Childrens Personalised Books

Please can someone explain to me why men end up using every single pot, pan and utensil when cooking a meal. A simple meal like egg on toast calls for the spatula, the big spoon, the little spoon the wooden spoon, the big bowl, little bowl and on and on. Not only that, they then proceed to scrutinize you intently as you attempt to eat. Giving you a life long phobia of eating whict being stared at!! If that’s not bad enough they ask you constantly how good it is- if it’s tasty, cooked right, are you enjoying it, and to top it all after you’ve finished ( and for the rest of the day), they keep asking you if you’re feeling full and good after the meal they cooked. Imagine if us Mums were to require feedback on all the jobs we do everyday. We would never get anything done, and nobody would be able to go anywhere as they’d be too busy answering our questions about our accomplishments. Oh no I’ve just had an awful thought- it’s not just my man that does this- please say it’s not!!!

Having finally decided to take the leap and move out of London we scoured the Right Move website until we found the perfect little terraced cottage a bus ride away from the 12yr olds school. No more getting up in those wee hours and driving him to the lonely bus stop where he would run the gauntlet of fear each morning wondering whether or not the bus would arrive to take him to school. No more taking over an hour to drive back on the polluted , packed A40 arguing with lorries and mascara wielding women desperate to get 2 cars in front on their ever so depressing morning journey. No more screaming at the 7 yr old to hurry up and eat those mega crunchers or we’ll be late for school- again!!

Our new idyllic country cottage although in rural South Bucks does happen to be situated next door but one from McDonalds. Now this may sound awful, but it does have it’s advantages ( and I’m not talking burgers here). The 12 yr old now leaps out of bed like a greyhound chasing the hare round the last bend. “Mine’s a bacon roll and easy on the ketchup”, I hear him shouting as he runs en route for the school bus. As he goes off to school and I take my leisurely walk around the garden gazing at the horses peacefully grazing in the field below. I am acutely aware of the lack of police sirens, gangs of youths bellowing in drunken voices and the loudness of local madeye mcjack arguing with himself- until that is I hear the distinctive sounds of “Can I take your order Please”, and my eyes are forced to look over to the left where the Mc D’s drive through breaks up the serenity of my country cottage setting. Ever get the feeling you can never quite get it right!!

Stopped off at a chinese herbalists  whilst out with with an old friend. Finally had enough of the back ache, the shoulder pain, the hair loss and the inability to sleep for longer than 20 mins I thought , what the heck!!

Led into a calm soothing room filled with aromatic candles and soothing music my defences were down. The herbalist proceeded to wedge her knuckkles into various sensitive parts of my body- whilst asking “does it hurt”?. Able to understand my grunts and groans she told me my body organs were poorly functioning and my circulation was quite frankly rubbish. So distraught am I that I don’t utter a word when she slaps on a sticky pad to each sole and tells me the toxins will be out by morning. As I managed to move my illfunctioning body from the room I was greeted with a conveyor belt of pills, potions and powders. Asking to see my tongue she humphed, and replaced two bottles with two others ( I can only assume she’d discovered more bad news). her hands moved like lightening back and fore to the bottles and the caluclator. The words ” that will be £198″, didn’t sink in the first time, good job there’s stuff there for my failing brain function too then !!
As I looked at her I uttered the desperate words- “after all of this will I feel better”. Well what do you think she said??

So now I have around 85 pills a day along with powders and drinks. So if in 20 days I feel refreshed, and revitalised and my ying is inline with my yan- it’ll all be worth it- Just have to muster up the strength now to open all the bottles of pills-and hope that my brain is functioning well enough to remember which ones I take and when.

Whilst having a family dinner last night, the kids started once again with the old ,old question about “what did you do when you were little Mum- with no computer games, dvds and mobile phones. They still can’t quite grasp the fact that there were only three TV channels, and nothing at all on the telly in the morning and Sunday teatime. It’s at times like that they start to question whether we had electricity!!!

As I began my usual oration about “when I was young we used to play out”, I realised that maybe it wasn’t such a good thing to tell them that- we used to play out in the streets till it was dark- only going inside for food and water, on most days we would play in the woods behind our house, roaming miles away from our street and finding all sorts of weird and wonderful things- and sometimes people!! Only coming back to inhabited land when we heard the call from one of our Mums, or the batteries in our torches were dead and our night eyes weren’t working properly.

Kids these days aren’t allowed more than two feet away from the parents, and the thought of them being in an isolated area with no supervision is enough to bring on a seizure in most parents. Certainly not able to tell them that we used to play ‘knock-a-door run’ on our long suffering neighbours doors. Kids do that nowadays and they’re most likely to be greeted with a three headed Rottweiler and then a court summons to the parents from the noise abatement society.

We would spend the whole summer holidays being taken to the river by our highly irresponsible older cousins, and return to our homes covered in doc leaves from all the nettle stings, dripping from head to toe and in the first flushes of hypothermia from the freezing river water. We would build impossibly dangerous go-karts out of old boxes and wonky wheels, set up tightrope wires from the garden trees-not a safety net in sight and best of all, get a gang together and build HQ in the garden shed- amongst the lethal array of Dads power tools.

So when my kids go on and on- and on- about how boring my childhood must have been I nod and agree and smile to myself with the memories of all the things we were allowed to get up to- and safe in the knowledge that they’ll never know.

Kids these days- don’t know they’re born!!!

The Old Man suggested a fry up for dinner yesterday so not one to look the gift horse so to speak- come on ladies how often do the men actually offer to cook- strike while the iron’s hot!!!!

So I said I’d get the essentials- eggs, beans, bread and beef sausage- The Old man has to have beef- no he’s not a Muslim- his reasons for not eating pork are all to do with seeing a boil on a pigs leg when he was 12- yeah right!!

With no time to run down to Sainsbury’s I thought I’d try the local Halal shop. Surveying the meat counter with interest; looked nice and clean and the meat looked healthy. Two types of sausage were down in the bottom corner- one a highly suspicious looking thing that resembled a baby’s umbilical cord and a much more enticing pinkish one.

With not even a hint of a pig in the whole of the shop I confidently pointed at the pink sausage and said I’ll have some of those please. Not quite understanding what the shopkeeper said I nodded happily in my choice of sausage, and didn’t think twice when he began rolling up link after link of the fat chubby meat rolls. As the shopkeeper grinned and wrapped up the parcel he said £7.50- I nearly choked- “what” said I a bit louder than anticipated.”£7.50 for sausage”?. Too embarrassed to admit I didn’t know how much a kilo was, I happily took the £1.50 discount he offered me and hurried outside with the priceless chipolatas.

I left the Old Man cooking- brave I know- but duty called- whilst I picked up the 6yr old who sensibly ate at her friends.

On arrival home a gust of freezing cold air hit me- just before the revolting smell of old socks. There were the Old Man and the 11yr old sitting huddled under blankets back door and windows flung open to relieve the house of the smell of the richly priced sausage. Needless to say we didn’t attempt to taste them!

So if anyone out there wants a kilo minus a few beef sausage from the Halal shop- give us a ring. They’re going really cheap!!

Thursday night was a big night in the household diary. The 11yr old was playing table tennis at the Royal Albert Hall- not only was he playing- he was playing celebrities! So I had my hair done- well I’m not going to miss a chance to be Mother of the talented one- and who knows who I could mingle with?

The Old Man was tired before we even set off for it, yes he gets up for work in the fish van at 4am- but hey it’s not everyday you can say your son’s played at the Albert Hall!! On our way to the car he commented about the length- or lack of it- of the 6yr olds skirt. I could feel a Victor Meldrew evening coming on!!

A nice drive through Hyde Park, waving encouragingly at the running club congregating at the pond, calmed things down a bit and got us in the sporting mood. The hair was looking bouncier than ever and the outfit perfect- not dressy, but not too casual. Make up a bit on the heavy side for me, but I was sure under the subtle lights of the Albert Hall it would knock years of my 44.

Not a chance!!!  The harshest lights I’ve ever seen greeted me on arrival highlighting my pan stick orange face and ghoulish looking eye shadow. The jeans and trainer dressed crowd probably took me to be the half time entertainment. Even the 6yr olds skirt started to look a bit on the short side to me too. Still nothing was going to ruin our night.

We took our seats and watched the Table tennis Masters take to the table. With my new-found knowledge of ping pong, I clapped and cheered in all the right places- adding a few “ooh great serve, ah wonderful backhand top spin”.

Only one more game to go till the ‘celebrity challenge’ and our golden moment!

The 6 yr old picked this moment for a “I need the Loo” run. The Old Man was reliving his schoolboy Champion days, giving advice on the World Number 6’s spin serve- yeah right!! Gladly clown woman shuffled past everyone again and paid £13 for two drinks and a bag of cashews. This was it the moment- as we approached the doors we were stopped by a woman saying “you can’t go in yet, the match is on”- “Yes I know it’s my sons’ match, my moment, my spot of fame- I must go in”- No amount of talking would budge her. We finally got in as we saw the 11yr old leaving centre stage after beating Martin Offiah and some Olympic hurdler, and the announcer saying “one for the future, a superstar”. He didn’t even get to wave to his Mother in the crowd- as she was outside the door crunching expensive cashews!!!

At the end of the night I had to battle through the crowd carrying the now asleep 6yr old, skirt up around her waist, tights on show, as the Old Man went to get the car, to get to the 11yr old surrounded by people. Sir Phillip Green had his arm round him saying how he’d been beaten by him backstage. No Top Shop discount for me then!!

Signalling to him to meet outside I decided to forget mingling I was too ruddy tired. Of course it was raining as I got outside, turning the sleek, shiny hairdo back to its original ball of frizz. The heavy mascara had run into the eyes making me look like a panda with an orange face.

As I tucked the 11yr old in bed he said, “Mum, it was great, what a shame you didn’t see it, you would have been so proud” “I’ve had the best night ever I said”, and I meant it- I mean it’s not everyday you get to kiss a TT superstar goodnight now is it??

I was very excited about our holiday in Spain- but not so excited about the journey. As I packed, then unpacked the cases, taking out all the ‘I don’t really need those’ items, my hands shook as I started on the ‘carry-on bag’. Stomach churning, sweat forming I went through my usual panic about not having enough entertainments for the kids. Every holiday journey it’s the same. The airport is great- loads of things to see, a bit of money to buy something special for the flight, kids get fussed over on boarding, excitement carries over to take off- and then!!!!!!

It seems that no matter how many sticker books, favourite books, soft toys, new toys I can fit in the bulging carry on- it’s never enough. How come Mr Bumble’s a great book at home and we can spend two hours reading it- yet on a plane we can’t even read it once without fidgeting, scratching and kicking the heck out of the seat in front.

The snacks are soon seen to and it’s not that easy to play eye-spy with a two year old. The aisles are sooo inviting to the 2yr old who decides now is the time to practice for the marathon. On the 17th trip to the toilet the 5yr old is convinced that the man with the eye pads on doesn’t really want to sleep, they really want to be woken up by a child yelling “wakey wakey” really loudly in their ear.

With lots of apologies and umpteen choruses of wee willy winky the two yr old decides it’s time to sleep. Bliss thinks I- until 5 mins later I’m told it’s “cabin crew, prepare for landing”.

Ever entered a country with a screaming two year old, a grumpy 5 year old, a jumper covered in stickers and a very dehydrated face? Bet Victoria Beckham never has this problem.

Well the old man has finally outdone even his own stupidity.

Picture him now, 7am Camden market, and fish tray in hand delivering just inside the stall area. He walks towards the entrance swerving to avoid some workmen setting up a tent around a hole in the ground. The weight of the box of salmon caused him to veer slightly too far to the left where he felt he was in danger of bumping into an Arab lady dressed in black with her back to him, standing at a scarf stall. Using his initiative, he called out to the lady in an attempt to ask her to move slightly to let him through.

“Excuse me”, he asked in his nicest voice. No reply
“Erm, excuse me” he said a little more forcefully- as the weight of the Salmon was now bearing down on his not so beefy arms. Still no reply.
“Oi, lady”, came the third attempt.

At this point a man popped his head out of the hole in the ground and piped up, “Ere, mate, that’s a dummy”. To which, the stall holder promptly swivelled the Arab lady round to reveal a mannequin draped in an assortment of black scarves.

Not too sure what the Old man’s reply was- something witty I’m sure ????