Sunday, 31 January 2010

Not yet

Right, so, with the excitement of vlogging over for the time being (no doubt leaving several of you feeling strangely nauseous), it's back to normality. Well, as normal as normality ever gets in my world.

Not yet. Mr Jamie's new phrase of choice. And THE most annoying two words the English language has ever chosen to combine together. (Well, apart from 'no yaks', 'tee total', 'Andy Murray' - those kind of things.) Not yet, it seems, applies to just about every situation Jamie doesn't fancy dealing with at that precise moment. "Jamie, shall we change your nappy?" "Not yet." "Jamie, can I wipe your nose?" "Not yet." "Jamie, can you put the glass down please?" "Not yet." Failure to listen to the 'not yet' demand results in a screaming, rigid child and a smack across the face for your troubles. (I know, Supernanny would have a field day with me. Unfortunately, the same applies to the naughty step. "Jamie, you're going on the step." "Not yet." Gaaaaaaaaaaaah.) Consequently, there is rather too much poo, snot, and broken glass in my house, and I have the rage. It's made worse by the fact I suspect he's inherited it from me. "Mummy, pizza now." "We'll have pizza later, not yet." Yes, I have truly dug my own grave here.

Other than countless repetitions of 'not yet', it's been a quiet weekend. I managed to coerce Mr Jamie into a two hour sleep yesterday after lunch, which I decided, in a supportive manner, to join him in. This probably suggests I've reached pensionable age already, at the age of 28 (I just mistyped 68 there ... oh the irony), but I don't really care. A big meal, followed by 2 hours' sleep - yes, this is how I want to live my life. Unfortunately, I suspect my boss will protest when I attempt this at work tomorrow. I wonder if they're as strict if you work in a bed testing factory? (Does such a thing exist? I must find out.)

Post sleep, Alice came over for singing joy and we ate hot Chelsea buns (Made by me. ME! I made food, and people ate it, and NOBODY DIED. Miraculous.) and startled Mr Jamie by singing Old Macdonald in perfect harmony. (This was entirely down to Alice. If I can manage to hold a tune the whole way through I am thanking my lucky stars, never mind extending myself into harmonies.) I then spent the evening sitting on my arse before deciding to go to bed far too early and spending two hours lying awake staring at the ceiling as a result of my post lunch nap. Hmmm. Perhaps innate laziness isn't all it's cracked up to be after all.


Friday, 29 January 2010

Vlog: Fluffy Bunnies

Right then. Get me, and my on trend ways - with a 'Vlog' (which I'm assuming stands for video blog, unless I've got the whole thing totally wrong and we're talking about vaginas or something). This has been done at the request of Josie at Sleep Is For The Weak (see right, because I'm too lazy to put in the link), and is in response to her pitiful marshmallow eating (4), and in an attempt to beat Heather (10) and Ant (11). (That's number of marshmallows, not ages. Because that WOULD be wrong.) It is utterly grim. Do NOT view whilst eating. Or if you're intending to eat anything, ever. Enjoy.

video

PS Just in case you're wondering what happened to the spat out marshmallows? Mr Jamie ate them. Yep, really. Enjoy that dinner now, won't you.

Enforced silence

Sorry. Two days of non blogging without any prior explanation. (Although I did give you two posts in one day before that, so you can't say I didn't make an effort.) Suffice to say I had to concentrate on the part of my life which gets me paid (no, not the sex), and hence a lack of time, laptop access, or focus, to actually blog. Plus, I can't imagine you'd all be rushing to log in to listen to the finer points of my management meeting or Health and Safety training. No? Thought not.

I'm writing today in something of a rage, having spent my WHOLE. FUCKING. DAY. waiting in for bloody Royal Mail. Who apparently need to drop off a parcel. Are they here? Are they fuck. So what am I going to do? I'm going to go out and have some quality supermarket time. When are they going to turn up? Ooh, I'd say probably around 2.5 minutes after I leave the house. Sounds about right.

And before I go, perhaps you, my lovely blog readers, can answer the question I posed to Neil last night, pre-sex. (I like to think of it as foreplay with a twist.)

"If you had an erection, and hit a block of marzipan with it, would the erection be hard enough to make a dent in the marzipan?"

He didn't know. And he wouldn't let me try it, either. (That's using his genetalia; I'm not implying that I have suddenly grown a penis.) Selfish. So if anyone out there knows, I'd love to hear the answer ...

It's a very specialist kind of erotica, I'll grant you.


Tuesday, 26 January 2010

The Clothes Show

Seeing as I promised you two blog posts today (or are you still trying to get through the first one? Good luck). Does anyone remember The Clothes Show? That was mad, wasn't it? Like reading a magazine on TV. With all that crazy theme tune music. Crazy days.

The link - tenuous though it is - between me and The Clothes Show, is to do with my pants, and Mr Jamie. Well, firstly my pants. I'm wearing them inside out today, I've just discovered. Unfortunately, this is not unusual. What is it about women's pants that makes it so difficult to work out which way round they should go? Back in the days when I wore thongs (and the people of Britain wept) I kind of had an excuse - a thong essentially looks like a boomerang (except made out of fabric, with a back, and in the shape of some pants) and therefore which side should go where is easily confusable. But these days you'll find me firmly in 'boy shorts' (which is a misnomer if ever there was one - my pants DO NOT belong to boys. And I should know), which surely should be more easily navigated.

It seems not. I regularly get confused during the early morning process of pant orientation, and hence days like today, when I realise my bottom is being caressed in an unusually silky manner, and go to the loo to discover all the silky bit is on the wrong side. Stupid pants. (And stupid me, I suppose.)

I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. Ah yes. Clothes. So that was the pants link, from which neatly follows Mr Jamie's reaction to me getting out of the shower this morning. Sitting up in the bed, looking accusingly at me, he announced "Mummy. Clothes." I thought he was referring to his clothes. "Yes, I'll just get your clothes, hang on one moment." "No. Mummy. Clothes." "I'm just getting them." "No Mummy. Clothes. PLEASE." It was only at this desperate plea that I realised he didn't want his clothes. He was referring to me, and my naked state. "Mummy. Clothes. PLEASE." Wail.

And when I did begin to put my clothes on, pants (inside out) and bra in place, he then stood up leaning off the side of the bed, requesting "Touch clothes Mummy, touch clothes." When I moved closer to him, he lovingly caressed the black lace on my bra and the silky seams on the inside out pants. Before jumping off the bed and racing around the room in circles yelling "Nungy, nungy, nungy." (We've moved on from 'duggy' ... I'm not entirely sure 'nungy' is an improvement.)

I hope your days are as strange as mine.


Reviews' special

To start with, I feel the need to inform you all that I'm wearing cashmere. A black cashmere jumper, to be precise. Not that I could afford to buy myself cashmere, not even slightly (although maybe the wine savings might contribute). It was a present from my lovely mother in law at Christmas, and it is the softest, warmest, most comfy item of clothing that I own. On a cold January morning, it makes me very happy.

Anyway, if you're lucky you might actually get TWO blog posts from me today. (Although I'm not promising anything, mind.) I will be spending the next two days in wall to wall meetings so I clearly need to get all my thoughts down on screen simultaneously before I combust. Or something like that.

First things first though, and I have a couple of reviews for you. Which is somewhat unusual from the girl who doesn't watch films, whose idea of cutting edge listening is Andrew Lloyd Webber, and whose lack of attention span means that Big Brother is about the only TV series which can hold her attention for more than 5 seconds. But nevertheless, here we go.

In terms of my song recommendation of the month, I highly recommend Fireflies by Owl City to anyone who hasn't yet heard it. (I know I'm a tad late jumping on the bandwagon here, but at least I got there.) In particular, listen to the brilliant instrumentals in the background. And try to ignore the majority of the lyrics, which are a tad moronic ... "I believe that Planet Earth spins slowly". Well, no, it doesn't, you idiot, because if it did we'd all be falling off and into the black hole which is space, which I don't think is what any of us are trying to achieve. Regardless, if you can get over that little blip it's a fantastic song and livens up my mornings when I hear it.

Now then. Time for some contraversy. I. Do. Not. Like. Glee. Oh, and believe me, I want to like it. I never, but never, watch American series (there are usually too many men in them who all look the same), with the notable exception of Friends, but when I heard there was one filled with SINGING I decided to break my duck. (That is a crazy expression. Have I got it wrong? Most probably.) I'd heard enough people I really like and respect say good things about it (Alice ... Josie ... and others .... you are all to blame), plus there was the SINGING, so on Friday night Neil and I sat down, plugged in the laptop to the TV (I'm making this sound a lot simpler than it actually was ... it took the best part of half an hour with a lot of sighing (Neil) and swearing (me)) and accessed the first episode via 4 On Demand.

Now maybe you're going to tell me that it suddenly got brilliant at the end, and if that's the case then I will bow to your superior knowledge. Because I can't pretend we made it the whole way through. We did however get far enough to discover one very salient fact:

It's not actually funny. Again, did I miss something? Because in my head, I had it pegged as a series with SINGING that was really really funny. And instead, in the 20 minutes or so that Neil watched it ... I think we laughed out loud once. (And that clearly wasn't at anything particularly memorable, as I have no idea what it was.) The people were too pretty, the acting was - well - passable at best, the singing was far too good and hence completely missing the point of being set around a Glee club (unless this one was full of members who'd come straight off Broadway) ... and it just wasn't funny. So apologies: I wanted to like it, I tried to like it, I recognise I'm alienating the majority of you here ... but I don't like Glee. Please feel free to convince me otherwise; it saddens me that I don't like what should really be my wildest fantasy. Sigh.

Being totally honest though, I suspect it suffered in comparison to what Neil and I had watched directly beforehand. And my recommendation of THE YEAR (that's going back a full 12 months, not just back to the start of 2010), without a shadow of a doubt, goes to ... Summer Heights High. Imagine an Australian version of The Office, set in an Australian high school. And then ignore that, because it's a dreadful description of it. But it's the only way I can get even close to the genius which is Chris Lilley, arguably the best bit of comedy acting I've seen since, and even during, The Office, the school musical which I suspect is what Glee wanted to be, and a rollercoaster 8 episodes which range from sublime hysteria to genuine heart-wrenchers. Brilliant, brilliant, brilliant, and if even one person walks away from this blog and watches it then I will have done a good deed.

Blimey, that was a bit long, wasn't it. Roll on post #2 ... just as soon as I've had another snuggle in my cashmere ...


Monday, 25 January 2010

Boring nothingness

Mr Jamie is mightily confused at the moment. He's convinced that a bogie is called a Bee Gee. Consequently, he can't understand why his requests for "tissue, Mummy, Bee Gee" are met with me leaping up and launching into a version of 'Tragedy'. Poor, deluded boy.

I've had a weekend of entirely non events, which is the reason you've heard nothing from me. It's hard to write creatively about nothing. Um ... I wrote a song, I played with Mr Jamie, I played Spider Solitaire on repeat, I roasted some vegetables ... see. Dull dull dullity dull.

And the week's got off to a non auspicious start, with me arriving at work to find the heating had packed up and the network was down for the first two hours of the day. And that's without me even being in the building to cause havoc.

I'm off to try and be interesting ... I feel it's a lost cause without the aid of wine (3 weeks and counting ... sigh). Who knew I was only an exciting person when pumped full of gin? Wail.


Saturday, 23 January 2010

Theme tune to my life

Alas, and contrary to popular belief, there isn't actually a theme tune to my life. If there was though, I suspect it would sound something like my awakening yesterday, which involved Mr Jamie sitting on my head, plucking an out of tune violin, and singing "Postman Pat, Postman Pat, Postman Pat ... CAAAAAAAAAAAAAT." On repeat. Very, very loudly. For all those of you who think you don't want children ... this is why.

Also on a singing related note, I appear to have inadvertently discovered the worst punishment known to man. During one of Mr Jamie's notorious hysterical screaming fits yesterday (I forget the reason it occurred, I think he'd possibly dropped one of his Postman Pats on the floor), I responded by singing the middle section of 'Glitter and be Gay'. (If you don't know it, Google it ... it's the part which goes 'ah ah, a a a ah, a a a ah a a ah ...' etc etc, at around a top C. Awesome.) He responded as though he'd been shot, dropping to the floor and pleading with me. "No Mummy, no sing, no sing Mummy, no, noooooo." The tears stopped as if by magic and he was back sitting quietly in the lounge playing with his Pats within 30 seconds. Super Nanny has nothing on me.


Thursday, 21 January 2010

Bra rummaging

Honestly, the stuff I find in my bra. (Yes, good morning to you too. This is how I'm starting conversations these days.) Madness. It's like Hawkin's Bazaar down there. And I'm not overtly well endowed (am I making myself sound like a man?), but it seems even a 34DD is enough to collate a cornucopia of randomness on a near daily basis. Recent findings:

Stickers
Bombay Mix
A hair bobble
An earring
Half a cherry tomato
An eyeshadow applicator
A cat biscuit
A receipt (for a train ticket)
A sequin (in the shape of a snowflake)
The cap off the toothpaste
A small shard of soap
A 1p coin
A pen lid
The hat off a Playmobile figure
A chocolate button (which had probably seen better days)
Oh, and some nipples. Obviously.

Randomness ... thy name is Kathryn.

And don't start the day by trapping your knuckle in the hinge of the front door. It bloody hurts.


Wednesday, 20 January 2010

Sweat my bitch up

Well I certainly know how to live it up in the evenings. Had you happened to look through my front window at around 9pm last night, you'd have a) had to have x ray vision, given the curtains were shut, but b) happened upon a group of four sweating, writhing, scantily clad women. Oh yes. What's more, there will be a repeat occurrence taking place this evening, albeit on a slightly smaller scale. Neil doesn't know what's hit him.

I am, of course, referring to the magnetic power of Davina and her fabulous workouts. Hooray to Catherine, Emily and Sally for agreeing to work out post large plates of food, sweat in abundance and get attached to the mad rug in the middle of the room. And kudos to Alice who I know cannot WAIT to get going this evening. (Right, Alice? Right?!) If anyone else wants to join my cult, you're more than welcome. Bring yourselves, bring suitable working out gear (or eschew the trend, and work out as Sally did in jeans and a polo neck ... madness, woman, madness!) and bring plenty of sweat. And don't be disturbed when my husband peers around the door frame half way through in a bemused manner and gives me a despairing look. He loves my tribes of working out women really.

On the down side ... what is with this muscle weighing more than fat malarky? Rubbish. Rubbish rubbish rubbish. I might be toning up, but according to the scales I am just getting fat. Stupid scales.

And you remember the 'Dawn French in deep puddle' scene from Vicar of Dibley? No? What d'you mean, you've never happened upon that comic gem. Yes, okay, I may be being just the slightest bit sarcastic. (Although, giving I'm now having to clarify it, it clearly wasn't coming across that well.) Anyway, for those of you who have no idea what I'm going on about (so what else is new?), Dawn French is walking along, steps into a puddle and is suddenly submerged up to her neck. Which is what happened to me this morning as I stepped out of my car in the One Stop car park. Well. Probably. I stepped out of the car and into a VERY deep puddle, although even I will admit it probably wasn't about neck height. Calf height though, which is nearly as bad. Probably. Thank goodness for knee high boots, that's what I say. Which aren't actually knee high, are they? Another puzzle of my life.

It is like this in my head ALL THE TIME. Terrifying.


Tuesday, 19 January 2010

Key words

I couldn't not share these with you. Key words which have led people to my blog via search engines in recent days. Quite why you'd be searching for some of these god only knows ...

"Silly mum" (No surprise there)

"Willy talks toy" (WHAT????!)

"Christmas tights" (Well, quite)

"Jamie has no willy" (Poor lad)

And my personal favourite ...

"Have a nice grope"

I might even retitle my blog in favour of the latter ... Genius.

6 hours in a car

I could leave it at that, because that pretty much sums up my day yesterday. 6 hours in a car ... driving to Birmingham and back. It's a good job I like the sound of my own voice. (And what do you mean, car journeys can be silent? Well of course they can be silent. Unless you're me. In which case they are very very loud and filled with the belting of torch songs from various musicals. 6 hours of that is no mean feat. Particular for any passengers who might be travelling with me. Fortunately - for them at least - the car was empty.)

Despite my general ineptness on the road, I quite like driving. I'm less keen on stopping, which is unfortunate, given that the first hour of my journey yesterday was spent - well - stopped. Stopped on the M27 to be precise, where there was not one, not two, but three accidents to contend with. One was on the other side of the road, but that didn't seem to make any difference to the majority of the queue ahead of me as they craned their heads out of the window to get a good look at the carnage. Seriously, people, stick to watching Casualty. Slightly less lurid, and far more convenient for the rest of us.

Once I got on my way, I realised I needed a wee. A need which got more and more intense as each junction passed. Alas, I am incredibly indecisive when it comes to planning my journey, and therefore I watched service station after service station pass without ever actually managing to make the leap from thinking about weeing to actually getting my arse into gear to change lanes and pull off at the services. At one point, about 3 hours into the journey, bladder stretched tighter than a tight thing, I found myself contemplating the Nutrigrain bar in my bag and wondering how absorbant the thing was. I think this was inspired by having read another blog post in which the writer had weed onto a child's nappy whilst stuck in a traffic jam. I didn't have any nappies, and so the Nutrigrain was going to be my best bet. Until I realised the sheer ludicrousy of the situation - I wasn't stuck, I was free to pull off the road, I could GO INTO A TOILET AND WEE. Needless to say, I didn't. Already running late for my meeting, I opted for Extreme PFE (that's pelvic floor exercises, for the uninitiated), ran into the venue, ran PAST the toilets, ran into my meeting, and waited a further half hour to actually go and wee. For, unsurprisingly, The Longest Wee In The World. Ever. God, I can't believe I've just written an entire paragraph on me weeing, or rather, not weeing. Oh what am I talking about, of course I can.

The journey home was less fraught from a bladder perspective, although had its own highlights, such as the moment when I realised I could no longer see out of my front windscreen. I was travelling back down the A34, which, at around 3.30pm, faces unervingly into the setting sun. When your windscreen is covered in dirt, and you have failed to fill up your windscreen washer liquid, you may be interested to know that this creates near zero visibility. (I don't recommend you try it.) Missing three service stations in quick succession, due to my ability to read signposts whilst travelling at 80mph and unable to see (run, fellow road users, run. Or, rather, drive.), I finally succeeded in pulling off and filled up my washer tank with a bottle of Evian. (Motoring experts, please don't tell me all the disastrous things which will now happen to my shiny new car because I used mineral water and no screen wash. I know, I know.) Yes, that's right I - ME - filled up my washer tank BY MYSELF. I opened the bonnet, found the right container (at least, I bloody well hope I did) and poured in the water. I only spilt half a bottle and only got oil up to my elbows. (No, I don't know why I was encountering oil whilst filling up the washer liquid. Let's just say there were a few surprises along the way.) I am woman, hear me roar. Or, rather, hear me swear, as I trapped the edge of my skirt in the bonnet as it came crashing down unexpectedly. But you don't need to know the detail.

And, should 6 hours of musical theatre get a tad repetitive, I could always entertain myself by the retelling of the joke Alice and I were told whilst singing folk songs on Sunday night. I think this is the best joke in the world. No one else does. I cannot tell it without crying with laughter (I have tears already welling up at the thought of writing it down for you). No one else shares this predicament. But I don't care. For you, my blog readers, this is for you.

An English cat and a French cat are swimming across the Channel. Which cat gets to the other side first?

(Drum roll please ...)

The English cat, because ... un deux trois quatre cinq.

Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!! Is that not the best thing you've heard all year? Anyone? No? Just me then ...

(If you still don't get it, try saying the punchline out loud. If you still don't get it ... then you're just like all the others. Bah.)

Sunday, 17 January 2010

Blood letting

Well, yesterday got off to a cracking start. Within half an hour of getting up I'd broken three electrical appliances and smashed a full bottle of Martini Rosso on the kitchen floor. Impressive, even by my standards. It was with this in mind that I went along to give blood with Robin yesterday afternoon ...

I don't know if it's just me, but whenever I go to give blood the old Hancock sketch immediately comes to mind, and doesn't leave until a full 24 hours after the deed is done. Consequently, I spend the majority of the session in near hysteria, which might explain the reason why I repeated failed to misunderstand instructions which were given to me ("I've written on the back of the form. What, you said don't write on the back of the form? Ah." and "Sit on the bed? This bed? Not the chair? The bed? Shall I sit on it?" Etc.) and spend the entire time chattering inanely (including an inexplicable chanting to my blood: "Come on blood, out you come", which I only realised I was doing outside of the silence of my head when a kindly nurse pointed it out to me.).

On the plus side, I didn't faint, didn't fall off the bed, didn't vomit - and got to stare at a large glitter ball whilst blood seeped out of my veins. Plus I had the debatable thrill of an elderly gentleman (in the guise of an official 'blood taker') erotically rubbing my arm up and down between his hands whilst resting it against his upper thighs. I guess you take what you can get ...

Whilst the blood letting itself went without a hitch, things were a little less seamless when I returned home. In typical Kathryn mode, I decided to ignore all advice given to me post blood donation and proceeded to embark on a 45 minute high energy Davina workout. I sweated like a maniac, had regular head rushes and at one point fell head first into the sofa. (This last bit isn't necessarily due to giving blood, it's more likely simply down to my general lack of coordination.)

It was while I was taking Mr Jamie up for his bath that I realised the true consequences of donating blood. Running his bath, I sat down on the floor to take his clothes off. He suddenly noticed the large white plaster on my elbow. "Oh no. Mum. Mum you poorly. Oh no." His eyes went wide and he turned his worried gaze on me. "Oh no Mum."

As he looked genuinely scared I thought I'd take the time to explain to him what had happened. "It's fine sweetheart, Mum isn't hurt, well, she is a bit, but it's not a bad hurt, it's just because I went to see a doctor, and he took a big needle in my arm and took out some blood, but it's okay, it's some spare blood, so I'm not really poorly. Okay?" He looked unconvinced - I can't say I'm surprised with an explanation that rambling. "Mum hurt?" "No, it's fine, it's just where the doctor put a needle in and took some blood."

It was at this point that he started backing away from me and clutching his elbow. "Not mine, not mine hurt." I tried - unsuccessfully - not to laugh, which I think panicked him more. "Not mine hurt, no Mum, not mine." Attempts to move closer to him to give him a hug were met with him literally backing himself into a corner, before suddenly racing past me shouting "Not mine, not mine Mum, no."

So I now have a child who's irrationally afraid that I'm going to stick a needle into his elbow. Along with all of his usual randomness. This, it turns out, is what they should really be putting into their 'side effects' leaflets.

PS If you don't already, go and give blood. It's easy to do, it's not too traumatic, and if you don't like needles - well, you don't have to look. Hell, if you go to this venue you get to look at a mirror ball instead. Plus ... and here's the really good bit ... you get MINT CLUBS afterwards. Mint Clubs! Mint Clubs, AND a mirror ball. Retro-tastic.

Friday, 15 January 2010

Feel the burn

Well, thanks for all the sympathetic comments yesterday in response to my football woes. Gits. I bet you're all Reading supporters ...

Mr Jamie is on top form at the moment. Some recent highlights:

"Mummy, why Sandwich not wearing trousers?" (Sandwich is the cat, for those not in the know. Named by Neil. And causes untold confusion when trying to get Mr Jamie to eat bread based products.)

"Daddy, where are yoooooooou?" (Last night, in bed, whilst hiding Neil's head under the duvet before the dramatic reveal ... "1 ... 2 ...3 ... there you are Daddy." This becomes less entertaining when it's done on repeat.)

"Mum's bottom. Mum fart." (Again, last night, in bed, in response to his own fart and an immediate attempt to absolve the blame. Like mother, like son ...)

"Mummy, I been cooking Happy Birthday To You." (His opening gambit to me as I arrived to collect him from nursery ... turned out he'd been making a cake. Cakes and the Happy Birthday song are very confused in Jamie's mind.)

And, best of all ... was his joining me in my Davina workout last night. Davina becomes very difficult to do when you're lying crippled with laughter on the floor, watching Mr Jamie raise his leg and arms in time with Davina and her personal trainers. Just brilliant.

And with that I'm off ... he's standing by my knee claiming he wants to wee on the potty. Hmmm. There goes the rest of my afternoon then ...

Thursday, 14 January 2010

Off topic ...

... but so worth posting. If you can, please, please, please donate - even if it's no more than a few pounds. Everything will help.

http://www.dec.org.uk/donate_now/

Football

I don't want to talk about it. I am an avid football supporter ... apart from days like today. Grrr. Rant. Rage. Etc.

(For those of you who are wondering what I'm going on about ... although it pains me to write it ... Liverpool played Reading last night in an FA Cup replay. I support Liverpool. Reading are in the Championship. Liverpool are in the Premiership. So should be better. We weren't. Reading beat us 2-1. Despite the fact we were playing at home. I know.)

In better news ... Mr Jamie is convinced he is now called Annabel. (After his best friend at nursery, one assumes.) When asked what his name is he responds with 'Annabel' and shows a distinct reluctance to answer to 'Jamie'. I blame the pink nail varnish ... Yesterday, he returned from nursery with a black eye. This, it transpired, was entirely of his own doing. They had all been playing out in the snow and had come inside; his nursery worker told them to take their coats off while she shut the door. All the children obeyed, apart from Jamie ... who shot past her legs, ran out the door (allegedly to see the snowman again) and fell flat on his head.

When I asked him later that evening about the incident he responded with 'Bump. Ow.' I asked him how he'd hurt his eye, and he responded with 'Annabel did it'. At first I thought he was simply trying to absolve the blame. Now I'm not so sure. Have I created the world's first schizophrenic child?

Short post ... am absolutely desperate for a wee. And it's always good to share.

Wednesday, 13 January 2010

Evil Stilton

So that's it. I have properly lost the plot. How else can I explain the fact that I was up at 5.45 ... AM ... to work out. I am SO disappointed in myself. I thought I was better than that. I prided myself on not being like those tragic people with no lives who get up early in the morning purely to exercise, and always revelled in the extra amount of sleeping time I was getting as a result.

Not today. Today, I woke up at 5.45am, put on my exercise gear, went downstairs ... and worked out for 40 minutes, before getting washed, dressed, and going to work.

I am a total headcase, and if this is what not drinking wine does to me I say best get back on it as soon as possible. (Don't worry, I'm only joking, the Unbreakable Resolution remains intact ... for now ...)

Now, I'm not one to use this blog for evil ... hell, let's be honest, it's not actually prolific enough to do any real damage. BUT, I am afraid to say that today I will be carrying out my very own name and shame - and not without just cause either.

Last night, I went out for dinner with work. To the delightfully named The Brasserie @ No 68, in Fareham, Hampshire. Website is www.brasserie68.co.uk if you fancy a look. (See, told you, this is hardcore naming and shaming.) On first impressions it's very nice: it's a beautiful building and the staff are extremely friendly.

However.

I should have known all was not boding well when I was handed the menu, which proudly proclaimed 'Ala Carte'. (If you don't know why that's incorrect, then you might be alright going along.) The menu itself was a tad sparse, being full of what I believe to be the 'Christmas remnants'. But no matter. I ordered a duck salad to start, which was passable, if you don't mind wading your way through the odd bit of stringy fat on the way. (I see a whole new career opening up to me as a restaurant critic. Probably.)

And then came the main. I'd ordered the vegetable lasagne. A pretty safe option - in fact, I think I can honestly say I've never had a bad vegetable lasagne. It's actually pretty difficult to screw up: pasta, vegetables, sauce, cook in oven, serve. Hell, if I can manage it, I'm sure a restaurant chef can manage it.

Apparently not. (Ahhhhhh, Mr Enticknap, do you remember 'apparently not'? I miss our obsessive usage of it!) As the plate of lasagne was brought over to me, alarm bells started ringing. Gingerly, I took a forkful and put it into my mouth.

WHO THE FUCK PUTS STILTON INTO A VEGETABLE LASAGNE??? Gaaaaaaah, blaaaaaaaggggh, and gaaaaaaaaaah again. My absolutely number one most hated foodstuff, cunningly disguised in the form of a vegetable lasagne. What kind of maniac would do this? More to the point, what kind of maniac would do this and NOT MENTION IT ON THE MENU?

Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

So avoid The Brasserie @ No 68, unless you like your food smelly and surprising, and want to go home with a woefully empty stomach. (I tell a lie, I made up for it on the pudding menu - which is actually rather nice - hence the workout this morning.) Seriously. Stilton. Just ... why?

On the plus side, I had a brief thrill this morning whilst clearing the snow off my car and walking past the back windscreen. All of a sudden, someone reached out and roughly grabbed my bottom. I was momentarily caught between fear and delight ... until I realised it was my back windscreen wiper unexpectedly lunging from left to right. Small pleasures ...

Tuesday, 12 January 2010

Driving me crazy

The snow, that is. Which is quite literally driving me crazy - or, more accurately, crazying my driving. (Excellent new word there. Please try and use it at least once in sentences today. Ta very much.)

As we know, I'm an erratic driver at the best of times. Given this, I do generally try and avoid driving in the snow, but with rumours that the Big Thaw was upon us, and with a pressing need to get Jamie into nursery and me into work (and, more importantly, me to a supermarket), I braved the roads yesterday. (Or, again, more accurately, the other drivers on the roads braved me.)

I startled myself by not doing too badly. I didn't drive into anything, I didn't skid randomly across the road and I didn't hit any part of the office building when I arrived at work. Perhaps I was born to drive in the snow?

And then I got home. And attempted to park. Which went like this; aka Kathryn's Guide to Parking in the Snow:

1) Drive down road. Slowly and sensibly.

2) Pull into side of road to avoid car coming at high speed the other way.

3) Pull car back out into centre of road and drive until parallel with parking space.

4) Contemplate driving in forwards, into the position you left in that morning.

5) Ignore contemplation. Decide to be proactive, and reverse in, in order to allow for an easier (and safer) exit the following morning.

6) Drive past parking space.

7) Put car into reverse gear.

8) Attempt to reverse into space.

9) Realise are about to hit neighbours' car. Drive back into road.

10) Adjust turning position, and reverse again.

11) Hear wheel spin.

12) Press accelerator harder.

13) Hear more wheel spin.

14) Drive back out, ignoring husband's 'helpful' commentary along the lines of 'what in the world are you doing?'

15) Drive onto opposite kerb.

16) Reverse back. Hear wheel spin from the front wheels (just for a bit of variety).

17) Try to drive forwards. Can't.

18) Realise are now trapped in the middle of the road. Slam the hell out of the accelerator pedal and clutch. Smell burning clutch/rubber.

19) Watch helpful neighbour walking down towards you. Breathe sigh of relief that help is at hand.

20) Watch helpful neighbour walk straight past your car, smiling, and get into their shiny BMW which is parked just on the other side.

21) Watch helpful neighbour reverse their BMW smoothly out of their parking space, drive past the back of your car, and reverse equally smoothly into a parking space next to their house.

22) Watch helpful neighbour go into their house. Shout the C word a lot.

23) Spend 10 minutes or so alternating in reverse and first gears. Smell more burning car parts.

24) Ignore non driving husband's commentary along the lines of 'what's that smell? Do you know what you're doing?'

25) With a loud war cry, wrench the steering wheel right and accelerate out of the snow and back into the road, accompanied by various ominous clunks from underneath the car chassis.

26) Find self back in the same position as started, only facing the opposite way.

27) Sigh. Drive car facing forwards into parking space.

28) Get out of car.

29) Fall over in snow.

30) Ignore husband for a long time.


Monday, 11 January 2010

Panic stations

I think I'm in danger of becoming normal.

This is terrifying.

It's been dawning on me over the last few days, when I realised I had increasingly little of interest to blog about. Evidence to date, as follows:

1) I've given up wine. Well, that in itself certainly isn't normal, but I think it might have inadvertently made me more normal.

2) It snowed ... and I didn't fall over ONCE. (Well, there was that half a time when I dramatically collapsed on top of Neil who caught me as if I were a rugby ball. A very heavy rugby ball, mind. But that doesn't really count.)

3) I've been wearing flat shoes. (This not only makes me normal, it makes me boring.)

4) I've been eating somewhere near my 5 fruit and veg a day.

5) Mr Jamie is bemusing me more than I'm bemusing him.

6) I'm doing exercise. (Admittedly, a bit like a maniac. Much like wine, it has to be all or nothing with me, so I've been Davina-ing 7 days a week until I collapse in a heap. But, as a result, I have muscles. Real live muscles. That's muscles, not mussels. Just to clarify.)

7) I cooked a meal. A proper meal, for Neil and Jamie and I, and, what's more, we all SAT AROUND THE DINING TABLE to eat it. Monumental. (Oh, and as an afterthought, no one has yet contracted food poisoning as a result of this meal. Rock on.)

8) I'm almost contemplating leaving this list at 8 points, instead of the compulsory 3, or 5, or 7, or 10.

9) But I can't.

10) Not that that's not normal. It's just ... obsessive.

I am troubled; deeply, deeply troubled. I'm acting like a normal, responsible human being ... and it saddens me deeply.

Still, on the plus side, I just trapped one of my nipples in the filing cabinet. Whilst talking to one of my (male) colleagues, so I had to pretend that nothing was happening, whilst inwardly shrieking "MY NIPPLE, MY FUCKING NIPPLE, GET IT THE HELL OUT OF THE FILING CABINET."

Maybe not entirely normal then.

Sunday, 10 January 2010

Some good stuff

  • I used my man skills to dig out my car WITH A SHOVEL, before successfully reversing it, turning it in the road (and the snow) and driving to and from THE SUPERMARKET. Without crashing. Hoorah.

  • The supermarket. See above. (Which is remarkably well stocked, unless you want to buy milk, cat litter or condoms.)

  • Jamie and I went to a 10 person church service. I'm not trying to force religion on anyone, but this was bloody lovely. (With the added bonus that Mr Jamie behaved himself.)

  • I received a phone call post church service from the vicar, thanking us for coming along, telling me how much he'd enjoyed Jamie arranging all his toys in a semi circle to 'listen' to the sermon (well, it did double the congregation numbers) and congratulating me on my 'amazing' voice. The cynics amongst you may argue there were a number of reasons why he did this, but I care not: all praise is good praise when you are me.

  • I purchased ... Chardonnay! Admittedly, it is alcohol free Chardonnay, but I still feel deep seated joy.

  • After a week of daily Davina workouts, I can no longer walk, but there is at last the merest hint of a muscle in my buttocks. Miraculous.

  • And Mr Jamie now officially likes snow. Proof positive below (Neil, my father and other Havant & Waterlooville supporters will be delighted to note the ground behind him):

Saturday, 9 January 2010

Mummy

For some inexplicable reason, Mr Jamie has suddenly started calling me 'Mummy'. I am not entirely comfortable with this situation.

Let me explain. (And first off, to put your minds at rest - yes, I am his genuine maternal parent.) I loathe the use of the word 'Mummy'. This relates, yet again, to the madness which is the inside of my head. When Helen (that's my sister, for those who aren't aware, in case you thought it might refer to the family pet. You wouldn't be so far off the mark, mind. I can picture Helen's face as she's reading this.) and I were growing up, we always called our parents 'Mummy' and 'Daddy'. Mostly because I think it's the done thing to call your parents that when you're small. As we got older, the majority of our peers switched to calling their parents 'Mum' and 'Dad'. If I remember correctly, there wasn't any parental resistance to us doing the same. (I seem to recall a conversation with my dad, when he told me I could call him anything I wanted. Except Dave (which is actually his name, not because he has an adversity to Daves). Mind you, living in Pirton, that was probably just to clarify that we weren't sleeping together.)

BUT I COULDN'T DO IT. It would be like - I don't know - me suddenly starting referring to Neil as Clive. He's not called Clive, he's called Neil! And my parents weren't called Mum and Dad, they were called Mummy and Daddy. Calling them Mum and Dad would just be - well - wrong.

Alas, this is something which has continued to this day, and my humiliation at calling my parents Mummy and Daddy has never really diminished. Strangers, when being introduced to either of them for the first time must wonder why I can't remember my own parents' names. "So this is hmm-bla-schem and this is ah-mit-schma." Mumble mumble mumble, you can make your own introductions later. I'm not going to actually voice the words 'Mummy and Daddy'. Could I BE any more middle class?

So, it's with all that in mind that I felt a chill go down my spine last week as I heard Mr Jamie ricocheting around the middle floor of the house, calling "Mummeeeee, where are yooooou?" I went up to find him. "It's okay lovely, Mum's here." "Mummmeeee, there you are." Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah.

I can only hope that, like everything else, this is 'just a phase'. In the meantime, should you hear him referring to Neil and I as 'Neil and Kathryn', don't panic. It's still a far more savoury alternative to 'Mummy'.

Probably.

Friday, 8 January 2010

Escapology

I did it. I escaped. From the house, that is. Not that there's anything wrong with my house. On the contrary, since the men did their work (or, more accurately, started doing their work ... they have now disappeared until god knows when, with over a thousand pounds that I still owe to them. Still, at least it's not the other way round.) it is rather lovely. But, much like those with ants in their pants (one imagines), I am incapable of sitting still for more than 5 minutes (that is, unless I'm drugged with wine - and no chance of that these days. Sigh.) and therefore 3 days of house curfew had left me leaping like a big (and incompetent) leaping thing.

Having had a brief sojourn to the corner shop yesterday (mainly to find someone to talk to, what with Neil being rather too committed to his new computer game), today I decided to venture further. I was Going Into Town. What's more, I was Wearing Flat Shoes. Ugg boots, in fact, which must be just about the most sensible thing one can wear in snowy weather. (Well, apart from their non waterproof qualities. But let's not dwell on that.) Even more startling, Neil announced that he was Coming With Me. (For those who don't know my husband, Neil announcing that he is voluntarily going on a walk is probably on a par with me announcing that I am voluntarily giving up wine. Hmmm. Maybe the two are related. Who knows.) So we put on our coats, hats, about five thousand layers, wrapped up Mr Jamie until only the tip of his nose could be seen, put him into the pushchair and set off on the half hour walk into town.

It was BRILLIANT. I love snow; I love walking in snow; and I love Neil and Mr Jamie. Not only that, at the end of the walk into town was a SUPERMARKET!!!!!! I bought vast amounts of luxury food, I bought myself a snuggly jumper and some pyjamas and I DIDN'T FALL OVER. And then we came home and I tried to stop myself eating 10 Mars Bars in quick succession (thus far, 9 still remain) while Mr Jamie devoured half a pizza as if he hadn't eaten for weeks. (Which is almost true ... I'd kind of forgotten he needed lunch. Oops.)

Bring on more snow I say ... and my new found resistance to gravity. Just, you know, so long as the supermarkets remain open ...

Wednesday, 6 January 2010

Potty training for MANIACS

Why am I not surprised? After last time's potty shenanigans, plus the recent poo filled baths, I wasn't going anywhere near potty training until Mr Jamie could walk to the bathroom, get himself onto the toilet, wipe his bottom, flush, wash his hands and put the seat down. I had reckoned without his desire for stickers ...

So as not to feel like entirely incompetent parents, Neil and I had mentioned to Jamie that, as and when he did want to have a wee or a poo on the potty, he would get a sticker. He had clearly given this some thought and had mentioned it on a few occasions, before following it up with 'no no potty'.

Today, being stuck at home as a result of the snow, I thought I would show him the packet of stickers I'd bought him. His eyes lit up. 'My hold them.' Yeah right. 'No Jamie, I will look after them, you can have one when you do a wee or a poo on the potty.'

I thought no more about it.

20 minutes later, Mr Jamie hurled himself down the stairs (in a semi upright kind of way, rest assured) and launched himself into the lounge, with his potty on his head ('Hat Mum!') and clutching my vibrating vibrator. (You probably don't need an explanation as to how he got hold of this, but, just in case you're wondering, it had rolled into the ensuite after I expelled it from our mattress the other night.) 'Wee potty Mum.' 'You want to have a wee on the potty? Really?' (I am so cynical.) Jamie assured me that he did, and so I took off his trousers, took off his nappy, and sat him down on the potty.

The half hour that followed was utter, utter chaos. He sat on the potty for - ooh - 20 seconds or so. He attempted to have a wee. 'Squeeeeeze, squeeeeeze. Come on wee.' (That's Jamie, not me - I'm not that odd.) He insisted on clutching the vibrating vibrator. He put it on the floor. It vibrated off to the other side of the room. He fell off the potty and ran after the vibrator. He sat back down on the potty. He fell off again. He rolled the vibrator under the sofa. He ran around the sofa laughing hysterically. He sat back on the potty. He got off. He peered in it. He pronounced 'Poo!' and looked around for a sticker. (Yeah right. Unfortunately for Mr Jamie, dust doesn't count as poo.) He threw himself onto the sofa. He lay back and put his legs over his head, before repeatedly sliding on and off the sofa cushions, accompanied by still more maniacal laughter. (I'm guessing this was due to the unique sensation of sofa cushion on naked willy, but as I'm not a boy I can't confirm this.) He had several more 'squeeeeeeeeeeze, come on wee' sessions on the potty. He ran around a bit more with the vibrator. I wondered where the hell this would all end. Eventually, he fell over into his toy box, grazing his head, dropping the vibrator (which I immediately stuffed behind a sofa cushion - please bear this in mind when you next come and visit) and demanded cake and cuddles. I also took the opportunity to put a nappy back on him. Needless to say, not a drop of wee made it into the potty.

And Gordon Brown thinks HE'S had an exhausting day?

Stating the obvious

It's snowing.

No shit, Sherlock. (I have just achieved a life ambition by using that phrase within a blog.) Talk about stating the bleedin' obvious. Seriously, I'm paying my TV licence fee for people to sit there in front of me and tell me it's snowing? I KNOW THAT YOU MORONS, I CAN SEE IT OUT THE BLOODY WINDOW.

And breathe. In the meantime, being snowed in is turning out to be rather entertaining, at least for the first 24 hours. Ask me again once we've run out of food.

On another subject, apparently over 15,000 visits have been made to my blog since I started posting. So that'll be me, me, me, me another 14,987 times ... and maybe 10 of you? Thank you very much. You are all lovely, and coping remarkably well now we've started the therapy sessions.

Tuesday, 5 January 2010

Willy talk

Contrary to popular belief, I am not generally geared up to launch myself into genitalia-chat the moment I open my eyes in the morning. Mr Jamie, unfortunately, has no such qualms. As follows:

6.45am, my bedroom, dressing Jamie. We are both pretty much naked (as a result of getting dressed, not as a result of the fact we contantly parade around the house like this. We are not all Neil, you know.).

K: Right then, let's get a new nappy on. (Takes nappy off Jamie.)
J: (Looks down.) Willy!
K: Yes, it's your willy. Now put your nappy on.
J: No.
K: (Attempting to sound menacing.) Jamie. Put your nappy on please.
J: No Mum. My willy. (Grabs his willy in delight.)
K: Jamie. Time to put your nappy on. You can see your willy later. Look, hold your doggy while I sort your nappy out.
J: (Grabs proffered toy dog.) Doggy tail!
K: Yes, that's right, your dog has got a tail.
J: Tail willy.
K: What?
J: Tail willy. Doggy tail willy. (Holds his dog's tail next to his willy.)
K: No, that's a tail, not a willy, they're different.
J: Doggy no willy?
K: (Finally getting his nappy on.) Well, some dogs have willies. Boy dogs have willies.
J: Doggy willy! (Grabs his toy bear.) Bear tail. (Grabs his bear's tail.) Bear willy?
K: Again: some bears have willies. Boy bears have willies. Not girl bears.
J: (Peering down between his legs.) Where Jamie's willy?
K: It's still there, it's just in your nappy.
J: Daddy willy!
K: Yes, Daddy also has a willy.
J: Mum willy?
K: No, I've told you before, Mum doesn't have a willy. Girls don't have willies. Sad, but true.
J: Mum sad?
K: It's okay, I can live with it. Come on, let's get dressed.
J: (Pointing between my legs.) What's that?
K: What do you think it is?
J: POO! Yeeeeeeeeeeurch.
K: Jamie, it's not poo. It's a front bottom. Girls have front bottoms instead of willies.
J: No Mum, poo.
K: It's not poo, IT'S A FRONT BOTTOM. (Realise am shouting.)
J: Want Daddy.
K: Daddy's at work.
J: Want Daddy.
K: Do you want to phone Daddy?
J: Yes. (I dial the number and pass him the phone. Neil answers.) Daddy, mum, willy, no, poo, yeeeeurch. (Passes the phone to me.)
N: What?
K: It is a very, very long story ...

Monday, 4 January 2010

Day Zero ...

... and I'm not missing the booze at all. Not least due to the bad wine still remaining in my head from last night, and also, of course, the very salient fact that I happen to be at work. I did depress myself last night by reading that it takes 18 months to instill a habit properly ... and so if I intend to be a genuine non-drinker then that means 18 months of this at least ... Enough already: compounding my first day back at work with this is far too traumatic!

In other news ... it's cold. Very cold. I am entertaining myself today by counting how many people I see or speak to tell me about the weather. So far I have about a 95% strike rate. We are so very, very British. Mr Jamie refused to get up this morning due to the cold weather. I asked him if he wanted to come downstairs and he told me "No Mum, I stay in bed." I went downstairs, made our breakfasts and returned to find him hiding under the duvets shivering. It troubles me that he has hit a teenage desire to stay in bed all day at the age of two.

And to finish with a bit of shameless self promotion: The Fake Aunts, Sunday 10 January, 8pm, Hitchin Folk Club @ The Sun Hotel. We shall be singing and so shall some other almost certainly more talented people. (But I bet they don't fall over as often as me.) Come and put up with my yowling and I'll show you my sparkly shoes.

Sunday, 3 January 2010

Night time shenanigans

Brilliant. Even by my standards.

I woke up at about 2am to find the entire bed was vibrating. No, this wasn't Neil pulling some moves. (I love the fact I have just used the phrase 'pulling some moves'. Is that actually a real phrase anyway?) The bed was, quite literally, vibrating. In my half asleep, half awake state this was less entertaining than it might otherwise have been, and actually quite terrifiying. Naturally, I did what anyone of sane mind would have done (and even what anyone of less sane mind, aka me, would have done) and woke up my husband to protect me. He was suitably alarmed, and told me to go and have a look at the electrical point next to the bed to see if that was causing the vibrations.

What? But I am the woman, you must protect me, not make me stick my naked finger into electrical sockets. (I'm not entirely sure this was what Neil had in mind.) Nevertheless, I bravely stuck my hand over the side of the bed (where it wasn't chewed off by a marauding bed vibrating monster, nor electrocuted), unplugged the two plugs from their sockets, looked underneath the bed ... nothing. And STILL the bloody bed was vibrating.

I looked at Neil. Neil looked at me. This was totally pointless, what with it being pitch black. But I like to think it added dramatic effect. Neil told me to lift up the mattress and look underneath. I procrastinated. I am clearly something of a wuss when confronted by potential vibrating axe murderers. (And very flat ones at that, if they were going to fit underneath our mattress.) Neil looked fierce. (Probably. Again: pitch black.) I bravely lifted the mattress. And, lo and behold, came across the source of the vibrations.

My vibrator. Stuffed underneath the mattress by, one can only suspect, one Mr Jamie. Previously undisturbed, Neil had moved the bed earlier in the day and it had obviously come dislodged and wedged itself into such a position as to be activated by the weight of me rolling over in my sleep.

I am very proud of my life.

Saturday, 2 January 2010

Why me?

Poo. In the bath. Again. For me to deal with.

Why, for the love of god, WHY?

That is all.

Friday, 1 January 2010

Chocolate genitals

Are how I started my New Year. No, not that type of chocolate genitals. Bleeeeeuuurgh. Or, god, not that type either. Grim grimmity grim. (Bet that's got you thinking.) No, chocolate genitals of the type lovingly produced by Ann Summers, which me and Jamie sat in bed this morning and ate for breakfast. He necked 3 chocolate cocks; I, embarrassingly, could only manage 1. Neil looked mortified and headed for the shower.

I had a lovely New Year's Eve. My arse did not leave the sofa between the hours of 6pm-midnight other than to schlep into the kitchen for champagne top ups and vast quantities of M&S food. (I can highly recommend their breaded scallops and chips, mmmmmmmmmm.) Consequently, there's not hope in hell of me being hungover this morning - I drank like a fish (roll on the 4th ...) but I also ate what probably equates to an entire shopping basket full of food. My centre of gravity has been shifted so low due to the weight in my stomach that even I am going to struggle to fall over today. (Although, never say never.)

Right then. Off to await all the joys 2010 has to offer. (And puzzle, in a traumatised kind of way, exactly how we're planning to entitle this year. Twenty ten, or two thousand and ten? It's this kind of thing which will keep me awake long into the night ...)

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