Monday, 31 October 2011

"WHAT are you doing?"

Mornings chez me are chaotic at the best of times. I'm balancing the needs of two small shouty children alongside the fact I can't open my eyes before 8am and the knowledge that if WE ARE NOT OUTSIDE THIS HOUSE BY 7.30 AT THE LATEST IT WILL ALL GO HORRIBLY, HORRIBLY WRONG.

This morning merely added to the chaos.

Beth was in her highchair. Eating. It's what she does best. Mr Jamie had just shuffled, naked, into the lounge, and had been presented with his clothes and told in no uncertain terms to get dressed. I was in the kitchen, searching out the next course of Beth's breakfast before she reached the end of what she had in front of her and all hell broke loose. Mr Jamie called me through.

"Mummy?"

"What sweetheart?"

"Come and see this."

"See what?"

"Just come and see it. It's really good."

"Coming ..."

I walked out of the kitchen and rounded the corner into the lounge. Mr Jamie was sat cross legged on the sofa, his hands between his legs. Still naked. And looking in need of some serious medical attention.

"Oh my god Jamie, what have you done?"

"Come closer Mummy. Then you can see it PROPERLY."

"See what? What have you done?"

"Stand here. See. Look at it. It's very clever, isn't it."

"Oh thank goodness. I thought you'd ... mutilated yourself."

"Daddy showed me how to do this."

"What a surprise."

"He showed me how to do this in the bath, so we can clean it properly."

"Good ... fine ... but I think it is probably best just kept for the bath."

"There are lots of ways of cleaning it, and Daddy and me did them all, and we had REALLY loads of fun."

"Please, whatever you do, never have this conversation with anyone else outside of this room. Now go and put some pants on."

There's a sight which won't be leaving my retinas any time soon ...

Friday, 28 October 2011

The week I stopped talking

Traumatic, wasn't it? Mass apologies for deserting you all like that, particularly without any kind of prior warning. Although you may simply have been grateful for the rest.

There are a million and one reasons for my absence, most either desperately prosaic (12 hours in a meeting, anyone?), or to do with stuff I just don't want to share on here. (Which can leave you in absolutely no doubt that, whatever else may have been going on, my front bottom is just fine and dandy.) Hence a general lack of blogging.

Being now, however, 'back in the room', there are a couple of excellent highlights to share with you. Both Mr Jamie related: but of course. The first is the fact that yesterday, upon collecting Mr Jamie from nursery, I received a letter telling me that Mr Jamie's poem had been selected for publication in a special poetry anthology. This was a surprise, for a number of reasons:

1) Mr Jamie can't write.
2) Mr Jamie's vocabulary doesn't extend much beyond the core repertoire of 4 year old boys: 'Poo', 'Power Rangers', 'Darth Vader', etc.
3) I'm not sure Mr Jamie would know what a rhyming couplet was if one came up and smacked him in the face.

Despite these three 'minor issues', it appeared Mr Jamie had managed to overcome them all, and had produced the following:

Jamie's Day At The Farm
I went to the farm one day,
I saw a pigs in the hay.
Mummy and Daddy went with me,
We saw a baby goat, it was tiny.
I ate pizza for lunch,
And the animals had grass to munch.
The farmer drove a tractor around,
Some seeds were growing in the ground.
At the farm I had a lovely time,
Now this is the end of my first rhyme.

Cue parental MORTIFICATION. His first published work ... and not only did he see a 'pigs' ... HE ATE PIZZA FOR LUNCH. Middle class, grammatically correct, utter mortification.

On the plus side ... four years old, and he's already managed to employ his first ghost writer. I am secretly impressed.

Prior to this creative endeavour, we were sat at home watching the news over breakfast. A photograph of a number of scary looking knives (to illustrate the police crack down on knife crime) captured Mr Jamie's imagination. Excellent. This was my opportunity to show what a superb parent I really am.

"Do you know why those knives are there Jamie?"

"No Mummy."

"They're there so that people know that it's VERY dangerous to carry knives around, and you will get into BIG trouble with the police if you ever take a knife out of your house."

"That's because knives are very sharp."

"That's right."

"And very dangerous."

"Correct."

"Are cars dangerous Mummy?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Very dangerous."

"What about ... toast. Is toast dangerous?"

"Not generally."

"What about the toaster? Is the toaster dangerous?"

"Yes ... if you are a piece of bread. Or if you try to get inside of it."

"Is the oven dangerous?"

"Again, if you got inside it, I think there might be a bit of a problem. It's very hot."

Mr Jamie pondered on the presence of Dangerous Items right through getting his shoes on, getting into the car, and picking up his nursery worker on the way into nursery. All was silent in the back of the car, until ...

"Oh Mummy. I know what is dangerous. I know what is VERY dangerous."

Good. An excellent chance for me to show off to his nursery worker what a superb parent I was, teaching my son of the dangers of knife crime at a young age.

"What's that sweetheart?"

"BETH. Beth is VERY dangerous, and she will eat ALL your food. Baaaaaaaaaaaahahahahahahahahaha."

And he laughed like a drain.

Friday, 21 October 2011

Turning Thirty

Well, less of the -ing and more of the -ed, if we're honest. I rejected 'Turned Thirty' because it made me sound too much like I was 'on the turn'. 'Turning' sounds far more optimistic.

I've been 30 for a full five days now. So far I've discovered the following:
  • My skin has regressed. Huge fuck off great big spots on either cheek (seriously: symmetrical acne?) are how I appear to have marked my entry into a new decade of oldness. Just in time for Birthday Weekend #2. Marvellous.
  • My grey pube has disappeared. At least, that's what I'm telling myself. 'Hollywoods' are a wonderful thing.
  • Despite this, I'm caught in a whole new hair-related-crisis. Prior to turning 30, I spent an awful lot of time with my hair in either bunches or plaits. This is for two reasons: a) It's practical, and b) It goes a long way to hiding just how little of the stuff I actually have. Now I've turned 30, is one still allowed to have their hair in the style of a schoolgirl? Am I a 14-year-old wannabe? I have spent several fraught hours in front of the mirror debating this ... before realising I'm Kathryn, and I don't actually give a fuck what anyone else thinks, and living out my 14-year-old dream with the best of 'em.
  • I have actually managed to keep my house tidy for a FULL FOUR DAYS. This can only be down to my advanced age and maturity. I fear Neil may think I've been exchanged for a doppelganger; although this might not necessarily be a bad thing. (In the interests of being completely open and honest with you, when I say the house is tidy, that doesn't necessarily mean my attention to detail is all that. Jamie, Beth and I are unable to go out for another fifty six minutes, at which point the tumble dryer will have finished its first cycle, and we will all actually have some clean clothes to wear.)
  • As an old responsible grown up, I have taken steps to address my alcohol consumption. Have I started drinking less? Please. Have I started drinking higher quality wine to ensure a higher quality of hangover? Absolutely. (Alice and I necked two bottles of wine last night, talked at length about sex in graphic and lurid detail - though I fear this part may have been mostly me, whilst Alice looked on in fear - and I feel 100% fine this morning. The two pizzas we ate may have helped with this.)
  • I still get ID'd in supermarkets. Thank God.
It's a sage look at my fourth decade, I'm sure you'll agree. And now I'm off to celebrate Birthday Weekend #2. Prepare for tales of naked drunken bowling coming to a blog near you very soon ...

Thursday, 20 October 2011

"SHUT UP!"

I love the mad little world that Mr Jamie inhabits. Last night, coming back from nursery in the car, we had the following conversation:

"Mummy?"

"Yes Jamie?"

"Can I have one of my sweeties when we get home?"

"Yes. Of course."

"Oh good. Come on then Mummy. Go faster. Drive this car faster. Come on come on come on. Don't worry, it doesn't matter if you crash it, because it will just be an accident, and you won't get into trouble with the police if it is just an accident. They will only come if it is a lot on purpose, not even just a little bit on purpose, only a lot on purpose. But it will only be an accident. Like if you shoot someone with a gun, and it's an accident, that's okay, and if you do it just a little bit on purpose, that's okay, but if you do it properly on purpose then that's when the police will come and tell you off."

"I feel we may need to have a bit of a chat about the sliding scale of severity of crime ..."

"What?"

"Never mind."

His outlook on life is joyously entertaining. Post A&E visit, berating myself yet again for having shouted at him, I found myself thinking about how nice it was that he appears to have developed far more of a zen-like approach to the world than I have ever managed to achieve ...

... and then Beth woke us all up, shouting, A LOT, at 4am this morning. (In Beth's defence, she had a raging temperature and I believe was attempting to grow some more teeth. Ouchy.) Neil and I attempted to calm her, but she was having none of it. On and on she raged, in the darkness of the otherwise silent bedroom, when suddenly, from the other side of the room where Mr Jamie lay huddled in his Stig bed, came ...

"SHUT UP! SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP SHUT UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUP!"

Hmmm. Maybe not quite so zen-like.

Tuesday, 18 October 2011

Best Laid Plans

So, you know those days when you plan the following? Get up, get dressed, get children up, get children dressed, feed everyone, take children to nursery, take self to work, sit on arse and shout at people all day, get in car, collect children, return home, collapse in heap. Know the sort I mean?

Never, during any of my best laid plans, did I anticipate the following:

Get up, get dressed, get children up, get children dressed, feed everyone, tell Mr Jamie to take a large, hardback book upstairs, watch as he takes it into the hall and hits Beth with it, shout loudly in Mr Jamie's direction and plonk him firmly on the stairs, watch in HORROR as his foot slips off the step and he falls face first onto the edge of said step, collapse in sobbing heap with two sobbing children, realise at least two of you are absolutely covered in blood, PANIC, phone Neil, run around a bit with a packet of frozen peas on your head (before realising you should be applying it to Mr Jamie's head, rather than your own), bundle small bloodied children into car, drive like a maniac to Neil's parents, hurl Beth in their direction, drive like a maniac to hospital, run in a sobbing/falling type way into A&E with Mr Jamie in your arms, gasp out information at the oh-so-calm receptionist, rush Mr Jamie into the children's waiting room, realise he is actually probably not that injured after all if his cries of joy at the sight of two large army helicopters and one large navy submarine (not to scale, thankfully) to play with are anything to go by, get seen and out of A&E in UNDER AN HOUR by two lovely doctors who, despite your worst fears, aren't actually hell bent on reporting you to Social Services, drive slightly more calmly back to Neil's parents, drop Beth at nursery, sigh a resigned sigh and drive Mr Jamie with you to work, spend the day in your office with Mr Jamie behaving terrifyingly angelically and with the faint murmurs of "pirate battles" emanating from beneath your feet, drive back to nursery, collect a "six-times-a-day-pooing" Beth, drive everyone home, collapse briefly in a heap, feed children, get children to bed, shake with relief and contemplate gin, resign yourself to your body's desperate need for a detox and use running as a (surprisingly effective) gin substitute, fall to the ground and realise that making any best laid plans at all is completely fucking pointless.

And breathe.

Monday, 17 October 2011

BIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIRTHDAY!!!

You know how sometimes, you build things up too much in your head, and then the reality when it comes to it is a crashing disappointment?

SO not the case. I had one of the best weekends of all time. In no particular order, these are the things which closed off my 30th year:

I went for lunch at Petrus, courtesy of my unbelievably awesome sister (which shows how incredible it really was - I have never referred to her with such hyperbole before), and ate this:

*************
Beef carpaccio, celeriac remoulade and Jerusalem artichoke mousse
*************
Loch Duart salmon and lobster cannelloni with Champagne and chive
2009 Saar Riesling, Van Volxem, Mosel, Germany

*************
Crispy Suffolk pork belly with sage Lyonnaise, braised apple and Madeira jus
2009 Pinot Noir, Burnt Spur, Martinborough, New Zealand

*************
Orange and vanilla baked Alaska, Grand Marnier sauce
2010 Muskat Ottonel Auslese, Tschida, Burgenland, Austria

*************
As if all of the above wasn't enough, they also brought us little tiny minature Cornettos (possibly not the technical terminology) covered with popping candy, and frozen petit fours served in liquid nitrogen.

A. MAZING. I may never eat again. I wanted to cry with happiness and lick my plate clean. (Just so you know: I did neither. But boy was I tempted.) Go, go, go. The best meal of my life, without a shadow of a doubt. And now that's quite enough free advertising for you, Mr Gordon Ramsay. Onto ...

The Hotel. We stayed here, where I was immediately won over by the fact that they'd upgraded us to a suite. Said suite turned out to be pretty much larger than my entire house. I am so up for living the life of the rich and famous. My only criticism would be the fact that Neil and I are clearly not entirely cut out to be rich and famous. Living in a house without any central heating, we both woke up sweating like we'd been working down a mine all night, due to the air conditioning only getting the room down to about 22 degrees. That's a hot summer's night for us. Oh, and my entirely irrational fear of bidets is still going strong.

Post lunch, and full of more food and expensive wine than I thought myself capable of drinking in the middle of the day, we went off for an evening of senseless drinking, featuring one half of my most favouritest people in the whole world (the other half: see you next weekend for Part 2!), along with ...

Rudey wallpaper:

My Daddy! (Just in case you think I'm showing preferential parental treatment here, my mum wasn't at said celebrations. The reason for that is she was spending 24 hours wrangling an overexcited Mr Jamie and a teething Small Beth who Would Not Be Put Down. At All. I returned to find her looking like she'd spent the last couple of days fighting in the trenches. As a result of this, she is absolutely the provider of The Greatest Birthday Present of All.)


And, along with my mum's noble self sacrifice above, and The Cunt Colouring Book (yes, really - I'm not entirely sure what my selection of gifts says about me ...), the Other Greatest Birthday Present of All ...


A KNITTED VAGINA!!! Josie (photographed), I bloody love you. She is one very, very talented lady (and her choice of 'Pube Wool' is the very softest of the soft).

The end of the night is a bit hazy, but I have vague recollections of being let in free to a Gay Club (I have no idea what this says about me ... or the doorman ...) and leaping around with JAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAMS and co before disappearing next door to eat cake with poor, long suffering Neil. (He needed it: he'd sent me into a noodle bar in Soho to get him something to eat. I'd returned, proudly, with a large pot of noodles for him. Chicken noodles. Completely understandable, with him only having been a vegetarian for 20 years ... On the plus side, I had added some broccoli. I'd convinced myself that this would fulfil his vegetarian desires ...) We eventually took the night bus home and I collapsed into our five star suite, falling asleep gently stroking my knitted cunt ...

The Birthday Gods smiled kindly on me as Sunday's hangover was mercifully low key, and Neil and I returned to rescue my mum and wrangle two very overhyped children home. I then attempted to open some presents, which actually involved watching from a distance as Mr Jamie rampaged through the wrapping paper and Beth sat in all the boxes. Neil had surpassed himself, giving me a compact mirror for my handbag, a silver anklet, and a huge gorgeous wooden jewellery box. Mr Jamie took, entertainingly, full credit:

"Thank you very much for my presents Jamie."

"That's okay Mummy."

"Did you get them all by yourself?"

"Yes Mummy, I did. Beth helped a little bit. Daddy didn't help at ALL."

Poor Neil.

And then I closed off the weekend drinking champagne in bed, before collapsing in a heap and falling fast asleep well before 10pm, on the basis that now I'm 30 and therefore officially Old it's absolutely okay to do all of those things.

Awesome, awesome, awesome Birthday Weekend. And now a few days to recover, and then it's onto Birthday Weekend #2 ... Gird your livers. And your front bottoms.

Thursday, 13 October 2011

Tuesday, 11 October 2011

The Big Run

Otherwise entitled: What Happens When You Have Next To No Sense Of Direction And Go Out Running In The Dark ...

As I rambled on about the other day (maybe possibly ever so slightly just the tiniest little bit drunkenly) on here, I am currently fully immersing myself into the cult of Thinking Slimmer. For me, this has involved two things:

1) Listening to the oh so sultry tones of a man called Trevor every night. (Neil is deeply suspicious.)
2) Running.

I'm not sure where the latter bit has come from. I've been working out all year to the joys of the 30 Day Shred, and although running isn't particularly something Thinking Slimmer requires you to do, I was inspired into action by The Moiderer and her quite awesome recent running successes.

As previously chronicalled, I'd managed 5k, and so tonight I set out to try and do 6k.

Being close to 7pm when I left the house, it was quite dark. This is good. I far prefer running in the dark. My leggings have an uncanny knack of giving into gravity the moment I leave the safety of my own home, and I invariably spend my run either hoisting them up around my middle with all the grace of a wombat, or leaving them to their own devices and terrorising innocent passing members of the public by the sight of my leopard print thong bouncing into their face as a mad panting woman with spiraling arms goes careering past. That sort of thing will stay printed on your retinas for many years to come.

Given the fact that I knew it would be dark, I had previously carefully planned my run using one of the fancy arsed internet websites which lets you plot your route, distance, etc. "Look Neil!", I screeched as I accosted him, innocently quietly watching TV. "This one even lets you plot your ALTITUDE!"

"I didn't realise you were planning on climbing Ben Nevis", Neil might have muttered under his breath as he nodded tolerantly and tried to ignore the screeching leaping woman on his lap. Anyway, whatever. Who knew what I might encounter on my running route. If there were any thousand metre peaks coming up around the local area then I wanted to be pre-warned about them.

Route carefully plotted and mentally transferred into my head, leggings pulled up to their max, leopard print thong in place and music on LOUD, I set off. All was well. I fell in the road a couple of times, but that's par for the course with me, and the loud music meant I could interpret the clenched fists and open mouths of the passing drivers as cheers of support in my direction. The first 1k passed quickly. Then the second. Then the third. Halfway there already. Good times.

And then I found myself in a little part of my local area that I'd never been in before. It was clearly somewhere in the middle of the housing estate, but I'd been distracted by the 'Joseph Mega Mix' blasting into my ear, and genuinely had no idea how I'd got there. "No matter", I thought in my (very wobbly, what with all the running about) head. "It clearly cannot be far from my pre-planned (low altitude) route, and therefore I shall run on a little bit further, and I will find my whereabouts, and all will be well."

I ran on a little bit further.

And a little bit further.

And a little bit further.

"I HAVE LIVED HERE FOR EIGHT YEARS, HOW THE FUCK CAN I BE THIS LOST?" A passing cyclist swerved and nearly fell off his bike. I forget how loud my voice can be when wearing headphones blasting out LOUD songs from the shows.

Eight years or not, carefully planned route or not, I ended up somewhere where I had most definitely not planned in any way, shape or form to be. (And I still don't actually know where the hell it was, in relation to where I wanted to be.)

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I ended up running, not 6k ...

... but EIGHT K ... in very slightly under one hour.

And I didn't die, and I didn't flash my arse, and I didn't fall under a passing car, and I am smug like you would not BELIEVE.

The fact that I may never walk again is neither here nor there.

EIGHT KILOMETRES. In LESS THAN ONE HOUR. I am like a short, round, velocity challenged and largely breasted Paula Ratcliffe. (I did not poo on my run. But I did think about it. I fear pooing whilst running very mightily. Lord knows why.)

Finally, before I go and collapse in a heap and make little weeping sounds, just to reassure you, all is well on the Mr Jamie and Beth front. I realise it's been a bit all about me me me recently (about bloody time), but they're both mad and random as ever. Mr Jamie informed me solemnly this evening that he has given up hope on Beth turning into a boy.

"Mummy, you know, she is just not going to be a boy. I don't think she wants to be a boy at all. She is not even trying to grow a willy."

Monday, 10 October 2011

Twinkle Twinkle ...

No, it's not an enormous fuck up. Yes, it is edible glitter. And yes, that is pretty much an entire bag of icing sugar used on one, relatively small cake. The sugar high fall out (particularly given it's Birthday Week) doesn't bear thinking about. And that's just for me ...


Happy Birthday Beth

You are one today. ONE. How did that happen? One whole year since you trashed my front bottom and came into the world with a burning desire to eat absolutely everything in your vicinity, edible or otherwise. You can walk (sporadically), you can talk (provided the conversation isn't required to go beyond "Hiya", "Ma-ma" and "Up" - seems to get me out of most conversational challenges), and you can eat chocolate cake at a speed which puts even your big brother to shame. Oh, and your obsession with 'Twinkle Twinkle Little Star'? A little bit random, although your hysterical rocking, cheering and shrieking every time I sing it is still extremely gratifying. There's nothing like hitting the crowd-pleasers ...

You are completely mad and entirely marvellous. I adore you. Happy Birthday, you little round maniac.

From this:

To this ...

No, you absolutely shouldn't be doing that ... but who am I to stop you. Let the chaos ensue.

PS Yes, cake photo is absolutely to follow, don't panic ...

Sunday, 9 October 2011

Birthday Week Bingo

As just posted on Twitter, I am so excited about the fact it is Birthday Week Eve that I'm beyond the point even of being able to vomit on my own foot. It's a week of quite hysterical joy, which kicks off with Beth's birthday tomorrow (HOW is she one?), builds with a large amount of silliness and senseless drinking, and climaxes on Sunday with The Main Event (which I fully hope and expect to be far too hungover to actually realise what the hell is going on).

Given that blogging this week is likely to be almost entirely Birthday Week related, and therefore pretty damn dull unless you're me, I thought I'd liven it up for you by providing you with a game of Birthday Week Bingo. Should you read this blog, and/or follow me on Twitter (@pinkyaks), look out for all of the below occurring. Cross them off as you see them, and we'll have a big cry of 'HOUSE' for the first person to get a full set. And then you'll win a quite dazzling prize. Almost definitely.

Here you go then ... eyes down ... for Birthday Week Bingo:
  • I will mention vomiting on my own foot with excitement
  • I will give you a sneaky preview of The Birthday Outfit
  • I will be inappropriately naked (this probably applies to most weeks, birthday or otherwise)
  • I will Tweet drunk (see above)
  • I will complain in length about the extent of my hangover, before waxing lyrical about my senseless drinking plans for that night
  • I will use the phrase "eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee" to excess. (Being excited, rather than Northern.)
  • I will fall over in unsuitable shoes
  • I will get myself overtired and overexcited and be reduced to tears
  • I will be told off by Neil for being overtired/overexcited/in tears
  • Neil will lock himself in a darkened room to attempt to avoid at least part of Birthday Week
  • I will be reduced to incoherent gibbering at the thought of seeing Jaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaams
  • I will participate in an abridged version of our two person stage show, Hold The Cunt (NOT what you think ... at least I don't think it is) with Mr Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaton
  • I will tell Tim off for not achieving another 24 hours without alcohol, whilst simultaneously mainlining champagne
  • I will sing songs from the shows at high volume
  • I will wake up before my children with sheer excitement
  • I will grope the breasts of randoms
  • I will grope my own breasts
  • I will mention wild untamed yaks
  • I will proclaim at length my love and total adoration for (poor, long suffering) Neil
  • I will be sent to bed
Cannot. Bloody. Wait.

Saturday, 8 October 2011

Thinking Myself Into Less Of A Lard Arse: Latest Update

Huge apologies for the delay on giving you a Thinking Slimmer update.

Partly, I was lazy.

And partly, I was a little bit disillusioned, having eaten rather more lard than was good for me (which, naturally, went straight to my arse).

And then the marvellous Sandra (the Big Boss) gave me a good kick up the arse.

And this week ... (drum roll please) ...

I lost ...

THREE POUNDS.

Not only that ...

... I went out running. And I thought I'd see if I could run 5k. Which I'd last done back in 2006, and never thought I'd ever attempt ever ever EVER again. (I threw up on an old lady's foot on the finish line. We're both still a little bit scarred.)

I ran it in 36.5 minutes.

And it was EASY.

What's more ...

... this morning I ran it again.

And I did it in 34 MINUTES AND 54 SECONDS.

And I nearly threw up on that old lady's foot all over again. (She wasn't actually there, but wouldn't it have been awesome symmetry if she was.)

Thinking Slimmer: I bow down to you. We have a long, long way to go ... but cor blimey (thank you, Dick Van Dyke), we're doing a good job thus far.

I'm very conscious of the fact my most recent blog posts have been somewhat lacking in humour. (Apologies.) Given this, and the fact that BIRTHDAY WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK looms large (gird your loins), here's what is undoubtedly the most entertaining photo of the year. Taken by anyone. Fact. Enjoy.


(For those needing translation, this is Beth, creased up in hysteria at the sight of Mr Jamie's trousers falling down as he bounces on a trampoline. Goodness knows where she gets her sense of humour from ...)

Friday, 7 October 2011

Sentimental claptrap

I picked Mr Jamie up from nursery about 1pm yesterday. Just Mr Jamie - I decided it would be more fun for him if I left Beth there so we could do grown up Big Boy things together. (No matter how I write that, it still sounds sexually perverse. Absolutely not my intention.)

We went down to the beach and spent about half an hour lugging great big piles of seaweed from the beach into the woods, "For Gollum and Yoda to eat." I wasn't aware Gollum and Yoda hung out that much, but apparently they do. Particularly when it comes to seaweed eating.

Gollum and Yoda sated (still sounding sexually perverse), I asked Mr Jamie what he'd like to do next for his Day of Big Boy Birthday Fun. (Yep. I know.)

"We could go to the park ... or to the shops ... or go and see a movie? What would you like to do?"

"Where's Beth, Mummy?"

"She's at nursery sweetheart."

"Can we just go and get Beth please."

"Well. We can do. But are you sure you don't want to go to the park first?"

"No Mummy. I just want to get Beth."

"Are you sure? I thought we could go and do some Big Boy things for your birthday, without Beth being there."

"Can we go home and play with my new toys?"

"Of course we can. Come on then. Let's get in the car and go home."

"But first of all we need to get Beth. Please Mummy. I want us to get Beth."

And so we did (there went my peaceful afternoon), and happiness was restored, and my two small children sat in the back of the car and gurned in delight at each other as we drove home to spend an afternoon "fighting", "building", and "pooing in the bath". (Beth managed the last bit on her own, just in case it wasn't immediately obvious.)

I am concerned that approaching 30 may be turning me into a bit of a sap.

Thursday, 6 October 2011

Happy Birthday Mr Jamie

He's 4 today. FOUR. Four years since he trashed my front bottom and ensured I'd never have an uninterrupted hangover again.

Despite this morning's hangover of doom (that's mine, not Mr Jamie's ... despite his requests, he's not on the wine just yet), the day of celebrations has got off to a good start. By which I mean I sent him and his sister off to nursery while I collapsed in a heap and wept. I am shortly going to pick him up, and then we're going out to do Birthday Stuff. Which, in all probability, involves a trip to Tesco, but I think it's all about the branding. "Birthday Trip to Tesco!!!!!!!!!!!! Yeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaahh!!!!!!!!!!!"

Before I give you the Annual Birthday Montage ... it's time for the Annual Birthday Cake Viewing. This year, Mr Jamie was kind to me. After a brief moment where he panicked me into thinking I might be required to make a Spiderman cake, he eventually settled on a Stig cake. Which (even when monstrously hungover), even I can manage. Here you go. One (disembodied) Stig:



So then. Mr Jamie through the years ...

Newly born. (And a nice reminder for me that, although I may be 4 years older than when this picture was taken, I look about a million times better. Praise be for the gods of make up.)



Aged 1. Looking demented.



Aged 2. Looking even more demented.


Aged 3. It's not getting any better.


And this morning, aged 4. Almost starting to look like a normal person ... and giving some sense of hope that he might one day even grow a full head of hair.



Love you beautiful boy. And now it's time for some quiet time. Mum needs drugs ...

Sunday, 2 October 2011

Twitter: An Idiot's Guide

With that idiot very much being me ...

I first wrote a blog post about Twitter a couple of years ago. I'm not going to link to it: it was shite. At the time I was extremely cynical about Twitter's place within the world. I mocked it somewhat cynically, and vowed never to go near it again.

As ever, I was proved to be wrong. And am now, being something of a self styled Twitter addict, being very much forced to eat my words (all 140 characters of them).

Given this, and the fact my mind is seriously lacking in blog inspiration at the moment (Mr Jamie deciding that the curtain tie backs at my mum's must be called 'hookers', whilst entertaining, does not a blog post in itself make), I decided that for all you Twitter idiots novices out there I would write you a blog post telling you what I have learnt. And then use it to take over the world. Or something like that.

So then. Twitter: An Idiot's Guide.
  • Twitter is a website. Found at http://www.twitter.com/. If you don't know what a website is ... well, The Internet: An Idiot's Guide (By Kathryn) will follow shortly. Probably.
  • You can join said website and give yourself a highly entertaining and incredibly original user name. If you're bright and reasonably sensible, your user name will give your 'followers' (more on which in a moment) a useful clue as to who you are. Maybe it's your real name, or the name of your blog. If you're me, you pick two random words which you quite like the sound of and just string them into one completely made up word which makes no sense to anyone apart from you at all.
  • Once you're set up with your crazy arsed user name on Twitter, the idea is that you 'follow' people, which means signing up to listening to every last thought which comes out of their brain. (Think before you click, is my very sage advice.) On the flip side, people can also 'follow' you, which means they sign up to listening to every last thought which comes out of your brain. On this basis, the fact I have over 400 followers is nothing short of astounding. Important note: they might be your followers, but you can't actually force them to go out and do stuff for you in the same way that you might be able to if you had a real cult. This was a hard lesson to learn.
  • The (140 character limited, except with the advent of TweetDeck et al the 140 character limitation is just a myth, but that might be a bit much for you on a first lesson) little bits of rambling that you write down for your 'followers' to read is called a 'tweet'. If that already sounds a little bit tweely irritating, then welcome to the world of hideous Twitter-isms. My personal pet hate is anyone who refers to others on Twitter as 'Tweeple'. That's an immediate un-follow right there. Speaking of which ...
  • When the ramblings of other people get too much ... you just un-follow them. And they are no longer in your brain. Some people have insecurity issues and sign up to various websites which tell you who has unfollowed you. And then harp on about it for weeks. These kind of people probably shouldn't be allowed on Twitter.
  • Also on the subject of following, there seem to be a number of Twitter users who live in their own little deluded worlds where they believe they can attempt to enforce the actions of others. My absolute favourite example is those who throw a (very public) Twitter strop (a Twop?) over the fact people they have decided to follow AREN'T FOLLOWING THEM. I know, right? Out-fucking-rageous. Unfortunately - and this is a lesson you probably should have learnt back in the playground - you can't make people like you. And if they're not following you of their own free will ... well, maybe try to be slightly more interesting, instead of making veiled threats.
  • Twitter is the perfect online analogy for the school playground. Factions form, certain topics (what people 'should' be blogging about, anyone?) are guaranteed to create mass conflict debate, and not 24 hours goes by without someone throwing all of their toys out of the pram and announcing to their hundreds of followers that they are leaving Twitter, like, FOR EVER. Alas, within a couple of days you can almost guarantee they'll be back, sheepishly announcing their return, because they've 'decided to give you all another chance'. Thank GOD.
  • If you want to see your Twitter followers drop like a stone, try intoning 'Cunt' on repeat. Follow it up with how much you hate Daily Mail readers, and how you think David Cameron and George Osborne should be sent into space on a rocket launcher. Soon sorts the men from the boys ...
  • If you choose to tweet drunk (ahem), you will think you are fucking HILARIOUS. Take it from me (and my very bitter experience). You won't be.
So what are you waiting for? Off you go and give it a try. To get you started, these are the 'Tweeple' (oh c'mon - I couldn't resist) without whom, for me, Twitter would be a very, very dull place.

@porridgebrain - the person who is responsible for me getting into this whole Twitter malarky in the first place, and my very awesome Real Life Friend.

@cosmicgirlie - my kindred spirit when it comes to drunk tweeting, swearing, and talking about tits.

@notefromlapland - see above.

@nickie72 - because she has the best Twitter picture (Twicture? I'm kidding, I'm kidding!) by a mile.

@stupidgirl45 - she is the kind of genuinely interesting person that I really want to be, but have to get drunk and shout a lot to pretend to myself that I am ...

@moooooog35 (watch those oooo's!) - in my humble opinion, the single funniest (and undoubtedly most inappropriate) person tweeting out there. If you haven't yet stumbled across his blog (in the blogroll on the right): prepare to piss your pants.

And last but not least, @pinkyaks, cos that's me, innit! And if you like your Twitter 'followerees' to be drunk, disorderly, and totally lacking in decorum - well, prepare to be AMAZED.

Saturday, 1 October 2011

I've been to another children's party today

And then I tried to read Dr Seuss to Mr Jamie after a G&T. I'm not sure which of us was more confused.

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