Juggle

Right. I actually cannot understand this. Someone needs to explain it to me.

After years of taking the mickey out of homemakers/stay at home parents/dossers (delete as appropriate to display the most P.C. option), I have come to learn that being in the house all day, certainly with a small child, is not the Jeremy Kyle-a-thon I imagined it would be. Sadly, it is not a festival of Facebook status updating, nor is it an opportunity to browse celebrity cellulite in Closer.

There is actual STUFF TO DO.
When I'm not playing with/feeding/changing/dressing/bathing/entertaining/wiping weird sticky stuff off The Poop, I'm tidying up. When I'm not dusting, I'm hoovering. When I'm not putting a wash on, I'm pegging it out. When I'm not mowing the lawn, I'm renegotiating our contents insurance, to try to ensure it covers my sanity, which is inextricably linked to the tidiness of our contents. (If you're interested I got a belting quote from StopBeingSoBloodyStupid.com)
I don't stop. Well, I do, to write this, and grab a bit of shut eye, but blog and bed aside, Mum jobs are a carousel of responsibility which move so blurringly fast that I occasionally find myself loading dirty dishes into the printer. Don't worry, we'd run out of ink again so no harm done.
So, in essence: woe is me....isn't it a big shame..she's such a martyr...that girl lives for her family...bless her cotton socks...etc
You get the idea.

In light of my ram packed schedule of unremarkableness, can some bright spark please share with me a few pearls of wisdom regarding how I will also pack THREE DAYS OF WORK into this treadmill of unrelenting 'two minute' jobs? How can I possibly spend a minimum of ten hours per day, on THREE DAYS OF THE WEEK, not playing silly beggars round the house, and yet still get everything done?

Countdown

One week.

One weekend.

Seven days.

One hundred and sixty eight hours.

Ten thousand and eighty minutes.

Six hundred and four thousand eight hundred seconds.

Then. It's here.

This time next Monday, I'll be BACK IN WORK.

I'm not bothered though. No skin off my nose. Neither here nor there. Doesn't phase me. No biggy.

Chances are I won't think about it again this week.

*scuttles off*
*locks self in padded room*
*runs at wall for three hours*
*pokes head out of door*

How long left now?

Pooparazzi

In light of this week's publicity, you may be new around here, in which case you won't be aware that I'm at the helm today. What do you mean 'who'? It's me. Miss Briars. The reason for this blog's very being. The apple of Mum's eye. The wind beneath her wings. Or 'The Poop' as Mum so crudely refers to me.
Anyway, Sunday is her day off, and my chance to give you my take on the week's shenanigans. Provided I'm still in one piece.

I've had my every move scrutinised. I've been interviewed, filmed, spied on, stalked and papped. The media's insatiable appetite for Betty Briars has shown no sign of reprieve. And I'm big enough to admit that being shoved into the full glare of a comprehensive Press examination is a lot to handle when you're a mere thirty seven weeks old.
Being sure to promote 'The Brand' in the correct light at all times; having to attend function after function without so much as a single tear or disinterested yawn; facing question after question about the private lives of my parents; this is just a taste of the sort of pressure us celebs are relentlessly under. Mum's loving it, but for me, with such little life experience to draw upon, it's an absolute nightmare. I mean, how do I sign autographs when I can't hold a pen, I've not yet learned the alphabet and I don't know what an autograph is anyway? I just want to eat my dinner in only my nappy, be sick, and then squeeze the sick about in my fingers. But nooooo. Not now I'm a famous baby. I have an image to maintain. 
Honestly, you anonymous lot don't know you're born.

After finding that my cot had been bugged and that my baby monitor had been hacked, I felt the need to seek the advice of babies more experienced in managing their relationship with the media. I jumped on the blower Kai Rooney. What that guy doesn't know about regional reporters isn't worth knowing. He advised me to regularly practise talking with Mum, so she can ensure that my first words are "no comment". He said that although going for a phrase rather than a word was a big ask, mastering this would stand me in great stead for the future. I gave Suri Cruise a bell as well, you know, in anticipation of the international notoriety which I sense is imminent. Apparently she was "too busy", so I left a message. Never got back. Cow.

Bouncing Baby

Still not crawling forwards, The Poop has instead decided to bounce.
This leaping about is executed -

• On any surface. Including humans. Even ones we don't know. 
• At any time. Including middle of the night. And 6:05am on a Saturday morning.
• In any location. Including when you are attempting to fasten her into her car seat. And when you are lifting Boo, the pram, the changing bags and your own handbag down perilously steep flights of stairs.
• Regardless of what she might be doing. Including eating. And pooing.

Cute you'd think. And if she didn't weigh slightly more than most plant machinery, I can imagine it would be. But after being kicked repeatedly in my lady parts, having been continually head butted into biting my own tongue and following handfuls of my boobs skin being grabbed at and grappled with in order to ensure maximum elevation, I don't feel the least bit apologetic for struggling to spot the adorableness.
Not only does this bounding result in me being black and blue with bruises, her lizard like bopping about is conducted with such wild abandon that we have begun to lose ornaments and furniture. An item of which being our actual STONE FIREPLACE, into which she has carved a dent. Don't ask.

Boo bouncing on my 80 year old Nan.
Who has, as a result, been fast tracked for a new hip.

Dealin' With The Do

Isn't that wall very green? Doesn't that laptop cover make me look like I think I'm a thirteen year old girl?

And don't try and pretend you didn't notice that the arm of that settee could do with a bloody good wash. 

Yet our seriously questionable decor pales into insignificance when you take a look at those spilt ends. Absolutely atrocious. And she's only got three hairs. Mine's not much better.

I have previously shared with you my star crossed love affair with home hair dye. Not being bezzie mates with the back of my own head, I have failed to spot the frazzled disgrace I try to pass off as hair which I discovered, after yesterday's news piece, apparently hangs lifeless, limp and singed down my moulted on back. Don't get me wrong - I'm not one of these women who tries to pick holes in herself. I don't study photographs containing me and dig out reasons to go and cry in a cupboard for three days. But after yesterday's three hundred and sixty degree reality check, broadcast to the WHOLE OF THE NORTH WEST IN GLORIOUS HD, I can no longer ignore the buggers. 

So, how to address my cuticle catastrophe? Here is the plan.

Step 1 

Get hair cut.

When I say cut, I actually mean trimmed. And when I say trimmed, I actually mean snip at the ends a bit. And when I say snip at the ends a bit, I actually mean do not make any contact whatsoever with a single follicle on my head, clipping only at the air around it and being incredibly sure not to remove even a millimetre of length from the locks themselves. You should however, placate me throughout this imaginary chopping by pretending that I am being incredibly brave, bold and daring for allowing you to hack away.

You should praise me throughout for "having a change" and if you want to throw in a chorus of "she's getting all the dead ends cut off" while pointing theatrically and dancing around your incredibly pretentious salon, be my guest.

Granada Reports

So. Where do I start with this one?
How about - GRANADA SHOWED UP TODAY. Like you do.
(Though I must add it was the telly channel and not the Andalucian city - which, to be fair, would have been weirder.)

Having spent nine months ensuring I am completely incommunicado to the outside world, and most importantly work, my reclusive ways came to bite me quite firmly on the bum at 10.58am this morning, when I learned of my impending stardom not a moment more than THIRTY TWO MINUTES before it happened. Yes. I hear you. That's exactly what I thought. After I'd finished pooing my pants.

11:03am. Our house went from this

(Complete with Dave's undies on the radiator)

11:07am. To this

(Complete with fresh hoover lines in the rug)

Via this. 

Oh shut up. It's not like it's 'Come Dine'.

So, house tidy. Check. Faded room scent (that has been underneath the sink for two years) sprayed. Check. Me smelling of polish, faded room scent and an over riding whiff of panic induced sweat. Check.

Okay. Next job. What to wear when you're supposed to be funny? A kiss-me-quick hat? Medieval garb? Fig leaves? Actually, scrap that question. I asked it like there were options. As a new Mum I've got four types of clothing.
Stuff that still doesn't fit.
Stuff that fits but is suspiciously stained.
Stuff that hasn't left the washing basket since Betty Poop was born.
Stuff that masquerades as fine, yet up close smells 'unusual', no matter how many times I wash it.
I settled on the latter. It's not like ITV's budget is up to smell-o-vision.

Extra! Extra!

What? We're in the paper again? One with a BIGGER READERSHIP? That you have to PAY ACTUAL MONEY FOR?

*sighs*....This is just the sort of fame that would probably phase someone less used to regular, invasive media exposure, but, for us, well, as you can imagine, it's getting pretty old... *suddenly runs away from laptop*

*screams* 

*dances around sofa* 

*yeehaa's out of open bedroom window* 

*does back flip on front lawn* 

*rides unicycle naked around town centre*

*pours bucket of cold water over self & returns to computer*

Yawn worthy really. Tiresome. 

After last month's article, seeing this in today's Liverpool Echo was another 'so what' moment in our wearyingly Press saturated lives. But, a blog's gotta do what a blog's gotta do. Having reporters root through your rubbish and being recognised in Kwik Save is all part of the territory; although running out with the bins in your nightie at 5am is not the moment you want to discover a swarm of paparazzi camped out on your drive. Especially when you don't wear a nightie. And you didn't have a bin.

Those "Mum Blogger Is Secret Naturist!" headlines cut deep. 

But these newspapers have got to earn a crust, and we're their bread and butter. I've let them hack my phone line a few times, especially that time I cancelled Sky and moved over to Virgin. They had a field day with that one. 

In general, I try to be as accommodating as my fellow celebrity amoebas. I look at it like this: if we're more approachable than Bruno Brookes but less so than Su Pollard, we're pitching it about right. 

My Funny Mummy: Always pushing the limits.
This time of the term 'newsworthy'.

Jubilee Princess

With our penchant for being startlingly greedy and our remarkable ability to jump without any good reason on the nearest slow moving band wagon, the Queen's Diamond Jubilee was a celebration that would not be passing myself, nor my equally unprincipled daughter by. Okay, we're not exactly Royalists. But neither are we Republicans. So, in the interests of fairness and equality, I don't see why fence sitting, unscrupulous, disreputable commoners such as our immoral selves should miss out on a right good knees up just because we don't buy into the whole idea of having values or beliefs. 

Enter Betty's organised, creative, hard-working Godmother Sarah (the girl needs to be taught those qualities by someone), with suggestions of Jubilee afternoon tea in Manchester. The event would involve chatting and eating, with a little token flag waving in recognition of our sponsor. Can I eat and wave a flag at the same time? Yes? Then WE. ARE. IN.

*does a little dance in honour of scones*

Ladies who lunch. Jubilee-stylee.

Now. Study this picture. Study it closely.
Okay, and your question is this. Which lady is massively overdressed? No, no, not Sarah, on the right. She is actually half Filipino, so don't be fooled into believing she put that exotic look together especially.
No, no, not Jean, in the centre on the left. She may be the same age as the Queen, but didn't intentionally set out to upstage her fellow diners with a regal looking blouse and a pair of Bobby Dazzler earrings.
Keeping looking...ah! Yep. There you go. It's the Poop. Dressed in a hugely over the top puffball gown which is supported by layer upon layer of net, silk, chiffon and 'what a little princess' pretention.
But just wait.

In my defence, I have not suddenly been overcome with the desire to photograph my little girl sitting in a plant pot dressed as a flower, nor have I recently felt the urge to sit her peeping out of my handbag like a small designer dog (though this is mainly because it is Cath Kidston and she would definitely break the strap). She is not attired so preposterously because I wish for her to be assumed a WAG baby, or because it is Whit week and I have suddenly been stricken with pangs to pander to religious tradition.
She is wearing this absurdly showy garb because it was supposed to be her Christening dress, she didn't wear it, and I am getting my money out of the thing come Hell or high bloody water.

Ladies and Gentlemen of The Class Of 99

Met up with old school friends yesterday.
I arranged it, so why did I pick a day when I was 'on', with hair made out of actual lard, skin like a clogged up chip pan and belly bloat that over hangs my pants as the ultimate post natal eyesore? Fit. Oh no. Not fit at all. I always confuse those two.


If you haven't seen someone for fifteen years, you need to look good, even if it's your ex window cleaner. No matter how 'nice' the people, they're judging you. Can't be helped. Human nature. We all do it. So catching up with old bezzie mates? Who really knew you? Gotta look bob on. They did. Cows. 
I looked harassed, stressed, bedraggled, unkempt, tramping in late and wet having messed about with prams and bags in the pouring rain on the car park. I swung through the doors juggling baby stuff, my temper and a whinging Poop who was kicking off for her dinner.


Amid my mood and the ridiculous level of my disorganisation, I don't know how I fitted in nerves. But I did. To think that last time I sat talking to these...well...erm...women?.. ha women! Like proper grown ups. No WAY! Anyhow, the last time I saw them I was a spotty little Nike Air Max wearing teen with an enforced bedtime, a subscription to Smash Hits and a penchant for putting off homework by painting my nails with Tip-Ex. I thought Impulse was the height of eau de parfum, that every hair on my body should be erect with hairspray, and that B*Witched were "da bomb".


They were a huge part of my life when it came to working out how to apply cheap make up badly, testing which boys it was socially acceptable to fancy and finding out how to lie to your parents most believably. Amongst the Will Smith posters, the Kickers school shoes, the mood rings and the hair mascara, these people were MY WORLD in 1998. They were the only ones ever allowed to babysit my Tamagotchi. I know. Proper trust that.

Old Lympic Torch

So we went to see this Old Lympic Torch thing.
Didn't look very old to me - it was all shiny and gold. Like a big posh candle. I don't see what all the fuss was about - loads of people getting the day off work to watch this bit of fire wander round. I'm eight months old - everything is fascinating to me, but even I don't get it. Maybe it's just one for the arsonists. 


Mum wanted me to look all British, so she stuck me in this daft headband of our flag's colours. I had to sit there with this little red, white and blue bow on the side of my cranium, like one of those designer babies who have enough hair to warrant hair accessories. On my bald bonce, it definitely lost something. Think it was my credibility. 

We dedicated half of our day just to finding the route and getting a parking space. Then after all those three point turns by a woman who's driving credentials are 'limited', Mum choose to park my pram behind a stinking bloater of a fella, whose morbid obesity only heightened his less than optimal personal hygiene. Question. Why do overweight people feel so at home in sports clothing? They have never taken a moment of exercise in their life, yet spent their days bursting out of trainers and eating crisps in jogging bottoms. And ironic that such a hefty porker should obscure our vision of a national sporting event.
Anyway, in the burning June sunshine the disgusting pungency of Rab C Nesbitt's odour knocked me clean out. Mum thought I was asleep. Nope. I was actually rendered semi conscious by his cloying stench. And this from someone who poos her own pants. Sort it out mate.

Team GZzzzzz

What Flame?

Olympic Torch

We turned out to see the Olympic Flame run through St Helens today.
Allowing us near an event of such national importance was a bold move by the government, so you can imagine my surprise at receiving a personal invitation. Understandable though, in light of our new found fame having recently featured in the St Helens Reporter. Between us and John Parrott, we'd definitely raise the profile of proceedings.

This is just the sort of event that should get right on my nerves - feigned patriotism tempered with tuts and muttering about the state of the country. A skeletal turn out of half hearted pensioners and a few of their more committed carers waving flags from Poundland. But as a local celebrity, there's a certain expectation that we will offer our support, so along we reluctantly went.

Now you're probably at the ready for whinges about how we only saw the thing for two seconds, that parking was horrendous and that my shoes were rubbing me. You're craving details of the twenty six stone man parked immediately in front of us who stunk of sweat and chip fat and how I managed to snap the arm clean off my sunglasses in a rather over zealous opening of them. All of which, sadly, were par for our inevitably accident strewn course, but they, for once, were not the focus of my attention.

Back In The Saddle

In work today for a briefing about my Return To Work. I don't like it. I don't want to. You can't make me.
Sadly the Halifax and an extensive list of direct debits can.

Challenge Of The Day: Part One
Get Up, Get Ready And Go Out
A pleasing start - as if to order, The Poop had a lie in until 7:20am, a time until which she has slept maybe three times since birth. God bless black out blinds. Her laziness enabled me to go for a run, have a shower and dress in a speedy albeit considered manner. Things took a slight turn for the usual when I noted the inklings of a poo (for me, not Boo) and the realisation that today I will not be able to excrete at my leisure. After fifteen minutes of heaving and straining, I achieved moderate success and aggravated piles.  Now running ten minutes late I just had to hope this token stool would satisfy my bowel until my return. Safe to say the drive home from work was a brisk one.
Success Rating: Moderate


Challenge Of The Day: Part Two
Being Nice In The Morning
I have spent almost nine months swanning about in my dressing gown and being ratty until 10am. In future I am going to have to be okay about life from 7:30am. Hmm. Fortunately today I was able to limber up, only having to slap a smile on my face from 9:00am until 11:30am. Barking good morning at a parent on the car park proved it would be harder than I imagined. This warning sign allowed me to regroup before entering reception and conversing politely and charmingly with the office staff, who put through my wages.
Success Rating:  Middling

The Sun Has Got His Hat On

Good weather. Proper dead good weather. Like 'not only are the windows are open but I've taken me thermal vest off I've dug out a pair of flip flops and I'm sleeping in the nud' sort of weather. In the UK, this is, understandably, cause for great excitement. Cue much comparing of our temperatures to those in Spain, gratuitous tabloid photos of nineteen year old girls frolicking on Brighton beach and hosepipe bans being dished out left, right and centre.

Betty, with a coat hanger in her mouth.

It is also time to DO STUFF. It is time to do the stuff that you get to do on, at best, four occasions per year. As these occasions are pleasant fun filled affairs, you can guarantee that God will ensure they fall on work days or days when you have agreed to help someone move a wardrobe. The times they fall on days when you can actually make use of them are RARE.

So we decided to make the sun count and rammed stuff we normally fit into a couple of years of good weather into one compulsory day of fun. And woe betide anyone not smiling for THE ENTIRETY of the proceedings. 

Betty waving at the Tower.

Firstly we went to Blackpool. It must be ten years since I visited Blackpool in the day. Sure, we turn out for the same trumped up collection of dog-eared light bulbs scattered about the Golden Mile every sodding year, but it's a long time since I've been there in daylight when the wind/a tramp wasn't trying to steal my chips. Turns out there's a reason the main attraction operates at night. But if you can see passed the 'Girlz On Tour', the derelict shops and the vomit strewn gutters (you will need to look really hard), you will be rewarded with a day of family fun riding restored old time trams and walking the newly refurbished pier eating a 99 with a Flake in the sun. Maybe it was just heat stroke, but the place didn't seem quite so deviant and morally void in the light of the hopeful May sunshine. Even the brothels had opened their windows to let a bit of fresh air in.

sdrawkcaB

So The Poop can clap. And she can wave. Never in front of the audience I've just bigged her up to, but when there's not a soul about to witness it she'll wave, chat and solve mathematical equations till the cows come home.

But she cannot grasp this crawling stuff. Forwards anyway. She can back up like a good 'un. She can whizz round in a circle like something gone wrong. She can go from sitting up to all fours in a matter of milliseconds. She can do the crab while reciting Shakespeare. But CRAWL FORWARDS? You're having a laugh.
Since she was five months old, Boo has been able to traverse the floor, backwards, and everyone who saw her assured me she would be crawling the following week. That was three months ago. And she isn't crawling. So what happened? Well? I don't have the patience for this. I want it sorting.

I've tried all the little tricks - my hands behind her feet when she's on all fours, putting her down in front of a wall, doing it myself and getting her to watch, putting a toy in front of her to entice her forward. No joy. I've even tried actually manipulating her legs so she gets the idea of how to move, but she just cries at me like this must be another gem from Gina Ford. Or the Rose West School Of Parenting. I always confuse those two.
Recently she's taken to doing that weird rocking/lizard like bouncing thing which, although completely futile in achieving any sort of locomotion, is hilarious and devastatingly cute, especially when she adds a little giggle of joy at the fact she is making me laugh. But, no. Come on now. We have important business to attend to. Let's not get all caught up in this laughter and fun nonsense. This kid still can't crawl.

Put Your Hands Together For...

Boo has discovered clapping. When she first did it it, it was the cutest thing that has ever happened in the history of man (and that's not just my opinion, it's actual Guinness World Record fact). Arms fully extended in front of her, she tentatively coordinated her balled fists so that they met silently together in front of her swelling, proud chest. A big smile crept across her face as she looked up with the most blatant "I've just clapped" expression I have ever had the pleasure to witness. Then, spurred on by the uproarious cheering, whooping and deafening applause of her exultant audience (me), she repeated the action several times, pounding her tiny knuckles together harder and harder in the hope of achieving some sort of sound from the things. Her commitment to audibility was notably dedicated, so much so that I felt the need to intervene in order to avoid her fingers turning into bloodied stumps of self harm.

Opening The Poop's fingers I encouraged her to allow her palms to meet in order to generate the elusive noise she clearly craved. After a couple of successful attempts, Boo threw me off, with an "I know, I know, now get out of the way" jostle that I'm sure will become increasingly familiar over the coming months and years. 

Then...she clapped. WITH SOUND.

She then looked to me, her eyes wide with delight and waited for the impending fanfare. I cheered, roared, hip hipped, sang, chanted, whooped and danced about. She looked at me with a slightly disappointed air, as if my lack of an actual cartwheel suggested I wasn't really proud. Little sod.

To give me a chance to redeem myself, she clapped again. Fortunately, it was at this very moment that Dave returned from work, and was able to run in and add an additional element of merriment to the previously deficient gala of joy. As he entered the lounge to news of our daughter's latest accomplishment, we both immediately broke into the pre arranged carnival of back flips, Highland jigs, fire eating, synchronised dance moves and a costly programme of pyrotechnics set to music.

The Poop observed the spectacle wheeled out by her browbeaten parents to commemorate this historic occasion and, suitably impressed upon its conclusion, she showed off by rewarding our efforts with three or four well placed perceptible claps on the run. 

Oh God. Now she'd gone and done her very first ever round of applause. So we gave back word to Elton John and he turned up to belt out 'Clapping In The Wind' (why 'In The Wind' I dunno. I didn't ask; I didn't want to look ungrateful).

Currant Bun

You know last week, how I introduced you to the digable, sprinkable, squeezable splendour that is my best pal sand? Well this week I've found something else for you. It is something about which I feel equally passionate, fervent and obsessive. Because it is absolutely r-u-b-b-i-s-h.


That stupid burning orange ball.
It sits there in the blue stuff glaring down at us with its hot shinyness and bullies my body into oozing the slick, greasy liquid that spills from my brow and seems intent on dripping in my eyes. It even tries to impair my vision when I am in the important business of hitting stuff, a time when I certainly don't need beads of sweat clouding my judgement - the force with which I clang stuff together could easily see me lose one of the teeth I haven't even got yet. And not only does it get in my eyes, but it makes my armpits stick together. And it smells like Dad's shoes. I don't like it.

U-V-Ay!

Clearly Betty has designs on working the sunkissed, bronzed goddess look, FORCING A POO OUT every time I put sun tan lotion on her face. This is not a joke or exaggeration - this is ACTUAL FACT, as evidenced in this photo.

Right, fine. Another dirty protest it is then...*strains*
*heaves*...when will they learn..?

Put it Away

Good weather. Great innit?

Um. Mostly.

You know what's not great?

1. Bearing witness to those chomping away at a non-existent rung of economic contribution, who, having wobbled their way into two sizes too small garmentry, must then expose vast expanses of pasty, mottled, stretch marked, dimpled hide to my revolted eye.
2. Unwittingly gazing upon the freakishly long, gnarled toenails of an elderly chap in sandals while queuing to pay for batteries in B&Ms. 
3. Catching an eyeball full of streaky brown stained legs, complete with violently orange patches of fake tanned dry skin scattered about knees, achilles tendons, ankle bones and toe knuckles.
4. Noting a fifty odd year old mumsy looking, homely old bird toting about town in the exact same summer top I am currently wearing.
5. Standing in multi-storey car park lifts staring straight into the naked pus slick shoulders of a topless little fifteen year old greasy Herbert.
6. Seeing gargantuan 'lived in' mammaries swing heftily from strappy, ill fitting, unsupportive vest tops.
7. Observing a wide variety of oddly placed terribly predictable tattoos including - swallows, spiders webs, British bull dogs and Tweety Pies.
8. Having to tolerate the sight of sinewy middle aged men in faded sleeveless t-shirts who seem to think their muscle mass is still comparable to that which they commanded in the eighties, when they last wore the t-shirt or hit a gym.

Bubbles

How GOOD is being a kid?

There is no need for Niagara Falls. No cause to seek out the Great Barrier Reef. No requirement for the Grand Canyon. The Pyramids are so-so. The Leaning Tower of Pisa's okay. The Great Wall of China is perfectly satisfactory.
But they're not exciting.

You know the world must be a fabulous place when all you need to be fascinated, mesmerised, captivated for hours, is soapy water. And a stick with a hole in it.

Wel jel.

Leafy Cheshire

Had arranged to go and see a friend's new baby today. Got there and she wasn't in. Hmm. Second time in two weeks she's cancelled our arrangements. Maybe it's...me? Ha! No. Don't be daft. I'm such fun, easy going, non judgemental company - that can't possibly be the case. She's probably kicking herself. Bet my mobile's been ringing OFF THE HOOK with...oh, no, no missed calls. She's probably too busy crying. It's okay Jen, don't worry about it, honestly. So I invested in petrol I can't afford to sit in a sweltering hot car with a tiny baby to drive twenty five miles to see you on one of the very last days of my rapidly dwindling maternity leave while accompanied by a melted box of choccies for you. But really, don't worry about it. I'll just eat the chocs, spread malicious rumours about you and never speak to you again. It's fine.

So. The weather's beautiful, and we're in the middle of Wilmslow. What are we going to do with the day? Having irritatingly left my invite for cocktails at Coleen Rooney's pad pinned to our cork notice board, I rummaged through the outer corners of my brain for what there was to do for free out here in Leafy Cheshire. I drove around a bit, then I drove around a lot. Turns out 'free' + 'Leafy Cheshire' are not bezzie mates. Ooh I know. Cash, pretension, good schools...what's missing? A National Trust building.

Dunham Massey would sort of be on the way home, so stately gardens it was. With The Poop becoming hotter and more agitated in the Micra, I took to fully winding down both windows, wafting maps and blowing in my daughter's face. Sadly this combo does not air conditioning replace. It simply ensures that Boo started to smell like my cheese and onion crisp breath, and that I repeatedly mounted the kerb. In Leafy Cheshire. Where it is frowned upon. If I did it in St Helens, people would just be impressed I didn't hit a pedestrian - but folks round here have values. Makes me feel uncomfortable all this respect for life.

Approaching the Dunham area, I stumbled upon the thought that a car park will, certainly round here, require payment. Before this thought had completed the short trek across my mind, I found myself parallel parking in front of some quaint little cottages in the heart of a beautiful village. Heaving my sweaty carcass from our oversized Micra-wave, I reached in for my daughter. Peeling back her perforated plastic lid and testing her temperature, she appeared to be perfectly cooked, so I poured her in my travel mug and off we went.

Musical Mayhem

There was definitely Music. And clearly I caught the session on a day when the Mayhem was also running TOTALLY AMOK. As I pulled up on the car park, you could literally taste the disorder. I was in the right place. We shuffled through reception and, with baited breath, I whispered my enquiry: "Musical Mayhem?" The mentalist behind the counter nodded knowingly before sweeping us through the centre to the heart of the madness.

We arrived at the designated room where prior to entry, we were urged to sign in (a disclaimer probably in light of the chaos about to ensue). As our helper lady leafed through looking for correct page, the unmistakeable stench of havoc seeped from the turning pages, hit my nose and gave me a blast of the million Mayhems that had gone before. A bolt of excitement surged through my body as I quickly scribbled our lives away, took a deep breath, then entered the room. Late as ever, we entered as the group leader completed a crazy-ass talk about fire exits. And from there it went totally haywire.

Pat-A-Cake, Pat-A-Cake

Having now convinced myself that I can cook (following my recent baby food triumphs), I decided to really push my luck and attempt to prepare something for adults. Yes, I've cornered guzzleability for my easily pleased and other option-less daughter. But for my next challenge I'll coup a dish which exists beyond the realms of mushed up veg.

When meeting with the more refined adult palate, my latest culinary victory must encompass actual edibility. It must embrace actual form and most importantly, it must comprise actual flavour. 

A tall order. Especially for such a shining beacon of gastronomic ineptitude as my heavy handed self.

So, wishing to marry together my desire to churn out passable foodstuffs and my recent shallow, principleless, band wagon mounting, fleetingly fashionable patriotic desire to commemorate the Diamond Jubilee of our dear Queen's reign, I decided the right dish could tick both boxes. 

So, weighing up the options and having the intelligence to ensure I do not saddle myself with something I'll be asked to cook for people every two bloody minutes, I decided to bake. People don't eat cake all the time. They're a special occasion thing. I don't mind being a special occasion chef. So I chose to bake an indisputable British classic. The Victoria Sponge.

That's me. Stirring stuff, adding flour and drinking tea. With an ironing board in the background.
Don't get that on This Morning.

Exquisite Erosion

It's taken waaaay too long for me to find about this. And you didn't pipe up, did you?

After eight long months suffering the humdrum world of tripping from eating to sleeping to pooing to eating, I have come across an escape of breathtaking proportions. After almost thirty five weeks of enduring the achingly uninspiring, gaping void that is my life, I have finally tracked down what was missing. After two hundred and forty three days of unimaginable blandness and inconceivable tedium, I have discovered my purpose. After five thousand eight hundred and thirty two hours of merely existing, I have finally, FINALLY stumbled up my entire reason for being.

SAND.

S-A-N-D.

Just look at it. Even the word teems with humbling magnificence.

Each joyful granule of sedimentary goodness is a voyage of discovery, marvel and unadulterated pleasure. If you've never experienced this residual wonder of nature (which clearly you haven't, or you would have said) it is the best thing in the whole world - and I say that without exception. The hearty fare dished up by mother has now paled into swill-like insignificance. The raging bonfire of parental adoration has faded to a meaningless flicker of negligible warmth. Because of SAND.

KangaBoo

After a shaky start Betty has finally sussed the door bouncer thingy.
Not being in possession of a trigonometry degree, installing the giggling, thrashing Boo between the comedically wayward straps requires a sense of humour very few would struggle to muster at 06:45. It also demands a level of strength, patience and dedication you'll understandably find difficult to associate with my pitifully useless good self. But, thank God, I stuck with it.

Because to watch The Poop willingly dangle from little more than a coat hanger while happily enduring atomic wedgies and elatedly slamming into door frames is a sight of such joyful ridiculousness worth every second of the previous toil and frustration. Her beaming yet slightly concussed face fixed delightedly on mine, she swings, bounces and hops with the giddy wild abandon of a drunken St Patrick's Day Michael Flatley on fast forward.
In new tap shoes.
On hot coals.
At a Guinness convention.

Perfect Timing

An Average Day
0.43%  running

1%       eating, sleeping, cleaning and clothing myself

3%       sterilising bottles, dummies and stand by sterilisers

4%       picking hard skin off my feet

5%       bathing, feeding, changing and clothing The Poop

5.5%    picking all the bits of hard skin up off the floor

6%       trying to pay the window cleaner by scrounging round
            mantelpieces/kitchen drawers/coat pockets

7.07%  blogging

8%       mopping up spillages, secretions and general oozings

10%     playing loudly, messily and far too competitively Betty

11%     moaning about going back to work

16%     pondering the reliableness the baby monitor/the baby
            monitor reception/the baby monitor batteries

23%     assembling prams/disassembling prams/installing car
            seats/uninstalling car seats/packing large prams
            into tiny car boots/unpacking large prams from tiny
            car boots

This is how we roll, albeit rarely, cause the bloody pram is such a ballache to keep messing about with.

Romeo and Drooliet

I thought this bit was over.
Spent the majority of the night repeatedly darting my naked, cellulite spattered frame across our blind-less/curtain-less/completely see-in-able landing. Starkers, shivering and with a head like a bag of chips I hovered, one eye open, over the Poop as she fought her swollen throat, heavy eyelids and the best intentions of her increasingly irritated mother. She juggled the see-sawing importance of sucking her dummy and actually being able to breathe with a surprising level of commitment to the dodie, occasionally turning such an impressive shade of blue that Mr Tommee Tippee himself would have wept with pride. I comforted her germy little body through each rattling breath, my weary boobs determinedly poking their Spaniel like qualities through the cot bars at any given opportunity. Nosey sods.

I woke this morning curled up, foetal stylee, in the corner of the sleep deprivation chamber, unrefreshed, annoyed and with the imprint of the cot railing across my forehead. Excellent. Pulling back Boo's sheets, I was momentarily swept away by an unexpected gush of watery snot and while grabbing hold of her wardrobe to stop a succession of sneezes blowing me clean down the stairs, I drew an intuitive conclusion. She's got a cold.
I know the signs, see.

So what to do with the day? Despite her bubbling nostrils and gunky eyes, Boo was ready to flash a winning smile at the faintest whiff of her own way, so I decided that a walk and some fresh air in her gills should unclog some gunge. After encasing her in every chunky cardy and coat she owns then subsequently spending three quarters of an hour grappling her tightly packed, unbendable limbs into her pram, off we went, both sweating.

With The Poop's chesty breaths sounding remarkably like some sort of small engine we walked over to the park sounding cool and dead fancy with our 'motorised' pram. Either that or people will have thought I had shoved a bit of card in the wheel spokes to make it sound engine-ified. Which, unless you are eleven, is really not cool. Oh. Now the withering glance from that Jack Russell makes sense.

Read All About It

I can CATEGORICALLY CONFIRM that the St Helens Reporter should be immediately absolved of any association with the Leveson Enquiry. Insinuations that my phone was hacked, that my bins were rooted through or that friends have been approached to divulge salacious details of my squalid past are total and utter fabrication.

I HAVE got mahoossive teeth. Betty IS worryingly bald. That wallpaper DOES make our house look like a nursing home.
This is where the accuracies between my life and that of the together-looking charlatan in the picture start and absolutely bloody end. Somebody definitely didn't do their homework.

Firstly: an i-phone? On maternity pay? Er...hello?
Sure, my 'two yoghurt pots attached by a piece of string' don't rival the coverage offered by Vodafone, but their monthly minutes allowance is beyond generous.

Secondly: "warts and all posts"?
Yes, I am incapable of resisting the urge to squeeze and dig at every blocked blackhead and pulsing pore on my grease glazed grid. I've endured more than a handful of scuffles with my aggressively inflamed haemorrhoidal tormentors. My fungal nail infection is rife, my nasal hair is wildly unkempt and I've recently befriended the most long standing of my verrucas, Pauline.
But WARTS? Don't be so disgusting.

Tomorrow's Chip Paper

The journalist from the St Helens Reporter phoned today to gather more information. The call came at 9:10am and in true maternity leave lolling about stylee, my synapses had not yet fired up for the day. Presumably I was on speaker phone for the benefit of the reporters at the New York Times and the guys over at the Sydney Bugle, so I decided it might be a good idea to get my most posh voice out. They all waited patiently while I rooted it out of my pencil case, gargled salt water and warmed it with a few arpeggios; these journos are clearly well versed in satisfying the demands of a celebrity. Bugger.
Note to self: next time demand a bag of only red Jelly Tots in exchange for my precious time. 

Halfway through perfectly annunciating the answer to my first question, I suddenly realised that the actual words I was saying were totally rubbish. Yes, I was pumping out diction the Queen herself couldn't match, but with my brain still somewhere under our duvet, I chunnered on just saying ANY words, and sod's bloody law, they were the all the crapest words you can image. Like "nice". And "egg". And "haem-agglutination".
But in the spirit of my life long battle against any form of silence, I ploughed on valiantly. Foaming at the mouth with verbal diarrhoea (a tasty image for you), I continued to tread water, desperately searching for inspiration in every next word that left my lips. I reached out and ripped frantically at the lawnmower chord that hangs handily from my ear, in the hope of encouraging some news worthy utterances from my flapping trap. It took a few tugs, but suddenly the old noggin engaged. I was away. Charismatic, accessible and charming, yet still managing to retain an air of being better than anyone else, I rattled through my responses exactly as Max Clifford would have planned.

The reporter then arranged a time for the photographer to come and take pictures. Due at that dental witching hour of 2.30pm, it was now 9:20am.
And...mental torment...COMMENCE.

What should Betty wear? What's my best side? Why won't she smile to order? How tidy does the house need to be? What can I do about the massive spot on my chin? Why don't my hands match? Is it really necessary to take a photograph containing my head?

Stop Press

With our Brilliance in Blogging finalist status creating waves of interest, adoration and global celebration across the world wide web, our AA list celebrity standing has finally been confirmed with the recruitment of at least three new readers. Don't be confused; we are now AA list as in the next people after Z list - like seats in the theatre.
Armed with our blogging genius, we sit, proud, occasionally daring to peep out from behind such so what? legends as Andy Crane, Dean Gaffney and Barry 'Cillit Bang' Scott. As I witnessed Lisa Riley squeeeeze her way past Eunice Hutheart to assume her massive, albeit rightful place on our row...I found myself up, shouting, screaming, stamping my feet and demanding an upgrade. We're better than THIS. We write our OWN GAGS. At the very least we should be on the same row as Russ Abbott.

So. I hit the media. And I hit it HARD. Column inches, that's what'll edge us to the very front of the celebrity auditorium. Harper's Bazaar, Vogue, Fly Fishing Journal. They all got a call from me. Incredibly rudely/totally understandably, they didn't bite. So I had a rethink.
What about if I go local? It's cute and will look so much more endearing on This Is Your Life. Who needs an international glossy when I can access the thinking man's chronicle right here on my doorstep.
The St Helens Reporter. Maybe I should throw those guys a crumb?

Pets Corner

I took Mum for a wander round Pet's Corner at Sherdley Park.

Apparently that's an ostrich. He was a proper nark. Kept eyeing us through the fencing for ages, then suddenly started stabbing his head violently through the wire mesh in my direction. Clearly the wallaby at the back there has played before - steered well clear. Spent most of our visit cowering in the corner. Sharing a cell with a giant bird nutter that can run at sixty miles an hour will do that to you.

Wonder what this guy's in for? Probably smell. Locked up to contain his stink. Wire fencing was a mistake then. Something more sealed would have served purpose better. And he clearly had a dicky tummy. Must have tried that fruit puree Mum was touting last week. But when you gotta go, you gotta go. He was making a right mess of himself...in fact he was making a total ass of himself. Ha! Ass - I'll let you have that one.

Look at this fella. Very colourful. Good looking little chap, isn't he? And didn't he bloody know it. Strutting round all pea-cock sure (I'm on FIRE with the puns today). You're a nice shade of blue and I like what you've done with your feathers and that, but you ruin it with all that squawking and showing off. No prizes for guessing if he's had an ASBO. Watch the birdie? No, you watch the birdie - he's getting right on my *tries to think of bird pun*...nope...nerves.