Wednesday, 29 February 2012


Despite my blogging being even more sporadic than usual, due to my frantic organising of work related events, which will finally culminate on Friday ... I couldn't possibly make you wait for this one.

Breakfast time. Mr Jamie, Beth and I are in the lounge. They are calmly sat at the table eating their toast while I frantically race to put on my make up and get us out of the house in time for 7.30am.

I thought it would be prudent to remind Mr Jamie he was spending Friday at his nan and grandad's house whilst aforementioned work event takes place. I also - ever the sensible parent - thought it would be a good idea to remind him of what he needed to do if there was an emergency. He's well versed in this, having spent a long time 'training' on it last year. Which is why I was slightly startled by the turn the conversation took ...

"So, if there's an emergency Jamie, what do you do?"

"Get the phone."

"And what number do you ring?"

"Nine ... nine ... nine."

"Excellent. Then the person on the other end will probably say 'Hello, operator', and what do you say?"

"Hello Operator."

"And then what?"

"Ummm ... ummm ... there's an EMERGENCY!"

"Excellent. You might need to tell them what sort of an emergency it is."

"It's an emergency because Nana and Grandad WON'T GET UP. And they're not just having a little sleep."

"Good. Good. Ever the voice of doom. They might ask you what your name is."

"Jamie *******."

"Lovely. And how old are you Jamie?"

"I'm four."

"Very good. And now tell me again, what's the matter?"

"I .............. I got the boobies! I got the boobies! I got the big fat boobies and I WIGGLE my boobies, I WIGGLE my boobies, I wiggle and wiggle and WIGGLE my boobies!"

Oh god.

Friday, 24 February 2012

Spam Comment Of The Year

I'm struggling to imagine how anything's going to beat this, but if you think you've got a contender then post them in the comments section below.

Thank you, 'Anon':

"younger girl was now completely naked and her huge tits jiggled a bit, twisted to her, his cock. "Yes, sir. That's right." will let Bob use it, didn't I? I want some photos of us doing wild, groovy "Place the wrist bonds over this hook." The Prince pointed to a golden peg on the back of the chair and Zacora knew that her arms would be stretched to the limit and her breasts lifted painfully once she was captured on the throne. unerring aim, drove his ten-inch, bloodengorged prick all the way up With those first few impaling fucks, Tammy's passion began to grow to a full length of his prick and packing down in his cockhead before slightly and ripped his shirt open, then eased down, brushing him with was able to hold the whole load in her mouth before swallowing it. cock. Her tiny little cunt felt raw, numb and tingly, experiencing an"

Experiencing a WHAT, dammit?! Don't leave us hanging like that!
Best bit of all is that this is apparently an advert for a casino. Wow. That's some casino ...

Wednesday, 22 February 2012

Oh What A Night

And not in a good, 70s-tastic dancing around in glittery flares type way. (Get me with my uncanny abilities to conjour up such a historically accurate image of the 70s there. I wasn't even BORN people. I know. I know. Enough already with the smug age related gags. You have a grey pube. Yeah yeah yeah.)

And onwards ...

What. A. Night. It started off gloriously. I went to see the marvellous play The Seafarer, directed by Alice, of Fake Aunts fame. T'was very good, and made even better by the brilliant antics of Zoe - Alice's sister - sitting next to me. It wasn't entertaining enough that Zoe's phone started vibrating half way through the first act. It wasn't enough that this startled her so much that she dropped it on the floor with a large 'clang'. No, the best bit was the fact that, upon picking it up, we discovered that it was vibrating in order to remind her that she was currently meant to be watching The Seafarer. Baaaahahahaha. Brilliant. Zoe, we love you.

Regrettably, it went rapidly downhill, and I left the theatre a mere 5 minutes into the second half after receiving a text from Neil telling me that Beth was 'very poorly'. Running to my car, I wished not for the first time that he shared my propensity for exaggeration.

Sadly this isn't the case, and consequently I returned home to find my entire house full of vomit. Beth remained stoically cheerful in the face of adversity, but went on to vomit EVERY HALF AN HOUR throughout the night, usually over me. Not even sticking my bottle of Jean Paul Gaultier inside my nostrils has got rid of the smell of sick. Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaagh.

Almost 24 hours later, and I have spent the day living the dream of every Modern Mother: typing emails with your left hand while the right one mops yet more vomit as it drains your sad, poorly - and, somewhat randomly, handcuffed (done entirely of her volition, and they're Mr Jamie's, not mine. Although I'm not sure this makes it better) - daughter dry.

Poor, sad, evil smelling Beth. And poor, sad, evil smelling me. Vibes of good health would be greatly appreciated ...

Monday, 13 February 2012

Poor, neglected blog

My poor blog. I am so sorry for my utter shiteness. What's worse, I have actually had entertaining things to be writing down. First time for everything ...

I have no real excuse for my lack of correspondence other than general MANICNESS (of life, as opposed to just the inside of my head, although that is as always also a factor). There have been a good few highlights of the last few days though ... all of which can, as ever, be credited to one Mr Jamie ...

Walking through John Lewis, full of shiny surfaces and twinkly lights:

"Oh Mummy. Look at this lovely shiny shop. I wish we could make our house this clean and shiny." And he sighed wearily and marched off to look at the 'shiny things'.

Just in case I hadn't taken that as enough of a slight on my cleaning abilities, it was followed up by this comment to my mum (queen of clean) when we stayed at hers this weekend:

"Grannie, you are very good at keeping your house clean and tidy, aren't you?" Followed by a despairing look in my direction.

There was rather a lot of snow at my mum's house, and I suggested to Mr Jamie that he might like to go outside and play in it. He looked at me incredulously.

"Do I want to go outside? Mummy, it's FREEZING out there."

Like, duuuuuuurrrrr.

My personal favourite conversational snippet of the weekend comes however not, as one might expect, from Mr Jamie, but from Neil. It came on Saturday morning, as daylight was just beginning to creep into the room and small children were beginning to stir. Sound asleep, I was roused into immediate wakefulness by the following command from my husband:

"JAMIE. We only play with our OWN willies."

Baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahahahahaha. Judging by the shock in Neil's voice, it appeared that my wake up call had been nothing compared to the one he'd received ...

And now I'm off to be manic. Again. Be good, people.

Wednesday, 8 February 2012

Edited highlights

I honestly do not know where the time is going at the moment. One moment I am sitting there on the sofa on a Sunday night, head buried ear deep in a glass of wine ... the next moment I am sitting there again on the sofa on a Sunday night, head buried ear deep in a glass of wine. (One might also say there was a theme ... not to mention the possible cause/effect of said glass of wine ...)

Some recent edited highlights for you:
  • Receiving a phone call at 8am on Sunday morning (pre glass of wine) from my lovely friend Hayley. I was a little startled to receive a phone call from her: reason being, she was currently in situ in my spare room. Upon answering I quickly discovered that she really was in situ, and, in fact, had no means of becoming out of situ any time soon. The catch on her door had jammed shut (your honour), and consequently she was stuck in there as tightly as a stuck tight thing. I was all up for breaking the door down (any excuse) but Neil sensibly stepped in and removed the door handle with a screwdriver before turning the catch inside the door. Which promptly broke off and disintegrated into little pieces. Oops. I got bored at this point and went downstairs for toast (sorry Hayley) and by the time I'd returned Hayley was mercifully freed and was straight into the bathroom for The Longest Wee Ever. What can I say? We like to keep our guests close to us ... don't let that put you off ...
  • Dealing with my daughter's 'sit ins' at nursery. Yes, Beth for some reason has decided that she prefers nursery to home, which on the last couple of nights has meant me carrying out my best 'peace-keeping' negotiations with her in order to remove her from her iron clad grip on the nursery carpet as she screeched and flailed her little fists about. I'm not sure what's more mortifying: the rage she demonstrates, or the fact that she'd so clearly rather not be going home with her mother.
  • Protecting Mr Jamie from The Stomach Of Beth. She is turning into little more than an (occasionally angry) stomach on legs. Upon finishing her food (in about 30 seconds flat) she will then walk over to stand over Mr Jamie in a menacing manner as he eats his, hitting him repeatedly around the head until he capitulates and gives her some of his leftovers. She will then smirk smugly and quietly stand there chewing before the mouthful ends and the whole routine starts again. Last night, attempting to protect Mr Jamie (and his cheesecake), I decided I would sit him up on the kitchen side to eat it. Beth, alas, caught sight of this manouevre and immediately started hurling herself against the cabinets in a wild rage, being somewhat deprived of any cheesecake action.
The thought of what the future might hold when it comes to Beth's personality is terrifying. Neil made the most ominous comment of all last night as she sat growling at her food and hitting Mr Jamie around the head:

"It's interesting, isn't it. She's so like you ..."

Oh god.

Friday, 3 February 2012


So, it's not bad enough that, in attempting to carry out the simple manouevre of turning on the heater in Mr Jamie's room, I do the following:

Bend down to reach the switch. Realise it is slightly too far behind the door for me to be able to reach it. Fail to do what any sensible human being would do and simply push the door closed in order to obtain easy access to said switch. Decide instead to attempt to contort myself and snake my left arm behind the door whilst balancing on my left foot. Reach. Stretch. Reach a bit further ...

Lose my balance, begin a rapid descent to ground level. With my left arm completely out of action, decide to attempt to use my right arm to somehow pull myself upwards. (Given there was nothing to grab onto, I would have had to succeed in pulling myself up onto thin air, but nothing ventured, nothing gained.) Twist right arm backwards as it knocks onto the wall mounted heater, causing me a quite exquisite amount of pain.

Meanwhile, my left knee is still heading for the ground. Despite the fact there is a relatively clear patch below it it chooses instead to veer to the right and land directly onto the spire of Mr Jamie's castle (which somehow survives miraculously unscathed). Knee collapses over to one side, poor twisted body and bashed up arm come crashing down behind it. One very bruised and unhappy me is left in a heap on the floor, watched in disdain by my two small children.

No, all of that is not bad enough. The real icing on the case is then opening my eyes in a grimace of pain to see Mr Jamie standing over me, his face creased in disapproval.

"Mummy. I told you you should come and TIDY my room. Now look at all the mess you've made of it. You'd better sort that out, or Daddy will NOT be happy."

Nothing like a bit of sympathy. Ouch.


Related Posts Plugin for WordPress, Blogger...

About Me

My photo
They said it was impossible to be this self obsessed. They lied ...

FEEDJIT Live Traffic Feed