all space rangers are to be in hyper-sleep until awakened by authorized personnel. . .
There are two things I wish right now.

One, I wish I was a space ranger in Hyper-sleep (I am not sure they could find a suit to stretch over my thighs though)

And 2, that Addison Jake Doyle Ellis would let me turn the TV over and put something else on!!!

But not, ZingZilla’s. Never Zingzilla’s!

I hate the bloody ZingZilla’s. If one more person (namely The Irish One) sings, ‘this week hasn’t been hard! It’s been a DISASTA!’ At me, I will not be held responsible for my actions. (That spade is never too far from reach.

. . .Buzz Lightyear to command! I have an Awol space ranger! . . .

It’s mammy. She has finally lost the plot.

She is stuck in a Toy Story 2 nightmare.

Is it normal to feel so drained of all energy that I am now wishing, nay, imagining myself as a life size Jessie doll? I love her hair. I love her outfit and at least if I was her, I could abandon the diet. She is so slim!

Is it also normal, that I have watched this film so many times over the last 4 days that it is burned in to my subconscious and now, without even noticing my accent has taken on a slight western twang and my dialogue is gradually becoming more and more Disney like?

I am too tired to diet and am too lethargic to shave ma legs. What is the point? But if I was Jessie. I wouldn’t have to. I could just kill some critters and yodellaaaayhooohooooo and hey presto, dang! Young lady, I am a size 10 again.

Would you care for a mini egg?

. . . I’m a married spud. I’m a married spud. I’m a married spud. . .

I have even started to dissect the plot.

The way I see it, if that broken penguin had never swallowed his squeaker, none of this would have happened. None! Do you hear me Stinky pete? None I tell ya!

There would be no Toy Story 2 if it weren’t for that pesky penguin and I would be a lot closer to sane, let me tell ya!

And while we are on this subject, why is Bo Peep Andy’s toy? She is off a lamp. I would love a Bo peep lamp for Addison but I struggle to convince The Irish One that him playing with Minnie Mouse makes him less Masculine so I have no chance. Maybe Andy’s mum has her husband well trained.

Does she even have a husband come to think of it?! There is no mention of him is there? How modern.

Does that mean Molly and Andy may not even be full brother and sister? Intriguing.

. . .Please hold all questions until the end of the tour. Thank you! . .

Right, I better go.

I have to figure out how to do a shop without leaving the house, how to clean a poodle size anal abscess without being bitten and how to lose 2 stone in just over a month. I also need to clean Addison’s bedroom, put a wash on and ask Specsavers if they will deliver me some more contact lenses before the morning or I will no longer be able to see. Aint nuthin funny about that ya’hear??

I also need to clean the loo.

Ma life is so exciting.

Mammy’s Roundup

Come on and gather ’round

Mammy’s Roundup

Where every stain is usually brown.

Dr’s  go runnin’

Whenever she’s in town,

She’s the rootin’-est, tootin’-est

shootin’-est, hootin’-est Mammy, in the whole damn town.

Oh for the love of god! Someone has poisoned the water hole!

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….

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.)

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?

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?