Scrummy Mamma

Read Me

2008-10-13T13:23:00.000-07:00

When I got my wireless router pack from Talk Talk with the letter claiming "getting started is a breeze", I knew from my previous dealings with Talk Talk that it was very likely going to be a bit more than a breeze. Perhaps "getting started is anything from a strong gust of wind to a full blown hurricane" would have been more appropriate.

They also claim "1, 2, 3, 4. That's how easy it is". Again, a more honest expectation would be "x*x + 2x - 35 = 0. That's how easy it is."

At the top of the welcoming letter, big funky green letters spell out "Read me". I assume this instruction is aimed at the majority of people wanting to use this waste of paper to wipe their arse with.

So when it doesn't go to plan, and I call the helpline and get put on hold during which time I have managed to help Ky have a poo, spoken to a neighbour across the road, cut Ky's toenails, picked up the toenails using a fun counting song, replaced some batteries and broken a fridge magnet, I get to hear a distant voice announcing "I'm a retard."
"Sorry?"
"I'm a retard."
Pause.
Nervous cough. Mine.
"You are a retard?"
"No, I AM RICHARD" says the heavily Indian accented voice.

Ok, we got off to a bad start. I think you think you are a retard, and you are already lying to me because you are not Richard are you. You might be Vishnumurti, Sandeep or Prakash, but you are not Richard.

What followed, was an excruciating conversation which took an hour of my life which I will never get back that went round and round in about seventy circles and ended up with my apparently having to purchase something extra for £15 in order to make this "a breeze".

Anyway, to make reading this rant worthwhile for some of you, a good tip when dealing with Talk Talk is they respond rather well to sulking. "Forget it. Just cancel the whole thing. I don't want it anymore. " That kind of thing. Then all of a sudden you will get to speak to a voice that does not think it's a retard and will let you off being conned out of £15.

Vermin

2008-09-21T12:25:00.000-07:00

I took Ky to see a show called "Don't Let The Pigeon Stay Up Late" today. I've taken Ky to quite a lot of shows and some of them have been really enjoyable even for me, a grown up. Many times I have been transported back into childhood as the magical atmosphere captures my imagination. Unfortunately "Don't Let The Pigeon Stay Up Late" wasn't one of those shows.

Two bits of advice if you are going to see this show;

1. Don't sit in the front row. The bloke who dresses up as the pigeon has trouble containing his saliva.

2. Don't go if you are a devout vegetarian, as I am. There is an unusually heavy emphasis on hot dogs. It doesn't even have any relevance to any kind of plot. They just sing about hot dogs, go on about having hot dog parties and how generally great hot dogs are.

Another good reason for not being a vegetarian sitting in the front row, is that you will be sitting there thinking to yourself "Are they just going to go on and on about hot dogs?" when all of a sudden the pigeon will single you out and start talking to you as part of the show, just when you least expect it.

Now, I have actually performed on that very same stage this pigeon was glorifying hot dogs, so I'm not particularly shy, but being asked "So what did you have for breakfast?" out of the blue, by a giant pigeon was uncomfortable for me. "Toast." I answered. But he couldn't just leave it at that could he. It wasn't enough. It wasn't enough that the entire audience now had an insight into my private eating habits. He wanted more. I was being interrogated by a fucking pigeon and he meant business. "And what did you do after eating breakfast?" Fuck. Where was this going? What next, a strip search? A million thoughts went through my head. First, I had the awful Tourettes syndrome of wanting to say something completely inappropriate like "I had a shit." Or "I killed a pigeon". "I shagged the neighbour." No I can't say any of those things. Be appropriate. What would be the appropriate response to a giant blue pigeon wanting to know about your after breakfast activities? I went blank. Fuck off pigeon. Why am I feeling so intimidated? Please, someone just shoot him. Or just shoo him. Come on, say something. The audience want to know what you did after breakfast. It's not a difficult question. What do you think a pigeon would want you to say? I racked my brains for anything pigeon related. All I could remember was the time a pigeon shat on my new school shoes and I hated him even more. Thankfully (after what seemed like an eternity) other members of the audience began to call out things, I can't remember what, I was too busy feeling relieved.

This evening, when we were eating our dinner in the garden, the fattest pigeon I have ever seen came and sat on our fence and stared at me menacingly. Finally, he flew away, not before shitting on my fence (much to Ky's amusement). Coincidence? I think not. The pigeons have it in for me.

Anti Weather

2008-09-03T12:57:00.000-07:00

There are some things in life that we hate. Some people hate blue cheese. Some people hate origami. Some people hate moustaches. I hate weather.

I hate feeling too cold; I spend much of the Winter months wondering why no-one else looks as cold as I feel. I hate feeling too hot; it makes me panic. I hate rain; it makes my hair go frizzy. If it's sunny I really absolutely most definitely need sunglasses. In fact if it's a cloudless day I need sunglasses, I hate squinting, even only slightly. I detest wearing unsuitable footwear. If I'm wearing canvas pumps in the rain so my toes get wet, or flip flops when it's too cold or wellies when it's too warm....I'm breaking out in a sweat just thinking about it. And I hate sweating.

There are lots of reasons to hate rain. One of them, is that if I return home in the evening after dark, my front path is littered with a collection of about thirty snails and slugs. My house is in between lamp posts, so in order to see in the dark I hold up my mobile in one hand, trying to steer the pram with the other hand along the slime infested pathway. Of all the things in the world to squash, a slug is probably one of the worst. And only the crunch of a snail shell under your feet can top it. What can make this whole saga even more daunting, is when your toddler points to every snail and slug asking you to name them. So there I am tiptoeing, carefully steering and tipping the pram, hoping the battery on my phone isn't about to run out, all the while muttering "erm..Brian, that one's Lucinda. Gonzalez...errr...errr...shit...sorry Ky I thought we squashed one there - um, Rambo."

One of my worst and best weather experiences was when I went on a survival camping weekend in Wales. Which basically meant camping without any equipment. This experience was one of many that I used to sell as part of my job at the time. It was really stormy that October weekend. It was one of those weekends when they say it was the windiest weekend since 1940 or whatever. We had a hard enough job driving to the meeting point as we were being constantly diverted due to collapsing trees or shaky bridges. Surely a bad sign. One of the attendees was a journalist writing for 'One Wales' magazine. She explains it better:

"As we lay in profound darkness the whistle turned into a roar as the storm crashed through the trees. With gusts of wind up to 100mph it was one of the worst storms to hit the country in years - and I was under a holed tarpaulin on the top of a Welsh mountain. From the shadowy lumps of bodies in sleeping bags beside me came the occasional groan as rain blasted it's way through the roof. The laugh was that we had paid to be there."

I even get a mention as well as numerous picture shots of me looking dazed and windswept:

"As we sit waiting for everyone to arrive so that we can start our adventure, the gaggle of would-be survivors arrive from London. Sharada is wearing a leopardskin skirt and high heeled boots. An inane grin spreads across my face."

I was there with a few colleagues, and we were city dwellers, clueless, and we couldn't stop giving ourselves away. Just the odd comments, or the confused looks we gave when being told things like "Make your own tent with this old bit of tarpaulin and rope" or "I'm afraid you are not allowed to bring any of those toilet rolls with you." When we set off, in the pitch black, the guide told us we had to rely on our night vision. One of my colleagues, the receptionist, was seriously under the impression that he was going to hand out night vision goggles, to help us see in the dark. There is a great photo of me in the article holding a bit of rope and looking at it as if to say "What the fuck?"

It was a brilliant adventure. But after the first night of sleeping in our pitiful excuse of a tent, which got flooded several times throughout the night and collapsed on us, I realised the only way to get through the second night was by getting drunk enough to pass out.

We did come back feeling like fucking heroes. We changed that weekend; we were survivors now and that stony look in our eyes told you so.

It didn't last long. In fact on the way in to work the following Monday, it was raining and I accidentally stepped in a puddle. And I hate puddles.

Bad Hair Days

2008-08-21T14:56:00.000-07:00

I believe in karma. I believe in reincarnation.

Which leads me to wonder, every now and again, what terrible crime I must have committed against hairdressers in my past life to be consistently punished by them in this life? Yes, you've guessed it, I've had a fringe trim. That's all, I hear you say? Well, if you have a fringe, you'll know, fellow fringers, that really, it's the most important part of your hair. The fringe can make the rest of the hairstyle, it frames the most important feature you have; your face. It can say "I have a nice face" or it can say "I've just had the worst fucking fringe cut ever. Stop looking at my face you wanker." It's the kind of fringe that you should only ever be wearing in dodgy school photos.

So what did I do? Maybe I were a bald king, who out of spite, banished all hairdressers into exile? How many more bad haircuts do I need to have to make up for this sin?

I remember my first hair disaster. As a youngster, I would make a habit of chewing gum, doing a handstand, and then getting gum stuck in my hair. It's the kind of thing that you should really learn not to do after the 1st, 2nd or even 3rd time. But my mum was forever chopping bits of chewing gum out of my hair and one day she decided enough was enough. She bribed me to have my hair cut short. The bribe was £10. Yes. £10. Imagine how much money that was in the early 1980's. When I walked into the Chatham shopping precint with that tenner, I was buzzing. I was RICH. I remember buying a Bucks Fizz record, a poster, about eight comics and what seemed like a lifetimes supply of sweets. And still I had change! And the little boy appearing in all the old family photos? Yep, that's me, with my ultra short, one step away from being shaved, chewing gum free haircut.

After this, I eventually grew my hair to an impressive waist length. However, this didn't last for long as my mum, whilst blow drying my hair, got the brush tangled into my hair and had to cut it out. She then went about cutting the rest of it to try and even it out, giving me the most unique hairstyle I've ever seen. She cunningly did this all the while complimenting me on this wonderful hairstyle which was apparently the height of fashion. Unfortunately, my sister, who had sat watching, was so taken in by my mums compliments that she insisted on having the same haircut, which my mother was obliged to fulfil so as not to alarm me to the hair disastrous truth of the matter.

Another childhood haircut disaster occurred when my mother finally gave in and let me have a perm, when I was about eight years old. Now, what I wanted, what I expected, what I dreamed of, was beautiful sleek ringlets. So when the end result looked as though a couple of unkempt poodles had died on my head, I was mortified.

My mum had left me at the hairdressers so I sat waiting for her to pick me up, managing to hold back my tears, sitting there completely stiff and rigid on the edge of my chair. When my mother came to pick me up, and failed to recognise me, walking straight past, asking the hairdresser where I was, who had to point in my direction, my mum squinted at me and exclaimed "Is that you?!" and I really wanted to die. All I could think about was how I was going to face school on Monday.

I got in the car and sobbed loudly and dramatically, holding my head down to hide from the cruel stares of the public. My mum stopped off at a shop and bought several packs of hairclips, then we went to my aunties house where I would now have to face my two cousins. Now, we all know how cruel children can be. I was all psyched up for the ordeal but when I walked into the room, my two cousins, instead of laughing, pointing, teasing, etc. simply froze in their tracks, and gasped. I remember that gasp, as clear as daylight, even now, and the look of horror on their faces. This hair was so bad, it was even beyond teasing. But somehow, with a bit of skill and about twenty hair clips, my mum managed to make it look just bad enough so that my cousins were brought out of their shock and were able to bring themselves to take the piss out of me. As for school, I remember insisting that I did not have a perm, my hair was always naturally curly.

And that's not the only time my mum has offered me a hair bribe. When I was about 17, I decided to stop washing my hair. Then every day at college, I would sit in the canteen with my friends twisting and backcombing my hair into dreadlocks. After a year or so, my mum could stand no more and offered me £100 to get my hair back to normal; this time I refused the bribe. Bribing a child is one thing, and normally successful, but an anarchist teenage who was having a major strop with the world? What an insult.

However, a few months later, having proved my point, I decided myself that I would go back to having normal hair. My mum took me to her friends hairdressing salon where it took the hairdresser, my mum and my aunt plus a whole bottle of olive oil and an excruciating couple of hours of them all picking at my hair, to untangle my mixed up teenage head.

Well, it seems that some of us are destined for bad hair days. As they say, it's only hair, it grows back. Ready for the next hair disaster...

Thou Shalt Not Steal

2008-08-15T13:15:00.000-07:00

I realised today that it wasn't normal to feel okay about stealing in any way.

Don't get me wrong; I don't make a habit of it. But I do love a freebie. Freebies, goody bags and prizes are what keeps me going in life. So, if I do happen to help myself to a packet of Malteezers whilst doing my shopping in Sainsburys, I don't think it's a bad thing, in fact I think we are all winners here; I get some light relief from what is almost always a tiresome chore - especially if Ky is running up and down the aisles, knocking old people over, picking up random inappropriate items along each aisle and begging me to buy them. And Sainsburys, gets to thank me for my regular and valued custom - and they don't have to get all bogged down with paperwork - I've saved them the trouble; they've rewarded me with no trouble on their part. So I've never really thought of this as stealing.

Surprising really. Guilt is one of my favourite emotions. I believe in karma. I hate lying. With just these three characteristics you would never have thought I could have so much fun stealing. Oh lets stop using that word. Stealing! It's so harsh and judgemental. I prefer 'rewarding'.

Sometimes it's necessary to take matters into your own hands. Sainsburys don't have the time or willingness to make me feel like a valued customer. Only yesterday I had to be my own Sainsburys customer service agent. I bought a packet of Tofu, only to come home and discover the sealed packaging had a hole in it and the rest of my shopping was covered in Tofu juice. So, I brought it back to get it exchanged.

I should point out here, the immense gulf of difference between Waitrose and Sainsburys. When you are in Waitrose and you need some help, you only have to raise an eyebrow and someone will immediately rush to your rescue. If say, you can't find an item, a telepathically trained member of staff will appear as if by magic, and will always go the extra mile, to the point where you think they might even offer to pay for it. In Sainsburys, if you are lucky enough to find anyone around to help, you will wonder, by the confused or blank look on their faces when you speak to them, if you have actually made a mistake and you are talking to someone who just likes to wear a Sainsburys uniform and not to someone who has even heard of Sainsburys.

So, when I made my way to the Customer Services desk and found it empty, I waited in line to speak to one of the cashiers about my tofu problem. She said she was unable to perform exchanges and redirected me to the Customers desk. "But there's no-one there" I told her. "Maybe there is now" she offered. "But what if there's still no-one there?" Her head looked as though it was about to explode from this riddle. "Um..then come back to me." I couldn't even bothered to ask her how she would suddenly be bestowed with the ability to exchange a packet of tofu. I went back to the Customer Services desk which now had tumbleweed floating past. So, I thought, I'll just do it myself. Another favour to Sainsburys. Let me save them the trouble, let's cut out the middle man, I'll just put this soggy pack of tofu back on the shelf and pick up this lovely new packet of tofu and walk out. As I was walking out, the cashier I had spoken to was stocking shelves near the exit and eyed me with the tofu in my hand. She glared at me. Her face was saying "I know what you've just done. You're walking out with that packet of tofu without permission." I glared back. My face was saying "I dare you to actually go and find someone who can give a shit enough to come and sort it out then."

So, stealing is not black and white. Personally, I don't think the above experience should be filed anywhere near my other stealing stories, but I did think again when I went on to a parents forum the same night and realised how morally anal some people are. A mother had posted her dilemma. Out shopping with three kids, one of them picks up a dvd, she doesn't realise until she's got them all strapped up in the car. She's asking if it was wrong of her to not have to get all three kids back out of the car and go back in the supermarket to pay for it. There was some mums like me who were like, who cares, keep it, and even yippee, but also some replies like this:

"There really is no excuse. You saw your error, you had the opportunity to correct it. You chose to keep it. That is stealing".

"You could have called the store when you got home and asked them to debit your card, but no you would rather come on here and seek dubious approval for your thieving".

Heavy! It did make me think about how laid back I am about this rewarding yourself business. I don't consider myself a thief because I would never steal a penny off any person, or even small shop/business. But something about supermarkets...but before I start feeling too guilty, let me think of all the rich fat bastards that run Sainsburys and almost certainly write off holidays, designer suits and Jacuzzis as work expenses. Yep, I feel better about the malteezers already.

Theme Of The Week

2008-08-05T15:28:00.000-07:00

That is it! That is fucking it.

You know how when you buy a car/pram/get pregnant/cut your hair, then you suddenly notice that everyone around you has the same car/pram/is up the duff/has longer hair than you, well it's all about building themes in your head. Ky, for example, has the theme of traffic in his head, thanks to The Traffic Club, so that even less than obvious traffic related sights (my red tracksuit bottoms = red = Rhonda red = Rhonda Red says Stop! when you see a car), will lead him to conclude "It's all about traffic."

Well my theme is not all about traffic. My theme is, how comes, everyone else has men falling for them except for me? Now, don't get me wrong. I most certainly want to be single. But it would be nice to have the choice. You know, turn a few men down. A few recent examples follow...

My sister; buggering off to spend 6 months abroad to be with her bloke after being single for about five minutes
My cousin; she hasn't EVEN managed to get the ex to move out yet and already found the next victim
My friend; recently single with three kids and I can't even manage a short conversation with her without her mobile going off every minute with dirty texts from various blokes
My friend's friend; has four kids, having an affair with her lodger, so that's two on the go
My aunt; In her sixties, with bloke, in his forties

And the last straw was when I bumped into Miss "Blokes keep asking me out but I'm just not interested at the moment", who has a daughter from her relationship to her ex, my cousin. I did hear through the grapevine that she had started seeing her best mate's son who is considerably younger than her, but this afternoon, there she was strolling down the road with him pushing the pram, and he is BLOODY GORGEOUS!!! Why not me? Why didn't he want to push my pram? Why didn't he ask me out so that I could turn him down?

Ok, I'm over it now. Let's change the theme. How comes everyone else has started dyeing their hair red since I did? And achieved a better result? For fucks sake...

The Rudeness Of Wankers

2008-07-12T12:11:00.000-07:00

Had an encounter with a wanker this morning.

I saw the train pull in at the tube station so as I ran past the ticket window I called out "Can you open the gates please!" as getting the pram through the normal ticket gates can be a bit tricky especially if you are as spatially challenged as I am. Why do you think I don't drive a car.

I will add, that this request was delivered cheerfully and did not warrant the wanker behind the counter shouting "Yes! Yes! Yes! It's OPEN! The gate is OPEN!" So I went to the gate where prams are normally let through and returned to the counter to tell him, very politely, the gates were not open. More shouting. In fact, in case I don't mention it again, can I say that every time this wanker spoke to me, he was shouting. "THE GATE AT THE BACK! IT'S OPEN! OPEN I TELL YOU!" I told him, very calmly, there was no need to shout at me. Then he seemed a bit confused as he shouted "YOU STOP SHOUTING!" So I tells him "I'm not shouting sir, you are shouting. Please calm down."

Now I will add, at this point, never do I normally address anyone as sir, but in my head I already knew I would be making a complaint about this so I thought I'd throw 'sir' in to illustrate how polite and humble I am.

So, continuing to get confused he goes "YOU CALM DOWN! I'M NOT SHOUTING." Then realising he really was shouting he added "I'M SHOUTING SO THAT YOU CAN HEAR ME." Now that's a bit pathetic. Because he was not sitting a mile away behind a concrete wall, he was behind a glass pane with a microphone and I have managed several conversations in this way with no shouting at all. "You have an unpleasant tone" I told him to which he shouted a bit more then stormed off.

I waited a few minutes for the train, got steamed up and went back to the counter and called for him. He eventually came back after trying to ignore me and I asked him for his name. More shouting and confusion. "YES! YES! YOU CAN HAVE MY NAME! WHY YOU WANT MY NAME! YOU CAN'T HAVE MY NAME!" He then shut the blind despite the fact there was a customer waiting to be served behind me, looking flabbergasted. I turned round to tell her the full story, at which point a couple of builders knocked on the wankers door, and upon overhearing my story one of them raised his eyebrow in sympathy, and as the wanker let the workers in I muttered "Someone round here isn't getting enough sex". I didn't say it loud enough for the wanker to hear, I hope, as I wouldn't want it to come up during the investigation. I only said it to make the builders laugh. They did snigger a bit.

After years of letting the wankers get away with, I recently decided that no more Mr nice guy, I am going to complain. So I just have. I managed to email my complaint in precise detail, because I actually went to the trouble of jotting notes immediately after the experience. I was going to record my encounter on my mobile, dictaphone style but even I thought I was now getting a bit carried away.

Which reminds me. How comes I have had no reply to my complaint letter which I submitted about two months ago to the Thomas and Friends merchandisers for the crappy light gadget I bought at the show which fell apart after a slight knock and the helium balloon which only lasted three days as opposed to several weeks? Time to complain again.

Empowering stuff this is. Don't let the wankers get away with it. We deserve more. COMPLAIN.

The Sting Of Disappointment

2008-07-11T13:55:00.001-07:00

If there's one thing that annoys the crap out of me, it's adverts for festivals exaggerating the days events so that mugs like me can travel across London expecting something mind blowing and getting something a bit pants instead.

Take Waterloo Carnival for example. Now I'm not knocking it. It was a lovely procession. Schoolkids were involved. That's really nice. But it's the kind of thing that is really only worth it if you are a local with a few hours spare. Now the reason I set aside an entire day, and travelled 45 minutes on the tube is because the flyer said:

Waterloo Carnival, Wizard Of Oz Theme

12 - 6pm - Munchkinland, (now I envisaged proper munchkins, munchkinning about doing munchkin type stuff but there was nothing like it.) special market stalls (there were four market stalls which were anything but special), street performers (you mean the gorilla costumed folk handing out flyers? Yeh ok, one of them did a cartwheel) and Mini Munchkin museums (A big fat lie. Or were they so mini that they were not actually visible to the naked eye?).

1.30 - 2pm - Carnival Procession featuring over 300 performers (now, I wasn't counting but I'm pretty sure it wasn't more than 150 and they were all schoolkids, as in kids that go to school and have had a day to skive off, generally not known as performers).

1pm - 5pm - Witches & Munchkins Family Friendly Zone, (the odd word out here is zone. There were kids and schoolteachers in witches and munchkins costumes, there were familes, some were undoubtedly friendly, but don't call it a zone), mini Munchkins play area (do you mean the small marquee filled with nothing more than a few blankets and some paper windmills planted alongside it?) Witches Tea Party (stall selling flapjacks), kids disco and music performances (they did play a few tunes for the kids and there was one band that played a few tunes).

I remember last year, going all the way to Spitalfields for some fair extravaganza, dragging some friends along the way, which turned out to be an un-extravaganza that was not in the least bit fair. The "kids fun zone" turned out to be a bouncy castle slide at £2 a go and when I read "Lots of clowning mayhem and fun!" I approached two fat old gits in half hearted clowning costumes who happened to be sunbathing at the time, and naively asked them when the performance would be. Well I don't know about clowning, but they could hardly muster the energy to speak as one replied "Weeell, it's not so much a performance really. We've just been walking about doing a bit of juggling and that." I had to try bloody hard not to be bowled over by their enthusiasm I can tell you.

Don't get me wrong, we did have fun today. Ky loved the procession and despite the lack of entertainment at the 'kids zone' he managed to amuse himself by chasing pigeons. Then something happened. Something I have been trying to avoid for most of my life.

I got stung by a bee.

It got trapped in my hair, I removed it (thinking it was a leaf) then I saw the little git insert his sting into my little finger. I panicked and ran over to the nearest person asking him if I could borrow his tweezers. Not, did he have any, but if I could borrow the ones that surely he could not have left home without. He pointed me towards the St. John's crew and I legged it over, seeing their concerned faces as they observed my panic turn into little smirks. If I was looking for sympathy it would not be from them OR my sister who I spoke to immediately after who had only sarcasm to offer me but loads of sympathy to for the poor little bee who is now dead, and I'm sure will be sorely missed by all his friends and family who are all exactly the same as him and don't even know who he is. Anyway, I think it's kind of cured my phobia of getting stung by a bee. Because it didn't even hurt that much. It definitely was no worse than stubbing my toe or treading on a bit of lego which I do several times a day. It was more the emotional trauma, the fact that this creature left his sting in me, without my permission, it just felt so invasive. I felt I had, in a way, been raped by this bee. All that and not even an "I've been brave" sticker from St. Johns.

We then went to the Southbank and watched the skateboarders. Outside the National Theatre there were deckchairs on pretend grass, and we sat about, well I sat, Ky just ran around, chasing thin air this time. Then I got talking to a friendly couple, getting on really well with them and then when the DJ played "Raindrops are falling on my head" they sang at the top of their voices so I thought I'd be up for the laugh and join in. Shortly after, they revealed that this was their first day out on their own after four months on a psychiatric ward.

The journey home involved me trying to keep Ky awake by talking about the one thing that would stop him from falling asleep too early; trains. 45 minutes of train talk. That's even harder than it sounds. In fact, I think I would rather be stung by a bee.

Magnificent Guilfest

2008-07-09T15:19:00.000-07:00

Last weekend I headed off to the Guildford festival, with my sister and Ky. Despite several weeks of trying to prepare Ky for sleeping in the tent, when it came to it, when he realised it wasn't some hilarious joke and that the tent we had arsed around for ages trying to put earlier, was in fact, really really for sleeping in, he screamed the field down. No way. No way, was he actually going to sleep in that sleeping bag that I clearly must have bought for him for a laugh, no, he was demanding to go home. Thankfully, he kicked up such a fuss he wore himself out and fell asleep.

Well hands down to Guilfest....best festival toilets I've ever experienced. Toilet paper AND soap AND paper towels! All that was missing was the perfume lady....must complain about that actually.

The stewards there were bloody wristband mad. I think they all had some kind of OCD where they have the need to keep checking your wristband anytime you wanted to go anywhere. And I mean a whole of army of them at a time. Ridiculous. And even more ridiculous, despite their obsessive compulsive wristband checking tendencies, they didn't realise until about midnight Saturday night as we tried to enter the campsite, that we had the wrong wristbands which did not entitle us to camping. Fortunately, the 'baby in the pram so therefore we are not liars' trick worked. When we told the manager we had been issued the wrong wristband his exact words were "Well you have a baby in the pram so I believe you're not lying". Obviously we were not lying. Not because we had a baby in the pram but simply because we were telling the truth.

Blondie were FANTASTIC. Even if she did refuse photographers at the front, one of them being my sister's friend, for fear of anyone catching her wrinkles in the wrong light.

We spent a lot of time in the kids Zone, or shall we call it the very difficult to re-enter without a child after you've just nipped out to get the coffees zone. The thing Ky liked the best about the kids zone, was not Mr Magnificent, or the clowns, or the funfair rides (definitely not, nearly didn't get my £2 back after Ky chickened out after 15 seconds), nor the fancy dress parade or the talent show, but it was the sandpit and the wooden train set, which is exactly what he likes to do at home; play in the sandpit when it's sunny and play with his train set when it's cold. Mr Magnificent was true to his name during his cheeky acrobatic juggling routines. Mr Magnificent gave Ky a free copy of his DVD, which I would like to say is because Ky is so irresistibly cute, but the real reason is because he had the hots for my sister. I do think she owes him at least a snog in return for the DVD but maybe I'm just too polite.

Acting Up

2008-07-09T13:38:00.000-07:00

My drama group's performance of "The Open Square" last week was received very well, and according to my drama teacher, audience members found it ‘poetic’ ‘moving’ and ‘profound’. Bearing in mind that almost all audience members were friends or relatives I wonder if this translates as 'confusing and absurd' but I like to think not. I even got a gushing fan come up to congratulate me, who blushed, stammered and went back to his friend who was waiting to pat him on the back for taking the plunge. The after show party was great, my cousins who had come to watch made up for not drowning me in roses when I took my bow by drowning me in vodka instead.

I do remember letting one of the other drama students showing me how to throw a good punch. Why is it that everytime I get drunk, I always end up in a punch throwing demonstration? It's getting ridiculous, and everytime I look back at that same old scene, someone holding out their hand for me to punch, me concentrating with all my might, to punch in the correct angle, whilst trying not to spill my drink, well....it's just getting a bit cringeworthy now. Why does it always happen? Note to self; DO NOT, in future, after a few drinks, ask anyone if they know how to punch properly, or flex your arm muscles whilst boasting how you could punch really well if you wanted to, or randomly announce that no-one knows how to throw a good punch these days or anything else that might lead to you taking part in a punching demonstration.

Things On My Mind

2008-06-30T15:14:00.000-07:00

Things on my mind at the moment:

1. My hair
I will not go into the boring details as I couldn't possibly inflict that kind of torture on you. Instead, I will save it for my sister. She has, for many years, bored the crap out of me by talking about her hair, and I have endured it, knowing that it would only be a matter of time before my hair venting needs would also need to be met.

2. My hero
I feel it is time for my weird crush confession. My hero, Sportacus. Sportacus is a children's tv character. He is a super hero who lives in Lazy Town and promotes healthy lifestyle choices. Here's what they say about him on the Lazy Town website; "He's always moving - flipping through the air and landing on his feet. Sportacus loves to use everyday items in outrageous ways, often skipping the the ordinary when he can do something with flair." Here's what the website doesn't say about him; "He is FIT! What a body. Big muscles and tight as you like superhero costume. Cute accent and even his strange pointy moustache somehow adds to the sex appeal."

Ky isn't a huge fan of Lazy Town, his favourites are Thomas (and the fat controller really isn't my type) and Disney Cars - which involves no humans at all. But when I see pictures of Sportacus on other kids t-shirts, bags, skateboards etc. I think "Corrr." Now that's a bit wrong, isn't it.

Anyway, see for yourself:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QLjBp8OrgU

3. My Performance
My weekly drama classes have been working towards a play I will be performing in, this week at my local arts centre. At one point I tear open a bag of chocolates which spill on the floor. You can't imagine the bags of chocolates I have had to eat my way through to get this right. All in the name of art. And I have to eat these chocolates off the floor!! I am hoping this will be good therapy for my OCD; it could even be a major breakthrough. Who knows I may enjoy it so much that I start refusing to eat anything that hasn't been on the floor.

The ABC of PMT

2008-06-20T16:14:00.000-07:00

What's the best way to spend your day when you've got severe PMT? Is it...

a) Relaxing peacefully in a hammock with a big bar of chocolate

b) Shopping - when everything is on sale and in your size

c) Decide to lighten your hair colour so that you can dye it red, have your mum use a product which claims to contain no peroxide, then spend the next half hour crying because your head feels as though someone has poured sulphuric acid all over it, set it on fire and then stuck pins all over it. Then having to go through all the pain again with the red dye because your scalp is now completely burnt, refusing to back out because you don't want to go around with blonde roots and ginger hair, then wash it out, only to discover the shade has turned out practically the same as it usually always is (brown), then having to run to an important appointment you are now late for with wet hair and red dye stains all over your cheeks and all your make up smudged from crying which you have had no time to reapply.

If you chose A:
You are a thoughtful person who likes to daydream, especially whilst looking up at the sky.

If you chose B:
Fun, witty and carefree, that's your spirit! Wow, your bubbly gregarious nature sure gets heads turning!

If you chose C:
You are probably me. And not the redhead you dreamed of being.

The Secret To A Flat Tummy

2008-05-29T13:40:00.000-07:00

Because datacapture is possibly the most brain numbing experience you could ever wish to encounter, I like to have the TV on in the background while I'm doing it. I go a bit slower but I feel less like smashing my head through the window.

Unfortunately, as my mother and I were carrying my old TV away, to be replaced by the one my sister recently gave me, I didn't realise the ariel lead was still attached and ended up ripping it out by force. Now, I can't get a picture on the new TV, not even with a new ariel lead. When my sister offered me the TV, I did hear a voice in my head who warned me "if it ain't broke, don't fix it", which belonged to a man wearing dungarees, chewing a straw, speaking in a Texan accent. He lives in my head and his only purpose is to plague me with this warning. Don't ask me about the dungarees and accent, I have a lot of strange people living in my head.

Although my old TV was slightly green on one side, at least it functioned. The good news is that I can watch DVDs. The bad news is that my DVD collection is pitiful. As I considered watching The Office again, which is always funny, but a bit annoying when you know all the lines, I came across a DVD my mum lent me a while ago, called The Secret.

My mother's synopsis of this DVD was "You ask what you want, and what you want you get." Right. "So I asked for three big houses in a row for you, me and your sister and for Ky to go to Mill Hill private school." She looked very pleased with herself but I thought, hang on a minute, you can't go making deals with the universe behind my back. I might not want my mum and sister as immediate neighbours or for Ky to go to some hurray henry school.

Anyway, I watched the DVD which basically operates on the belief of the law of attraction. If you focus on what you want, you will get it. If you focus on what you don't want, you attract it also. Which is really bad news for me, because I am the worlds worst for thinking of worse case scenarios. Trapped in the boot of a car, attacked by bats, aeroplane crashing thorough my bedroom window, eating spaghetti then realising it's worms, you name it.

At one point, it was explained that if you keep saying "I can't afford it" then the universe will respond. I'm not sure what happened after that but I think I may have been brainwashed as the next think you know, I've gone on to Amazon.com and bought a Slendertone tummy toner which I couldn't, sorry could afford.

The next day, after watching The Secret, I wondered how the universe would respond to all my requests.

I certainly did not ask the universe to create a problem with the server so that all the work I had done that night (about five hours) has been lost. Gone. Vanished into thin air. Not retrievable, no matter how hard I begged in my best whining voice to the IT guy. How soul destroying.

I also did not ask the universe if my cousin's camera, which I have borrowed for my ebay project, could just stop working so that I am unable to take a photo of my old TV which was cluttering up the corridor to sell on ebay for 1p so that I could get rid of it and not have to climb over it (with the pram) every day to get in and out the house. Although after several days of this palava, I took a moment to think outside the box, and realised that I could just, literally, you know, move the TV to the bedroom, out of the way, sort of thing.

I don't remember asking the universe to allow my spelling mistake to make my text look like a bad joke when I texted a friend who told me her grandma was on the verge of death, (trying to be helpful), "Let me know if there is anything I can do, I'm only round the coroner".

And I did not ask the universe to alert me to this quote by Geri Halliwell printed on the front of a copy of 'Hello', or 'Ok', or 'Very Rich and Smug' magazine; "It's hard being a single parent but I wouldn't change it for the world." Fuck off! What, exactly is so hard about having a nanny, a cleaner, and never having to worry about bills?

But I will have a firmer, flatter tummy in four weeks so The Secret gets the thumbs up from me.

Burning Desire

2008-05-25T13:55:00.001-07:00

Well thank god, my dear old dad came and cut my grass yesterday, the longest grass on the entire street (I checked), bringing along his sidekick partner who attacked my garden like a member of the Ground Force crew. I, on the other hand, who finds gardening as exciting as watching a cornflake get soggy, milled around, half heartedley pulling at a few weeds. I just can't get into it. And I don't like the way I feel slightly ashamed about it too, like I should enjoy gardening. I just don't have the backbone for it, the patience (I like quick results not all this hanging about waiting for things to grow), I don't like the creepy crawlies, I don't like the all the scratches you end up with and all the little accidents that seem to occur (while my dad and his partner whistled away, all you could hear from me every five minutes was "OW! That bloody hurt".

At one point, I went inside to skive for a bit and returned to see that my dad had given Ky a pair of those pointy sharp things, what you use to cut the weeds with but could also be used to lose a finger or two. I had to try and wrestle these off Ky (yes I did try a few other techniques first but then I just wanted to get the damn thing off him). That was a heap of fun, if not slightly hazardous to the eyeballs.

My dad has always been a bit liberal with things like that. To be honest, I don't ever remember him telling me something was dangerous, sharp or fragile. It wasn't out of neglect, he just didn't care to lecture or frighten us with something that might never happen, leaving us to make our own decisions. Someone like me, though, would often abuse that kind of trust.

I remember having two scrapes in particular, involving fire. On one occasion, when I was about ten, I instructed my sister to come and watch me perform my show in the living room. She dutifully sat as she always does, her face looking slightly concerned as I lit two 'swords' made of kitchen paper towel with a lighter and proceeded to whoosh them around in the air. It was all going so well, until about three seconds later when the swords were blazing out of control, forcing me to drop them on the sofa. The sofa was now on fire, and my sister was now transfixed as I panicked like mad and eventually put the fire out with a bottle of Evian. "Ok" I panted "show's over" and off my sister went back to her room without a word to continue whatever it was she was doing. Now most kids I know would have got into a lot of trouble for this, but my dad just said "As long as you are ok, I don't care about the sofa."

Not long after, I was sitting in my dad's office above his restaurant, completely bored, thinking "What to do, what to do, what to...oh how about setting bits of paper on fire.." so I proceeded, blowing the fire out on each bit of paper before chucking it in the bin. Next thing you know, would you believe it, the bin is on fire. So I tried to take the bin, now full of flames and singeing my eyebrows, to the toilets. On the way, I met a horrified looking customer who asked me if I needed any help, but I just shrugged it off "No, no, it's fine, really", grinning like mad and even held the door open for her. I wasn't going to let a thing like fire rob me of my manners, something my father did teach me. I managed to put the fire out, and tiptoed back, looking through a glass pane of a door to see my dad scratching his head and trying to work out why there was a trail of burnt patches on the floor leading from his office to the toilets. I mean it had my name written all over it, but I guess he was just wondering what methods I had employed. I burst into tears as he reassured me "I don't care about the restaurant, as long as you're alright."

Maybe I should let Ky have a go with the gardening tools. After all, when my dad stops coming to cut my grass, it will be Ky who will have the pleasure of sorting my garden out. I'll just stay inside and do something I'm good at. Like setting something on fire.

Goodbye To Wind

2008-05-19T15:21:00.000-07:00

One of the many traditions Turkish people have is to spend as long as possible saying goodbye, possibly even longer than the time you have spent with the person saying goodbye to. My sister tries to be clever about this by being ENTIRELY FOCUSED at goodbye time, with steely eyes she will come over for the goodbye kiss which she will plant quickly and effectively on both cheeks whilst affirming "I am leaving now" and will not be dragged into any kind of goodbye conversation, having a few one liners at hand such as "We'll talk about it on the phone" or "Email me the details". Sometimes she fails at this and I can see her kicking herself all the way to her car.

My aunts are masters of the goodbye drag out. They will kiss you on both cheeks, and then will suddenly start to either compliment you on your shade of lipstick, or ask you what colour you've dyed your hair, or remember they have a bag somewhere to exactly match the top you are wearing and they'll just go and fetch it for you and nearly always comment on your weight gain/loss. Then they will stroke your hair and come up with a childhood memory or two. Then just as you are about to leave the door, they will insist on you taking home some of the food left over from dinner as they will always make far too much, so you end up going home trying to balance several bowls of food covered in clingfilm. And then because everyone has spent so long saying goodbye, no-one can remember who they have or haven't kissed, so we all kiss each other again to make sure.

So at my little cousins birthday gathering on Sunday, I gave my other cousin who was also my lift home, the goodbye nudge, we put on our coats, had some conversation about coats, then my aunt had a last minute panic about my five a day consumption, insisting I eat some fruit before I go. Just as I was getting hopeful about making it from the living room to the corridor, one of my aunts began clasping at her chest and grimacing in pain. The pain then subsided and returned several times, as we tried to figure out what it was and what to do. Advice was being thrown about left right and centre of course, "Let her drink some coke" "Open the window" "Drink some coke" "Lie her down" "Stand her up" "Give her some Andrews" "Give her a glass of coke" (no-one gave water a thought). After she downed a glass of coke and a glass of fizzing Andrews, me and my cousin took her out to the garden where she burped ferociously. Then, it was thirty minutes of wind stories. Everyone had a wind story to tell, each one getting more dramatic, and of course, the inevitable story of the man from the village in Turkey who actually died from trapped wind.

When Turkish people have exhausted their own repertoire of stories consisting mainly of some kind of tragedy, there is always someone from the village who tops of the stories in a way that it couldn't get much worse.

This reminds me of something my mother told me about my ex stepmother. Apparently before she had met my father, she was having an office affair and during sexual intercourse, the couple got stuck and were unable to separate. They were forced to dial emergency services who had to carry them both out on a stretcher and take them to hospital where they would be separated. The probability of this happening was confirmed when one day I went to get my lunch from my usual Turkish cafe, where I used to work. I was chatting away to the owner, and I don't know how it came up, but somehow, between asking for a jacket potato and if I could have extra cheese, he told me that he had heard of several couples being stuck together in this way. He added, that although this was fairly common, it only happened in Turkey, and usually to people having affairs.

Anyway, back to wind stories, the running theme throughout everyone's anecdotes, which I will now kindly depart to you, the answer to all your wind problems; Cocoa Cola. Everyone, except the man from the village, was saved by a glass of coke. Although this is not mentioned on the NHS direct website, my family unanimously agreed that Coke is the best solution to excessive wind.

This reminds me of the time I was in India and the residents there having the same sort of feelings about a lemonade type of drink they have called Thumbs Up, which seemed to be the miracle cure for everything. When I suddenly got food poisoning in a jewellery shop and had to lie down on the floor, all I could hear were different voices demanding "Thumbs Up! Thumbs Up! Get her Thumbs Up!" and they had no idea at all what was wrong with me. After being forced to drink three bottles of the stuff, I was put on a rickshaw to take me back to where I was staying. Unfortunately, there was a power cut on the way which did not seem to signal to my driver that he should go any slower. Consequently he crashed head on with another rickshaw and I was thrown out of the seat. Now, as well as food poisoning, my knees and hands were bleeding. I left the two rickshaw drivers to argue about their bent wheels whilst I crawled the short way back to my ashram (kind of like a hotel, but not, in that all you basically get is a room resembling a prison room with a bed and a hole in the ground for a toilet). I switched on the ceiling fan and lay on my bed, only to discover that the fan wasn't working, which not only helped me to build up my fever, but allowed every mosquito in the neighbourhood who thought it was the best day of their little lives to settle on me and bite me to pieces.

I did spend the next few days vomiting so I really can't attest to the medicinal powers of Thumbs Up, although it was a very refreshing drink. And with a name like Thumbs Up, you don't imagine you can go wrong.

Summer Is Maybe Probably Quite Likely Not Here

2008-05-13T14:44:00.000-07:00

I want to embrace Summer, truly I do. I want to stand on my roof, throw my Primark knickers in the air and scream "Summer is here!" at which point neighbours will flood the streets, wearing sombrero's, trying not to fall over in their flip flops whilst dancing around in their Hawaiian shirts, taking care not to spill their Sangria's, but then spilling some and then laughing it off because nothing gets to you when the sun is out.

But I can't.

Ky's attitude doesn't help. For a start, every morning when I put a t-shirt on him, he tries to pull the sleeves down, claiming they are not long enough. Then as we try to leave the house, the daily battle ensues, over his insistence on wearing his fleeced, fully lined, hooded winter coat. An improvement on last year though; he lets me put suncream on him and has accepted his new sandals. I did, however, have to hide his winter shoes, claiming that his gran had taken them away to be cleaned. In a very wobbly voice, his eyes filled with tears, he bravely announced he would wear the sandals, until the other shoes were cleaned.

But the main reason I can't embrace Summer, is because Summer can not be trusted. I've just checked the weather report; rain for three days this week. It's like we need to be punished with bad weather every time we get some good weather. Oh, I know, no such thing as bad weather, rain is good, it waters all the crops blah blah blah, whatever, I just know I get a kick out of wearing my flip flops and eating ice cream (those of you who actually eat ice cream in Winter won't understand that last bit).

Summer is a bit like having a bad boyfriend. Summer lets you down, abandons you when you most need it and encourages you to take your clothes off and then laughs at your goose pimples (some bad boyfriends do that, apparently). Summer, is a bummer.

Trucking Idiot

2008-05-05T14:35:00.000-07:00

I was in Waitrose the other day, trying to get a loaf of bread from the back with the most recent expiry date, dropping a few in the process, realising they all had the same expiry date, trying to fit them back on the shelf and failing, dropping a few more, when I overheard a man asking an assistant for help in choosing a type of bread.

I'm sure there was a day, maybe when our parents or grandparents went to the store and bought the only one type of bread loaf that ever existed. Now, all tastes are catered for. You like white? Brown? A mix of both? White with a tiny bit of brown? Seeds on the crust? Seeds all over? Or just Bread. Such a simple concept to be begin with. I can just see Jesus now, distributing the bread to the five thousand, and someone in the crowd going "I'm not being funny, but I only eat organic, yeast free, mostly brown, sliced bread topped with poppy seeds."

Anyway, as helpful as the Waitrose assistant was, and they are bloody helpful, not like in Sainsburys where your quest for help is greeted with blank stares, shrugging shoulders and a point in the wrong direction if you're lucky, I thought I'd do my bit for the community and chipped in "This one's wheat free, but if you aren't bothered about that then the one with wheat will definitely taste nicer." I should know, I eat the wheatless variety, the pretenders of breads.

His reply took me back a bit "Hey, I'm 22 and single, nothing bothers me!". Wow. Not even wheat! What it is to be young! Not a care in the world. Wrinkle free faces, carefree attitudes, bags of energy, but most of all, the ability to not be fazed by wheat. "Well I'm 36 and single" I announced, a little too loudly, "and wheat bothers me because I'm intolerant to it". He gasps, putting his hand over his mouth, as if he had just made a handicap joke to someone in a wheelchair. "Oh...sorry.." he says, pitying me "I didn't mean anything.....". Just then, the assistant returns to inform the young wheat worry free man "Oh, I forgot to mention, we can slice your bread for you." "NO WAY! That is SO cool." He instantly forgets about me and my intolerance and skips off to the bread counter.

I walk away and under my breath say "Fucking idiot". Now I don't know if Ky was secretly wired up to me by some spy gadget, because this comment was no louder than a breath, and considering his favourite phrase is "Pardon me?" meaning I normally have to repeat everything I say numerous times, I was surprised when he asked me "Mummy, what's that, fucking idiot?" "I didn't say that, I said...trucking idiot" "Why?" "Because, he..has too many toy trucks, and...he should share them....with children that don't even have any trucks." Ingenious. See how I turned that around and taught him a lesson in virtuous conduct? Of course I am anticipating a situation at playgroup next week when he will undoubtedly show off his new phrase to a child playing with a truck he had his eyes on.

A load of bollocks

2008-04-14T13:42:00.000-07:00

More news from the internet world of my fairly odd parents.

My mum was overjoyed to hear that her friend had won the lottery on the internet! Hurrah! What luck! This friend had already started celebrating and had replied to the email informing her of her good fortune with all her details in order to claim her prize! When she saw me scrunch up my face and shake my head in disbelief, my mother exclaimed "It's true, I've seen it!" I showed her my hotmail junk folder and asked her if the email looked like any of the lottery winning emails I had received over the last few days. I took my mother's crestfallen expression as a yes.

Hot on the heels of "my computer is badly bugged so called in a Bulgarian engineer", I have just received an email from my father announcing that he has bought a new computer. I quote - and bear in mind he is not trying to be funny - "You know with any new machine / gadget at first you are scared in case you break it , but as you get used to it the fear disappears. first day I didn't know know how to switch it off,and the second day I didn't know how to turn it on. Once I discovered these minor things I am now on route of making more discoveries". For any Viz readers out there, it's like something from the letters page.

Talking of which, I haven't read a Viz magazine for about 20 years, but I seem to remember there was a character with a pair of bollocks so large that they dragged on the floor. Last night, I had a dream that I had a pair of bollocks this big. I was wondering how on earth I was going to conceal this monstrous growth and couldn't walk for tripping over them. It was one of those dreams where you are really, really glad when you wake up. I did wonder, if somewhere else in the world, there was some poor Elephantiasis sufferer who really did have huge bollocks and also had a dream (on the same night? No, too much of a coincidence) that he had female genitals of normal size. How ironic that would be.

Bad Things Come In Threes

2008-04-13T15:14:00.000-07:00

When my mother came over yesterday, she asked me if I could give her a plate to smash. I mulled it over for a few moments, reacting as if it were a normal everyday question, before answering "actually I'm a bit short on plates mum."

My mother had received some bad financial news a couple of days ago, the day after her car broke down and we all know bad things happen in threes. Unless you smash a plate apparently. Funnily enough I had smashed one only the morning before; I picked up two plates for breakfast, one plastic, one totally breakable, and somehow frisbeed them across the kitchen. I knew I could save one of the plates, but hell, I just didn't have enough time to work out which one, it all happened so quickly, and was left standing with the plastic one in my hand. Anyway, it wasn't enough to break the spell, my mum had to smash the plate herself.

I'm not at all superstitious. I do remember my gran telling me it was good luck whenever I trod in dog poo, which seemed to happen a lot during my childhood. Although I never really believed it, it was a comforting thought. When your shoe is covered in dog shit, you're desperate enough to believe anything to make you feel better.

When I was about eleven, during a school assembly, the headmaster was calling out for pupils to come up and collect their merit badges. Normally there would be a few, but this time there was just one other girl and the next thing you know, I found myself walking up to the assembly stage. About halfway up, I realised I hadn't actually earned any merits, but I just couldn't stop my legs from carrying me up to face the rest of the school. "And what did you earn your merit for?" he asked the other girl. She said something annoying like "Science" and my answer was honest and to the point "Didn't get one." So he sent me back to my place, and on my way back I realised, amongst the sniggers, I could hear "ugh! Gross!" and everyone pointing at my shoe, which was, not only covered in dog shit, but I had also managed to tread on chewing gum which somehow attracted a large red feather. So, just in case, my standing before the entire school to not receive a merit was not enough to attract attention, then here we go everyone, stinking dog shit leaving shitty footprints all the way to and from the assembly stage, but just in case anyone missed that, lets flag it up with a bright red feather. Here I am kids, take your shot. I was mortified, and had to wear the smelly plimsolls from the spares box all day long to remind everyone to ridicule me. When my gran told me later that day that this was a sign of good luck I could have slapped her.

Anyway, back to smashing plates for my mum, I changed the subject, went off to the kitchen to count my crockery and then the third bad thing happened. Ky performed a double somersault off the sofa, but instead of landing on his feet to applause and scores out of ten, he fell head first on to Thomas the tank engine and cut open his head. Down at the hospital, I wondered how many more hospital visits I would be making as a parent. Last time I was here, Ky had pulled his arm out of his elbow socket.

Later I got a text from my mum "on top of it all, my internet is not working!". Aha! A flaw in this superstition. Unless this was the start of another round of three bad things. Uh oh. Where's that plate...

The Play-Doh Mystery

2008-04-10T14:25:00.000-07:00

A parcel arrived this morning, addressed to "Ky, rock God of the future" and the R.G.O.T.F was absolutely delighted when we opened it to discover a big bucket of Play-doh. I couldn't help but notice a wave of relief spread over Ky's face, hopefully this means no more disastrous attempts at making playdough episodes for a while.

He spent most of the morning, well I'd really like to say, creating sculptures, but in reality he was having the most fun using the playdough to create spectacular crash scenes with his Thomas the tank engine. I have to add, Ky seems practically obsessed with crashes and accidents. Several times a day I hear him call from another room "Help! Help! I crash!" and find him tangled in a heap, normally involving his bike or scooter, his chair and a few other toys thrown in for effect. I then have to rescue him, he is ever grateful, then he sets about creating his next accident scene.

Anyway, Ky loves his new Play-doh set, and if he loves it, then I love it (even the bits that stick into my carpet and won't come out.) But this bucket of playdough arrived with no note to tell us who had sent it. I know it's someone who reads this blog, as I do not go around insisting everyone address Ky as the rock god of the future. I am also guessing that after having read about my failed attempts at making playdough, this gift was sent with a bit of a cheeky smirk.

So, who are you? Who is it out there that has lost all faith in my playdough making abilities? I do have a few ideas as to who it might be, but it's not the sort of thing you can ask someone really, because if it's not them, then it's a bit like saying "oh I thought you might have been thoughtful enough to send this present, but you're not."

Will the real playdough gift sender, please stand up.

Back To Basics

2008-04-06T14:15:00.000-07:00

Perhaps you have parents like mine. When you started getting into computers, possibly sometime during the 90's, you would try and explain things like Google and Hotmail to them, and they would ask questions like "So, this Goggle service, what are the opening times?"

Now of course, my mother is proficient in Facebook and my dad sends me regular emails, with headings such as "WHY 9/11 DISASTER WAS A CONSPIRACY" and "The lies behind Christianity - WATCH THE VIDEO FOR PROOF". He also sends me personal ones, like "Update on my divorce". His last email was about his computer, which "is badly bugged so called in a Bulgarian engineer" and after some detail about this badly bugged computer requiring the attention of a Bulgarian engineer, concluded that his best option would be to buy a new one. He is asking my advice on which one to buy, but I am totally the wrong person to ask. Not only because I am clueless, but I suffer dreadfully from option fatigue.

It's like the time I had to buy a pram for Ky. I wished there were only three different kinds of prams in the world to choose from, but there were hundreds, on thousands of different websites. After hours of comparing basket sizes and considering whether or not a parent cupholder was really necessary, or if I could really live without individual wheel suspension, I just gave up and did what I always end up doing, having previously forgotten that this is what I always end up doing which is to open the Argos catalogue, close my eyes and point.

This method was inspired by a game I used to play at my poor cousin's house who had no toys. We would open the Argos catalogue at every single page, count to three and then point to the item we liked the most on that page. Considering the Argos catalogue was thick enough to even use as a little seat for a child, again at this poor cousin's house who didn't even have enough chairs to go round, this game would amuse us for hours. The good thing about this game is that there were no losers, although you would sometimes get dirty looks for some of the things you picked. It was fun doing the toys section, but Garden Tools could be a bit tedious, as would most of the Kitchenware department. Try it out and see. You can learn a lot about a person by their Argos catalogue product choices.

Birthday Blues

2008-04-02T13:40:00.000-07:00

I shopped, I baked, I decorated, I wrapped, but some things are totally out of my control. Take Ky, on the morning of his third birthday party. The first words out of my sleepy mouth were "Happy Birthday Ky." The response fired back at me; "No! I don't want Happy Birthday!" And it didn't get much better. Ky was refusing to be three years old, a bit too young to be having an age crisis in my opinion. The thing with Ky, is that too much of a good thing really unnerves him. So when he walked into the living room, decked out in Thomas Tank decorations, I knew he would find it hard to react like a normal kid, you know, something along the lines of "Whoopee! Wow! It's my birthday!". Instead, he tried to distract himself by talking about the logistics of the balloons; "So there's two red ones there, but only one red one there....there's the green balloon...and another one there....hmmm." I tried to put some party music on but he cried until I turned it off. Then he refused to get dressed, and was still in his pyjama's when all his little party friends arrived, until my mum took him aside and used her excellent bribery skills to get him changed.

Then something saved the day; streamers. All I did was stand on a chair and throw some streamers across the room. Ky was a changed boy. He went from party pooper to party animal. I owe a lot to those rolled up bits of tissue paper, I tell you.

We had the obligatory non birthday party guest trying to blow the candles out before Ky, but was stopped in time by his mother, so he spat on the cake instead and announced "It's all stupid." All in all, it was good chaotic fun. After the kids had gone home, it was round two, continuing with family members. I made too much food as usual, even though I tried really extra hard not to. I made enough potato salad to feed a small country, but it went untouched except for my cousin who had some and said it was 'nice'.

When Ky received his first birthday card in the post a few days prior to the party, he was totally thrilled "Oh how wonderfill! Mummy, it's soooo lovely! Ahhh." After about the fourth birthday card, he was literally throwing them over his shoulder. One present, he would have appreciated, maybe two. But over thirty presents! I had to keep reassuring the givers "oh he'll really like that honestly, he's just a bit overwhelmed at the moment!".

The most inappropriate present, given by a relative who shall remain anonymous, was a soft toy in the form of a devil. The tag read "Horny Devil." The devil was holding a heart which read "Come to bed with me." Now before you go storming off to social services, I shall say that the relative in question would not have had his glasses on when his Turkish non English speaking girlfriend pointed out what she would have thought to be some sort of cute creature, a dog maybe. In Turkey, people are generally afraid of the devil. The devil is really, really bad news, not something you can make into a cute soft toy, holding a heart of all things. Not after all the trouble he has caused, it just wouldn't seem fitting. Well, I'm sure some non Turkish ebayer will make good use of it.

Meanwhile, Ky is still refusing to be three. "No, I am not three yet" he says "Maybe in a minute".

The Birthday Bash

2008-03-25T15:54:00.000-07:00

It's the week before the event. The week where I have to run around like a headless chicken, although being vegetarian I'm not entirely comfortable with that image, so let say, run around like a blindfolded chicken, but not in a cruel way, it's the type of chicken who loves being blindfolded and whose favorite game ever is pin the tail on the donkey. It's the week leading up to my son's birthday, and I know just how those guys who are organising the Olympics will feel a week before the opening.

So much to do. I need a Thomas Tank cake, no not that one, a chunk of it's nose is missing...no, not that one it expires before the party...what do you mean I have to come in every day to see if any new Thomas cakes have arrived with a later expiry date, specifically early morning because they sell out immediately? Ok, let's call Partyrama. "Yes, hello it's me again, the same lady who has already called twice to change the order, well I forgot it was Easter, am I gonna get these decorations in time? No? Yes I'll pay extra for next day courier."

Ok, now down to my local photography shop to get the rude Indian photography man to print some photos which I will be using to make Ky's birthday card and some personalised decorations (I know, I know, I just can't help myself). I was quite disappointed actually, the rude Indian man in the photography shop wasn't really very rude today. I'm not a big fan of rudeness in general, but a few select people in this world, seem to have this knack of being likable rude. I last saw him at Christmas, when I went to get some photo's of Ky printed to use for Xmas cards to send out. He took one look at the image and said, with the most disgusted look on his face (and don't forget the Indian accent) "What is this? What is THIS? What is this yellow face?" "Um, I suppose the flash was a little bright...I hadn't really noticed...but now..you...say it....oh it's just for fun, to send out to family as Christmas cards." "That is what I'm saying, you sending out yellow face to family, what is that?" "I don't think they'll notice...." "You don't think so! This bright yellow face for Christmas! Ok! If that's what you wanting." Raises his eyebrows and repeatedly shrugs his shoulders. "You not only one." Oh, he is trying to make me feel better now. "Woman come in yesterday with her wedding photo's. EVERYONE having yellow faces! Entire wedding is full of yellow faces! I told her, what you doing? She said, what to do, she can't have another wedding. I tell her, she want to consider it, with these yellow face photos."

So, still got to get the helium balloon, they promised 'Barbara' would get some more Thomas ones in, and when the voice of a pikey in the discount store speaks, I believe. DON'T FORGET TO CLEAN OUT THE BUBBLE MACHINE OTHERWISE IT WON'T WORK!!! Stick that on a post it note, you know you are going to forget that. Haven't got any post it notes. Put it on your list...buy post it notes. So, party is on Sunday. Thursday, I've got a freebie hairdressers appointment courtesy of Herbal Essences shampoo. The main drawbacks of having a freebie promo haircut, is 1. The salon is always about a 2 hour journey away. Stanmore? Where the hell is that? How is that my local salon?? No, I didn't read the small print. 2. The hairdresser will probably be some incompetent trainee. Well, if it's not so bad that it doesn't actually make me cry uncontrollably, I'll be satisfied. Friday, I am taking Ky to see Thomas and Friends Live on stage. Saturday...oh Saturday. The day which I should be spending cleaning the flat, preparing the food, hanging the party decorations, will be spent trying to coax Ky into a tiger costume (buying the face paints was VERY optimistic) for a fancy dress party, again, miles away. And guess what? The clocks go forward! Oh fantastic. Because I can really imagine on Saturday, having that awkward feeling of having that extra hour hanging about, twiddling my thumbs, thank god that's taken care of.

Bring it on. I'm in control of this party, not the other way round. I can do this. I'm a mum, with a son, who's gonna have some birthday fun. (Cue Rocky theme music).

Words Fail Me

2008-03-17T14:58:00.000-07:00

I have tried to make play dough three times now and failed. My first attempt at making play dough was a complete and utter shambles, due to the fact that I replaced nearly all the ingredients on the recipe with incorrect ones. I learn my lesson and the second time round I start off optimistic with an air of smugness; making your own play dough does give you that earthy motherly satisfaction in the same way that baking bread does (don't get me started on that, another botch job and I have a breadmaker!). Alas, it ends the same; shambles, distraught toddler, bin. But where did I go wrong?

I go on to a parenting forum to seek advice. After a few expected replies, "knead it" "sprinkle with flour" "use less oil", I'm given a recipe by someone who is apparently a play dough expert, and ends with "I haven't known anyone have trouble with this recipe except for someone who used tartare sauce instead of cream of tartar!!!" followed by a laughing emoticon. That emoticon was laughing in my face, because I too, thought the two tartar(e)s were the same thing. But apparently, one is a kind of baking powder, and the other, the one I used, is a creamy fish condiment, laden with either smelly and/or lumpy ingredients such as capers, onions, eggs, vinegar, mustard, gherkins etc. Alarm bells should have been ringing when the smell of my phony play dough mixture was making me heave, not to mention having to sit there picking out bits of gherkin and capers. After I was laughed off the forum, I started to feel a bit bloody annoyed to tell you the truth. How could two different things be called such similar names?

When I was about four years old, I remember being in the car with my mum, driving past a building and seeing two blokes, dressed in white overalls, leaning on the wall outside, drinking their tea, smoking their fags, and having a chat. I remember this image so clearly in my head. Just moments before, I had been thinking about words, and how they came about. When I saw the two blokes, I thought, maybe it's them, maybe these two lads had the job of standing there all day making up all the words in the world. In reality, they were probably talking about the page three girl or how they lost a tenner on the dogs. But that image and thought stuck with me. Put aside Latin and all that; those two men made up all the words in the world. Their conversations would go something like this:

"Right then. What we gonna call this natural raising agent for use in scones, drop scones, soda bread and a wide range of other recipes?"

"Dunno. Let's brainstorm. How about......bakey rise, secret riser, no phoney sconey..."

"Nah, something original. Something that gives you no clues to what it actually is."

"Oh right. Slumanka dewflipper....shoome plicker...dreamy larker.....steamy marker....see-me harker...creamy tartare....."

"I like that one....creamy tartare. I know....Cream of Tartar!"

"But it's not really creamy is it. It's a powder. And it's bit similar to Tartare Sauce."

"Nah, just lob the 'e' off the end of Tartare, it'll be alright."

"But don't you think someone might confuse...."

"Leave it mate, look at the clock, time for a beer. Cream of Tartar is fine."

And my third attempt, in case you are wondering, started off well, a big bowl of flour and Cream of Tartare waiting to be transformed. Unfortunately when I returned from a quick visit to the loo, Ky had dispersed this fine powdery mixture so that it was everywhere else but the bowl. Noting my face of horror, and blinking one very floury eye rapidly, he explained himself in one word: "Avalanche."

Jobsworths in Libraries

2008-03-12T07:01:00.000-07:00

I don't like jobsworths. And a large majority of them seem to work in libraries. I should know, I used to work in a library. I wasn't a jobsworth though, quite the opposite; I used to steal the books and spend most of my time flirting with the handyman. He became my drinking pal for a while, and one night, after discovering he'd forgotten to hand his keys back in, we let ourselves into the library in the early hours of the morning to see if it was haunted. There must have been about a hundred keys on that keyring. Now we've all had trouble putting the key in the door after a night on the lash, so imagine how long it took us to find the right key for this four storey building, boasting 50, 000 members.

We did get in though, and found ourselves on a kind of Scooby Doo adventure, where we ran around the building listening out for spooky sounds and looking for 'clues'. When we got bored of that, we thought we'd liven up those dull librarians a bit by writing rude words on post it notes and swapping their stationary items. Let me tell you there was uproar in that office the next day. It really doesn't take much to fluster a librarian. We did get quite freaked out at one point, when we kept hearing footsteps and whispers and made a hasty exit. In the cold light of the next day, it was quite obvious that it was actually the night guard, who probably was still freaked out by our footsteps and whispers the night before.

The manageress of this library, I shall call her Anne, although her real name was even more librariany than that, was your classical librarian. She wore spectacles, she was timid and she had twelve cats. She looked so much like a librarian that were she to turn up at a fancy dress party in her normal attire, she would probably win 1st prize for her outrageously stereotyped librarian costume.

Anyway, I hate jobsworths. When I went to the library yesterday to print out a booking form for my mother, having booked up a place on a coach taking her to Luton airport so that she can catch the plane to Turkey to have a get together with all her facebook poker friends, I was told I could not use the facilities using my son's card.
"But I always do."
"Yes..." said jobsworth, smirking "But your son is not with you today."
"But you only found out because I told you it was my son's card." I said, realising my mistake.
"Yes." She looked as though I had just made her day.
"Well let's start again then shall we. This is my library card."
She then looks at the code on the card, taps away at the computer and asks "What's your date of birth?".

I sighed. She's got me there. Because although I like to think I come across younger than my years, there is no way I would pass for a two year old. I'm potty training Ky at the moment, therefore he was at home with my mother, being coaxed into having a poo on the potty, completely oblivious to my predicament. So I have to pay to use the printer, or I have to go back home, take my son off the potty, have him wet himself all the way to the library, hold up my dripping wet son to show the librarian and half hope he shits himself, right there in front of her pointy librarian jobsworthy nose. I apply for my own library card instead (my suggestion). She asks for details and ID, helpfully adding "I know we've already got your details from your son's card, but you could have been anyone who just found this library card and walked in". Walked in, and what exactly? What's the worst that can happen? What is it that keeps this jobsworth awake at night? So I could have just found this library card on the street, then walked in to try and smuggle a free use of the printer. Normally, I raid banks, but when I fancy a light day, I try to use the facilities of a library of which I am not entitled to.

At my last visit to this library, another one of the librarians tried to fine me 15p for an overdue book. "But I tried calling to renew it but no-one answered the phone." This librarian had teeth like Janet Street Porter and she started having a goofy fit, stumbling over her words, teeth constantly getting in the way, so panicked by my audacity to question the rules; "yes, yes but, 15p, we have to charge, it's..it's...on the computer....you'll have to pay...it's in the terms and conditions...". I then stuck out my teeth and did a really goofy impression of her saying "well I'll just go and get my purse and lose my place in the queue then!" That was a bit childish really.

Circus Minimus

2008-03-08T14:41:00.000-08:00

I took Ky to see Circus Minimus, performed at our local arts centre. Instead of sitting in our normal seats, the ones that if you put a small toddler on who in certain positions the chair will flip up and swallow said toddler, we sat in a circle on the stage. Out steps the ringleader, who when devising his character obviously focused on the word 'wacky', and unfolds the circus. But this is no typical circus, which is really the only fault I can find with the whole show. Because if you tell a small child you are taking them to see a circus, they will have certain expectations, and it's best not to mess with the expectations of children. Ky had never been to a circus so I was alright there. Although if I do take him to see a real circus, I may be in trouble.

The whole show was like taking an acid trip really, especially the huge flying jellyfish - I definitely tripped out on that one. It's a multi sensory, hands on, interactive world covering themes of growing, eating and sleeping. It's a bit difficult to explain because it's like having a mad dream which you try to describe to someone but can't quite put into words, and they just end up looking very puzzled. Especially when they don't hear the bit where you say "I had this dream....". If you've ever had one of those conversations, you'll know what I mean.

In the cafe of this arts centre where the show was held, is a play pit full of soft play shapes. After the show, the kids will inevitably plead to stay while they dive in and have their much needed dose of rough and tumble. All the parents stand around the edges, having grown up conversations, and it's funny when you step back and notice, the countless remarks made in the direction of the pit, frequent, sometimes overlapping; "You do that one more time and we're going", quick, to the point and back to the conversation that barely paused. I don't know if it was the jellyfish doing things to my head, but when I stood back a bit, the orchestrated chorus of parental voices echoing around the children's play pit was rather eerie;

"NOT with your elbows." "Give the triangle back please, you've already got a square." "Mind the baby." "NO throwing." "Say sorry." "Who had the square first?" "I said, no throwing" "Do you want to go home? Well then." "Mind his head!" "Do you need a poo? Quick then."

I let it mess with my head a bit because I was bored.

Extraordinary things, jellyfish.

Tramps in Switzerland

2008-02-22T14:31:00.000-08:00

Recently, my mum told me how my aunt had invited her along on a trip to Switzerland. "Great!" I responded appropriately, but she looked a little despondent. "Well, I just hope I can get to The Internet there" she said hopefully "My bird needs feeding every day and putting to sleep at night." She wasn't kidding. She was talking about her pet bird on Facebook. The irony of it is, in real life, my mother is the person least likely in the whole world to ever have a pet.

When she returned, a week ago, she was happy to report that her pet was alive and well; long live Internet cafes. At first, my aunt found my mum's regular Internet cafe trips exasperating, but she got drawn into the whole illusion towards the end, at times prompting my mum "Isn't it feeding time? He must be starving by now".

"So how did you find Switzerland?" I asked my mother. "Oh. So many tramps out there" she said. My mother is Turkish. She has a fairly strong Turkish accent, despite having lived in England for over 30 years.
"Tramps? Really?"
"Oh incredible. Tramps everywhere. We all using Tramps."
"Using them? What for?"
"To go here and there of course."
I now had visions of tramps giving piggy back rides for beer money. It seemed a bit unethical to me. And a somewhat hazardous way to travel.
She added "Better than this bloody slow buses."
"Do you mean trams mum?"
"Yes, that is what I am saying, tramps."

Having lived in England all my life, I sometimes take a step back when I hear my mother speak. She seems so foreign. In a cute way. One time, as we drove by a park, she remarked "Oh look, you see that tree? Is my favourite tree that one. What you call it. Weeping Willy. I really love the Weeping Willy. Weeping Willy so lovely to see."
"Mum, it's Weeping Willow."

Guilt Free Shopping

2008-02-21T16:15:00.000-08:00

After spending a few days with my cousin and her two kids in Kent, I came back to a freezing cold house which took a day to feel warm again. Not helped by the fact that when I tried to bleed the radiators this morning, the boiler just failed me, leaving me with no heating, no hot water, and greasy hair. I finally managed to get it all working again, after I called my landlord who had to call her dad in Cyprus who told her what needed to be done.

I really can't do cold. If I'm cold, you'll know about it, because it's all I'll ever talk about until I'm warm again, and even then I will spend a bit more time comparing how warm I am to how cold I was. The cold comments usually come out in bursts because, being so cold, I lose the natural flow of conversation. "Even my organs feel cold" I'll sob.

We went to the beach, my cousin, her kids and Ky. Unfortunately we forgot about the beach weather rule, the one that says that however cold you feel outside, multiply it by a hundred to get an idea of what it will be like at the beach. I had cosy visions of us all eating our pack lunch on the beach, the kids throwing pebbles into the sea whilst me and my cousin slagged off our exes, breathing in the fresh sea air. In reality, as we headed out towards the beach an icy wind slapped us across our faces for being so stupid. We went down the little beach stairs and walked along the beach for literally two minutes before I announced "This isn't working is it." And that was me, in my big coat, hat, gloves and scarf, telling my cousin who was standing there in her knee length tissue thin skirt, nothing on her legs, and the dinkiest of jackets. The goose pimples on her legs were so pronounced I felt like giving each one a name. What was even more annoying, was that these meagre two minutes on the beach, had our shoes covered in tar. Sticky, black, stubborn tar. My trainers aged by about five years. And they were already pretty damn old to begin with.

We decided to go to Romney Railway and bought tickets to go on a miniature steam engine. Now Ky, he loves trains. He plays with his train set every single day. He talks about trains, he makes train noises, he loves going on the tube, the overground, the DLR, he adores Thomas the Tank engine. So going on a real miniature steam engine should have been like winning the lottery for him. So what does he do as we all clamber on to the steam engine which is just about to depart? Cries his eyes out. Refuses to get on. Here it is, his ultimate train experience and he is acting as though I am trying to make him sit in a dentists chair. I nearly got off, not wanting to distress him, but forced him on instead, making him scream even louder until after a few minutes he suddenly began commenting on the scenery in that weird schizophrenic way that toddlers seem to do so well.

We heard the real choo choo of the engine and watched the steam dancing in the air, I recommend it if you are in the area and have a amongst you a train enthusiast. We'll be back when Thomas the Tank Engine comes out for a ride.

My cousin, insisting I could do with some retail therapy, took me to a designer outlet centre. Several shopping bags later, all belonging to her, I had become resigned to window shopping when she dragged me into the Levi's store and encouraged me to buy some real jeans. I'd never had real jeans before. Only cheap ones that wore out before I was ready. I never expected good service, what with it being a discounted store, I thought that would be reserved for real customers paying full price. But I was delighted to be treated nothing short of a VIP. The cute skateboarding youth ran around the store finding suitable jeans for me to try on, and told me he'd be back in a few minutes to see how I was getting on. When he came back, I was swimming in a pair of huge jeans after I had insisted that the sizes he offered were too small. "I'm slimmer than I thought!" I squealed and he even gave me a hearty high five. As I worked through the endless pairs of jeans, he kept me amused with anecdotes, a description of all the jeans he owned, including the pair he bought from Asda for £3 which ripped three days later after doing a skateboarding trick. Every time I came out with a new pair of jeans and a scrunched up "I'm not sure" look about me, he offered me honest and helpful opinions. Then every now and again his face would light up "Oooh, I've just thought of another pair that would really be your thing" and off he would scamper.

Meanwhile, my cousin helped with encouraging comments every time I would look at the price label, wanting to relieve herself of some of the guilt she'd incurred with all her purchases. I scrutinized each pair, whilst trying to work out my incomings and outgoings, and remember when my direct debits were due. All around this shopping centre were signs which read "Guilt Free Shopping", encouraging me further. In reality, no amount of calculation would result in my being able to afford them so I had to rely on my own shopping mantra, the one which enables me to buy almost anything; "Fuck it." I like to think it is a more genuine and direct way of saying "Guilt Free Shopping". I doubt "Fuck It" signs posted everywhere would go down as well though.

What was annoying, was that I kept remembering an interview I'd read several years ago, with a fashionista who owned a really cool club in the West End full of stylish people dressed in their vintage costumes. Jean wearing folks were not permitted entrance into his club. At one point he remarked "Jeans are a sign of giving up." I hadn't recalled this interview for years, and I don't even have the type of memory to remember such detail, yet this sentence kept poking at me again and again (in an evil munchkin voice). Why does my mind torment me so? Or why do the evil munchkins in my head torment me so?

I came away with two pairs of proper jeans. Real jeans. Ones' that I would get tired of first, before they got tired of me. And to top off my VIP experience, the skateboarder ended with "It was a pleasure serving you." Now how often to you get to hear something like that in a shop in the UK? I told him that this was the best customer service I had received in a very long time and he blushed. I don't know if the guy just loves his job, has had excellent training, earns commission or simply enjoys chatting up women in dressing rooms, but for a change, I felt like a valued customer and not a pest.

2008-02-14T13:56:00.000-08:00

How Not To Make Play Dough
(as discovered by myself this afternoon).

1. Get two year old child all excited about making play dough. Feel smart about thinking ahead and giving child a preliminary talk about the fact that we are definitely making play dough, to play with, and not biscuits, to eat.

2. Realise you don't have main ingredient, plain flour. Use (expensive) Soya flour instead. Realise you don't have enough salt. Realise your tartar sauce contains big lumps of gherkins, hence why the recipe specified cream of tartar sauce. Realise you don't have vegetable oil, so use olive oil. Start feeling less confident about result considering the only ingredients you have managed to use correctly are the food colouring and boiling water.

3. Mix all ingredients, end up with sloppy mess. Use up all Soya flour and move onto the even more expensive spelt flour. Try not to get irritated when two year old will not let you have a turn in mixing. Do try to ignore two year old's comments about "yummy biscuits".

4. Use up all spelt flour. End up with a lumpy, sticky, gooey, revolting substance not anywhere even close to resembling play dough.

5. Spend ten minutes explaining to whining two year old that this substance will not turn into biscuits. Offer every biscuit you have in the cupboards to child who is still insisting that we are making biscuits.

6. Feel a sense of achievement when two year old child seems to have finally got the message and is peacefully eating a biscuit, deep in thought.

7. Spend another ten minutes explaining to whining two year old why this substance is also not suitable to use as play dough.

8. Chuck substance in the bin when child is not looking and then try to console child who is now fuming because the substance has gone missing.

9. Pull hair out when child looks for it in the bin and finds it there. Spend five minutes persuading child to leave it in there.

10. Make biscuits.

Little Red Riding Hood

2008-02-13T16:36:00.000-08:00

After the disappointment of Icicle Bicycle, I took Ky to see Little Red Hood feeling more than a little apprehensive. I had booked the tickets before we had been to see Icicle Bicycle, other wise I'm not sure I would have braved it.

At least I knew a little bit of what to expect of Red Riding Hood, which in some ways made it worse; a perfect opportunity for any playwright wanting to frighten and terrorise small children, what with the reputation of the wolf. We all know about the wolf. The cunning, manipulative, lying, cross dressing, human eating wolf. The wolf, would, at some point, have to eat up the granny and Little Red Riding Hood. He is obliged to, it's the story. And the woodcutter would also have to slice open the wolf's stomach to retrieve the bodies. Just how gory was it going to be? Would the woodcutter use a chainsaw and laugh hysterically? And what about the wolf dressing up in Granny's clothes? Would he perform a camp cabaret solo in this drag? Would he sniff about in her underwear draw?

I was on the edge of my seat when the show began and suspiciously eyed up the man who walked on stage. He was super lean, super tall and obviously finds it hard to find clothes to fit his odd frame. Why else would he be wearing a blue checked shirt with purple trousers and a red belt? I even wonder if it is a half hearted attempt to dress up as a clown. He starts his one man show, and I think how similar he is to Richard E. Grant.

The show starts off well, Ky is transfixed. He doesn't ask for one biscuit during the whole performance, which is his usual distraction when he is bored/fed up/nervous/tired. This man either has kids of his own, or he's worked with a lot of kids, I love him, he is brilliant and I soon forgive him for his outfit. Although, I am still slightly uncomfortable as we approach the bit in the story where the wolf eats the granny up. There's no getting round it. I whisper into Ky's ear "it's not a real wolf" to prepare him for the event and grit my teeth. But this badly dressed bloke has it sussed, and manages all the eating up and stomach cutting without the sight of any blood or ear piercing screams.

I meet him outside after the show and pass on my appreciation, as well as slagging off Icicle Bicycle a bit (I still can't get over it). He walks off with his trolley with all his props in, and I just think he is lovely. He has the combination of all the right attributes which make him lovely; awkward body frame, ridiculous dress sense, an understanding of children, a trolley, and the ability to address the wolfs eating issues without using gore or violence. Lovely, lovely man.

Restless Legs

2008-02-07T14:27:00.000-08:00

I am slowly starting to return to normal life on planet Earth after being stranded on planet Evil Flu for a week - in Earth time, that is. On planet Evil Flu, every day seems like a month. A long, painful, and torturous month.

I ventured out for the first time on Friday; when I stepped outside the front door I felt like leaping down the road singing "Fame! I'm gonna live forever, I'm gonna learn how to fly...high!". Instead, I hobbled down the road, leaning on the pram for dear life, bought some bread in Sainsburys, and returned home, feeling like I'd just climbed Mount Everest.

Today I took Ky to the park. He had also not been well, so off we both went, looking pasty and fragile. I enjoyed the honeymoon period which happens after being so ill, suddenly the world seems so beautiful; oh look, a flower....oh, the sound of leaves crunching under my feet....delightful...is that a squirrel I see scampering up this mighty tree?...oh look.........dog shit. Oh and someone's left a used condom on the kerb. Honeymoon over.

I think, if I had to describe the worst moment of my visit on planet Evil Flu, was one night as I was lying in bed, thinking "It can't get much worse than this", what with my sore throat, my chesty cough (which I had to try and stifle so as not to wake Ky lying next to me who was burning up a fever), my hot head, aches, pains, etc. Oh but it can. This evil flu had one more card to play. It's a disorder designed to actually push you over the edge of sanity. It's....Restless Leg Syndrome. For those of you who haven't heard of it, I'm not making it up, go on, check it on Google. There are even support forums for regular sufferers. It all begins with not finding a comfortable position for my legs. Then, when I am convinced I have tried every single position imaginable, bearing in mind I am quite creative and not put off by the sheer impracticality of some of the positions I was able to dream up, I try tapping my legs, scratching them, flicking them, pinching them....but nothing, nothing eases that feeling of restlessness. It's like the legs need something, but you don't know what it is. After half an hour, I am exhausted, as if the flu hasn't drained me enough, my performance of leg acrobatics have finished me off. This is when I start losing the plot. "Why can't you just be like my arms?" I tell my legs, giving the emotional blackmail a shot "Look at my arms, they are so still and peaceful". It gets worse. I start having fantasies about amputating my own legs. You just can't imagine how tiresome, how frustrating Restless Leg Syndrome can be. It turns you against your own legs. Or the other way round, I'm not sure. Finally, as I lie there, my legs twitching away, my helplessness overwhelms me and I shed a tear. And I swear, I can hear my own legs laughing at me....

The System

2008-02-01T14:31:00.000-08:00

Unfortunately I have the flu and so I will have to make this short as I'm feeling rather feeble and the double vision really isn't making it easy. Congratulations to William Tapscott at http://aboutderrenbrown.blogspot.com/ for accurately predicting the system, behind "The System". I'll be back as soon as I can sit upright without groaning.

A Life Changing Amount of Money

2008-01-26T23:47:00.000-08:00

I got an email last night which made me feel slightly horrified, I don't know if you've ever had that feeling, similar to the feeling you get when you realise you've locked yourself out, or when you realise you are watching a really dodgy show about fatal circus accidents. Well this moment was more specifically to do with feeling you've somehow ended up in a TV show without quite realising it.

It all started about four months ago, when I saw an advert in Time Out which went along the lines of "People wanted for new TV show - The System - where contestants could end up winning a life changing amount of money". Being poor, the phrase "life changing amount of money" is very appealing to me, and in my little life, I don't come across this phrase very often. When I take my son to playgroup, and one of the other mums calls me over saying "I've got something for you", it's never a life changing amount of money, it's usually a book called "How to stop toddlers taking over and turning you into a nervous wreck." So I felt compelled to fill out the long online application form and got called for a camera interview. I was reassured that the show was not in any way dodgy or embarrassing, they just couldn't tell me anything about it as the show was a secret. So I sat there, in front of the camera, answering their questions "How much is a life changing amount of money to you?" (£500k) "Do you take risks?" (No. But I have done a parachute jump before, which is a bit of a risk). "Do you consider yourself to be unlucky?" (No....waffle waffle...sometimes...waffle waffle....Yes).

They had three weeks of auditions to get through, but I had a strange feeling I would be picked somehow and excited when I got the confirmation email. All they could tell me was that the show was about horse racing and a tipster would give me a series of tips, all I had to do initially was watch the race without betting any money. I was a bit concerned due to the fact that I don't really agree with horse racing, it's against my principles. But as I am quite greedy, and ready to overlook my ethics, what with the pound signs in my eyes getting in the way, I thought I'd go along with it. I also thought if I did win a life changing amount of money, I could make up for it by sending a load of horses off for a spa day or something.

Now while all this was going on, I'm trying to figure out what it's all about. I just happened to be reading Derren Brown's book "Tricks of the mind" at the time, and started thinking it could be something to do with him, I'm not sure why. I then looked up Objective Productions, the company behind the show, and saw that they were behind Derren Brown's TV shows. It was weird as well, Derren kept popping up everywhere, in magazines, pictures, interviews. It was around this time I came across an interview of his in a magazine and texted my sister with the urgent news "DERREN BROWN IS GAY!!!". She was as shocked as I. We both fancied him quite a bit, although after finding out he was gay, it did seem really obvious that he was so, totally gay. And funny how it puts you off. Like a relationship was ever in the wings.

To be honest I went off him a bit when I read his book. He is an illusionist, an entertainer. I was expecting something a bit lighthearted, but it was just one huge rant, and many things got my goat. His dislike for religion and alternative therapies was quite offensive and totally irrelevant. I don't care what you think Derren, I just like the way you do your hocus pocus, talk about that. I found a lot of what he wrote was hypocritical and misleading. I thought he was so vain to think that we would be that interested the narrow minded views of an entertainer. Not a scientist, not a medical expert, an entertainer, someone who in a home filing system somewhere, could be filed in the same category as Paul Daniels. He went from being a fantasy playmate to a gay man who stopped being fanciable and talks a load of rubbish. And to be honest, I've been a bit miffed with him ever since the time I went to see him live, where I got pulled up on stage as a volunteer, took part in a Ouija board, ok it was all very clever what with the glass moving about and all that, but then as he shook my hand to thank me for my participation, I puckered my lips for a kiss and he walked off!! So, to save myself from embarrassment from the hundreds of people in the audience watching, I had to keep my lips in the puckered position as I walked back to my seat, as if my lips sometimes naturally fall into this puckered state. No I haven't been turned down for a kiss by Derren Brown, my lips always do this. It's a pout. Or maybe I've just been stung on the lips by a bee. Or maybe, I'm just preparing my lips to give my cousin, who's been sitting in the seat next to me, a kiss when I return to my seat, after being away on the stage for so long. We're Turkish, we're always kissing, us Turks.

So on one hand I was hoping it would be my one time favorite sexy illusionist idol, on the other hand, I was hoping it had nothing to do with the anti kissing rubbish talking non heterosexual.

So I got an email with the tip, a name of a horse, one of those crazy horsey names that I can not even recall and was told not to bet - just to check the results afterwards. Unfortunately the horse didn't win. I received an email shortly afterwards to tell me that as the tip was incorrect, the production company were now having huge reservations about going ahead with the show, thanks for my time, no life changing money, get back to your boring life missus. So I did, and forgot all about it. A few months passed, I then received the following email:

From:
(Name removed)
You may not know this sender.Mark as safeMark as unsafe
Sent:
25 January 2008 12:34:46
To:

Hi there,

We hope you are well and a belated Happy New Year. We realise that it’s been a while since we’ve been in touch but we just want to let you know a bit more about “The System” before it finally goes out on TV. We've not been able to fill you in on everything before for confidentiality reasons.

As you know the programme had a basis in gambling and horse-racing. What you didn’t know was that it was Derren Brown who was providing the predictions behind the winning horses and “The System” is his new one-off special for Channel 4. His operating anonymously was a big part of the show, so unfortunately we weren’t able to tell you it was him behind it. However, you have played an important part and we hope that when you watch it all will make sense and you will see that your involvement was invaluable.

The programme is currently scheduled to go out on Channel 4 on Friday 1st February at 9.00pm so we hope that you’ll be watching and you’ll get a much fuller picture of what we set out to do. We hope too that you’ll be proud that you were a part of it all; these programmes are impossible to achieve without the trust and kindness of people like you, willing to join in with our rather mysterious introduction to an unknown someone's claimed gambling system.

It was a genuine pleasure meeting you and taking things as far as we did and we want to thank you once more for the time you gave us which we are all very much appreciative of.

We wish you all the very best, and hope you like the show.

Best Wishes,

(Name removed)

Associate Producer, Objective Productions

I knew it was him! Then my imagination took off; what do they mean "you have played an important part", all I did was go to the camera audition and receive a useless email. Have they been secretly filming me? Maybe I've actually been down the bookies and Derren has hypnotised me into forgetting all about it? Who was looking after Ky? My imagination then went for a coffee break and I started to see things more realistically. All they have of me on film is the camera audition. So the chances are, they've probably edited that and probably in such a way that I look like a complete idiot. Then my cousin calls me after reading the above email which I forwarded to her, she has spotted a review on her sky listings which states "Derren Brown sends his racing tip to a single mum from London..." Well that's clearly me! I'm the only single mum in London (imagination back from coffee break).

Then my sister saw the trailer for the programme. It definitely wasn't me. It was another single mum from London. What a slap in the face. Not only has Derren Brown chosen someone else to enjoy all the fame and money, but he's cheated on me with another single mum from London. What was the matter? Was I not single mum from London enough for him? First he insults me with his book, then he rejects me in front of a live audience, and now this. I'm beginning to take this all very personally.

After much speculation I read the email again, then I realised it doesn't necessarily imply that I'm featured in the program at all. I think, he sent an email to a selection of people with the crazy name of different horse on each one, and the person who got the email with the name of the horse who happened to win, got to be 'the chosen one'.

Paul Daniels was alright you know. He would have treated me like this.

http://entertainment.timesonline.co.uk/tol/arts_and_entertainment/tv_and_radio/article3233325.ece

Bruce, eat your heart out

2008-01-22T16:01:00.000-08:00

At my local playgroup, where I take Ky to trash the joint while I have a bit of a gossip with the mums, a delightful OAP who helps out with serving coffees and teas and whatnot, never ceases to amuse me.

Tim, who fancies himself as a bit of a Bruce Forsyth, will always try his best to fit in a joke or two during any conversation. Sometimes they are quips, sometimes long drawn out anecdotes.

This morning, I gave him a crumpled £5 note to which he replied "You need to take that back to the mafia to get it laundered!" (Nearly always followed up with an explanation) "The mafia, you see, would get that £5 note all cleaned up and ironed. Laundered you see!"

Then after I'd changed my mind from having tea to coffee "Nothing wrong with changing your mind...it's..cleaner" I don't think he was sure where he was going with this one. "Are you saying I've got a dirty mind Tim?" "NO! No, no! I..er...is that milky enough for you?"

Last Christmas he dressed up as Santa, walked in with the presents, then while all the kids sat drooling for their gifts, he seized the opportunity of having an engaged audience by performing a stand up routine. No-one could understand what he was saying, his beard completely muffled him, but I don't think there was a Santa for miles who had more fun than he.

Burglars, murderers etc.

2008-01-21T15:13:00.000-08:00

The further irony of locking myself out yesterday, was that I noticed only this afternoon, that my back door had been unlocked all along, since yesterday morning. So, I could have just climbed over the garden fence and got in. And so could have any burglars, murderers, psychos, sleepwalkers, Alzheimer's sufferers and bears. I won't be mentioning this to my mum. It's not so much that she'd be annoyed about having to come down with the keys, it's more the burglars, murderers etc. that would disturb her. Especially after last Christmas. We went to Brent Cross shopping centre for a bit of Christmas shopping and we returned several hours later to find the front door, wide open. My mother stood outside with Ky whilst I went in to check for burglars, murderers etc. with my mum shouting out helpful instructions such as "look in the fridge". My mum was horrified that I could overlook such a thing, and she didn't even know I'd also left the door open a few months before - luckily it was only a short trip to the post office.

Nowadays, when I leave my house, I look back at my front door at least a dozen times as I walk down the garden path. It's become quite annoying; it's turned into a bit of an OCD twitch.

Mother's Day

2008-01-20T16:25:00.000-08:00

Icicle is actually quite a tricky word to spell, so by the time you come to write Bicycle, you are confused and unsure. After both words, you lose your confidence as a speller, so that you start hesitating before writing every few words.

Anyway! I was quite looking forward to my son Ky seeing Icy-cle By-sickle, a show at our local arts centre, which I presumed would be full of trapeze artists and circus type cheery fun stuff as the write up seemed to

imply. Ky went into the auditorium with no problems which was good. I thought he might get flashbacks of Christmas, where I tried to take him into three different Santa’s grotto’s; all the anticipation of queuing up at the prospect of something exciting about to happen would get him on edge, so by the time we walked into a grotto which, if you are an edgy 2 year old with reservations, looked nothing more like a dark cave housing a fat old man.

Once inside, we had great seats which is a bonus and the one thing that gets my goat during the whole performance, the rest of the day, and normally a few days afterwards. The show begins. After a minute, Ky exclaims very loudly “It’s dark”. Pause. “It’s dark”. Pause. “It’s dark in here.” I tell him it will get lighter in a minute which I hope it will. Then the second actor to come on is an adult pretending to be a small child, and he is really, really intense. Does this child character he is playing have ADD? I can see he is trying very much to be like a child but as he is clearly an adult, he just looks demented. At this point Ky announces “Let’s go.” I managed to encourage him to stay, telling him there would be a circus soon, sat him on my lap and kept him busy with biscuits, of which he nervously scoffs many. The show does not get any better. Three actors tell the tale, which very basically is this; Two children who are twins and living with their gran, wonder what has happened to their mother. The gran then explores different possibilities within a circus; could she have been a trapeze artist who fell off the swing? Maybe she was a tight rope walker and fell off the rope? Or maybe a clown (who was the only one lucky enough to forgo a fatal accident). But don’t worry, the twin’s mother hasn’t died at all. She just ran away and joined the circus to ride an Icicle Bicycle. The End.

When I saw the poster advertising the play (see image above), I did not realise the colourful character was actually falling to her death. Luckily, Ky was unable to really understand this morbid story about a mother abandoning her small children. Halfway through, his apprehensiveness gave way to boredom, because although the show was advertised for being suitable for 2 year olds, no 2 year old would really have understood the storyline, (thankfully), but apart from that it was nowhere near visually entertaining enough for toddlers.

Maybe I should have walked out, but after the possibility of the mum falling to her death from the top of a circus tent, I was hanging out for a happy ending. I’m not sure which is happier. Your mum’s dead, or your mum’s not dead, she’s just ran off and you’ll never see her again. It was a strange performance, almost like it was a special show for children who had problems with abandonment issues. Even then I’m not sure if it would have been a good thing. “So, child victim of abandonment, could you relate to this performance?” “No sir, my mum didn’t run off to ride an Icicle Bicycle, she ran off with my uncle.”

I, along with three other mums complained to the duty manager afterwards who took our numbers and promised us a call back from the manager who booked the show. I shall be expecting complimentary tickets to another show.

It wasn’t all bad. Ky had an excellent time in the café afterwards, frolicking with another little girl, a little bohemian chick she was, who kept offering him fluffs of dirt from the floor, to which he would politely refuse “no thank you.”

Then when we arrived home, I realised three things simultaneously:

1. When I arrive home, after unlocking the front door I always put my keys back in my bag and never in my coat pocket. Apart from yesterday.
2. I have, since October, been wearing the same coat. Apart from today when it was unusually mild.
3. On my way out, I always check my keys are in my bag before closing the front door. Apart from today.

I called my mum, who has a spare set of keys, to tell her we were locked out and then we went to a local pizza restaurant for dinner. My mum arrived half an hour later and and as were chatting she told me that my aunt, who had been clearing out my grans room, found a sealed card addressed to me, which she obviously meant to have given me before she died. I burst into tears, which then nearly got my mum going, so I managed to stop the rest of the tears from flowing; we were after all, in the middle of a pizza restaurant.

On our way out, ky got distracted by the waitress waving goodbye, then quickly turned to head out of the door, unaware there was a pane of glass before him which he whole heartedly walked into. This gave my mum the fit of giggles which I was kind of pleased about, after all I had dragged her from her online poker game to come and rescue us, the least we could do was to make her laugh. Ky went all stiff and expressionless as he does when he is embarrassed.