Happy Birthday

Apologies for the poor posting levels of late, I am still in my usual round of work, children and stress and have added in buying and selling a house, which necessitates a ferocious amount of hoovering, GCSE and A level exams which necessitates a ferocious amount of "there there" noises and provision of biscuits and monumentally bad decisions that my offspring have made and left for me to sort out. I don't like this at all, they profess to be adults and demand to make their own choices and then when it goes horribly wrong, revert back to the "mummy fix" mode which 10 minutes before was ruining their life. Enough. Today will be a happy day, for the auntie hath decided soeth.

If you need a warning, this post may now be entirely composed of self indulgent mush, I care not, I love mush but if you are not inclined that way yourself, you can pop back another day, when I shall return to my normal rantie auntie type posts.



Today I am going to celebrate my husband's birthday. I didn't think I would ever write a birthday blog for anyone other than my children, I didn't think I would or could ever love someone as much as I love them but someone somewhere felt I was due a break and sent me himself, who as I said in my wedding vows is a chuisle mo chroi.

I could spend the rest of my life telling you all the things I love about him, because for me, he is the man on whom all others should be based. He is everything I could ever want or need, he is my world. May we be together for the rest of our days, however cloudy, because a world without you in it, Andrew, is one I don't want.

He once wrote this about his dad and spoke these words at his funeral

My Dad

A man who did great things, who built homes, lives, families, people.

A man who showed me how to be, how to live life with thought for others.

A man who showed me what quiet dignity and respect looked like and what those two qualities could achieve.

A man that laughed a lot, that made others laugh in equal measure and always, always could laugh at himself.

A man who showed me that a sharp mind is more powerful than a strong arm.

A man so much greater than this prescribed end.

I was made by my Dad.

And he and your mum, should be so proud because they helped you become the wonderful man you are today, and anyone who knows you would recognise you from the description above. Happy Birthday my love, tha gaol agam ort

In which I think we may actually be moving...

I think we may have bought a house. I say I think because I get confused (and Lord knows I don't actually need any help on that score) I get confused because the English system for buying a house is different to the Scottish one.
Do you need an alert that I am about to do a "things are so much better when they're wrapped in tartan" alert? It may come across with a whiff of Scotia, consider yourself warned. Read on McDuff

When I lived in Edinburgh, I moved 3 times so 6 times I bought or sold a house. It seemed quite straightforward to me. Every Thursday there was a newspaper printed by the Edinburgh Solicitors Property Centre and it had the details of every property up for sale in Edinburgh. They also had a big website but I started buying houses a long time ago as I am a very old auntie, so we started with the paper guide and worked up to interwebs.

All had open viewing on Sundays 2-4pm and some also had viewing on Thursdays 7-9pm. This means you don't have to have a clean and tidy house every day in case you have a viewer, just twice a week, slightly more manageable for the more slatternly amongst us, you know I mean my children don't you? I am a very tidy sort of an auntie, the children - not so much.

The vast majority of people didn't use an estate agent, because you didn't need one, you showed potential buyers round yourself and if people were keen they got their solicitor to lodge a note of interest, when you had enough notes of interest you set a closing date, usually a Friday at 12 noon. Then your solicitor opened up all the sealed bids and you chose the best bid for you. The standard date of entry was 8 weeks and when you sold your house you went and chose your new one. Nobody pulled out or changed their mind or tried to get more money out of you. If you made a bid and it was accepted then you got the house, for the agreed price on the agreed day. Simple.

In the interests of fairness, you might have had to pay out for a survey on a house you didn't end up getting. You may also have paid more than a house was worth but negative equity was uncommon and it's a whole lot cheaper to buy and sell using a solicitor if you don't have to fork out for estate agents commission.

Buying in England seems absolutely fraught with tension and complication. Clearly I don't understand it at all, every time The Beautiful Husband tries to explain it to me, I cry and plead for him not to scare me, so he stops and we go back to drinking wine. He is a very patient and kindly husband, some may even say saintly, for he puts up with a lot.

But people seem to be able to change their mind, often right up until a day or 2 before moving with no financial consequence or penalty. People can offer you 1 price and the come back and try and renegotiate when you are so far in it's easier to take the hit financially rather than try and find a new set of buyers. That is just bonkers. Sometimes they pull out because they can't buy your house as someone has pulled out of buying theirs, so genuinely can't proceed. Sometimes something they like better comes along. Surely there must be a better way?

The house that I think we are buying, we are the 3rd set of buyers, it has been sold very quickly each time but somewhere along the way, the chain has collapsed. They have been doing this since last August. If this happens to me when I am selling this house I will be a gibbering wreck, your auntie is so not cut out for that level of stress.

I have been hugely afeared of this process, I don't cope with house moving stress well at all, which is why I have lived here for the last 13 years. This house was brand new when we bought it and we only bought a brand new house so the chain couldn't collapse. I needed to know I had somewhere to live and I needed to know I could get in when I needed to and I needed to know how much it would cost me. I am sure I have blogged before about my enormous need to know ness, which extends to every area of my life except my children's antics, there I have a definite need to not know.

This time round it's a trickier process as due to my mental need to know that I have a house to live in, we haven't put this one up for sale. I can't bring myself to until I know, definitely and for sure, I have the keys to the other house. This is a financially STUPID decision as we will own 2 houses for an unspecified period of time.

So really this post is to warn you, I will be stressed and skint for the forseeable future. You. dearest readers, will be required to provide consoling words , soothing tones, "there there" noises, cake and gin.

On the upside, when we move in, we will be having A HUGE party/wedding reception for all family and friends who didn't come to The Mother Country for our secret wedding and you are all invited.

My Saturdays

5 am - Small boy (aka The Boy Wonder if you read my husband's blog and if you don't, please do, it's over HERE )awakens and shares every thought he has in his head with us. This can last a long time, he thinks a lot, usually about stuff I know nothing of. If we are lucky he will go back to his room and play, there is still a lot of chat but it is further away and occasionally I can get back to sleep. If he needs company his dad will oblige and I will try and sleep on until...

6.30am - a teenager's alarm will go off. They will be blissfully unaware of the alarm THAT IS RIGHT BESIDE THEIR HEAD and will sleep through it, I will hear from 3 rooms away this alarm and will get up and switch it off for them. Sometimes I can switch off 2 teenagers alarms for them. The Beautiful Husband is thinking of making an alarm clock that only teenagers can hear to save my sanity. I will go back to bed until

7am - when I have to get The Beautiful Son up for his paper round, I will continue this wakening at

7.15am, 7.30am, 7.45am, 8am, 8.15 before I reach full fat cross shouty shreikery at 8.30am and he gives in and gets up.

9.30am is swimming lessons and I get to stay home to tidy up and do laundry whilst The Beautiful Husband encourages the small boy to stop talking and swim. TBH fancies himself as a swimming coach and is particularly proud of his "waft the trump" TM explanation of hand position.

10.30 am is library time followed by Costa coffee, this is nice, we like this, we are cheerful and small boy is chatty, chatty with cake is his favourite. He is excellent at both.

12.00 - will be home and lunch and lego, accompanied by chat.

2pm may see older children appear looking for food and hangover cures, then they will then return to their burrow when small boy starts to chat to them

The afternoon will probably be spent going to see houses and deciding we can't live in them, we do that a lot, we are excellent in finding houses not to buy.

Tea time will be good, followed by shower and stories for small boy, then he will by 8pm be in bed.

At 8pm, we will be contemplating a large glass of wine and a chat, with each other because despite being together all day we have been unable to say 2 uninterrupted words to one another. We will then be joined by 1 or both of the teenage children who have spent the day in bed and are now bored and in need of someone to chat to. The Beautiful Husband is convinced the children have a rota that NEVER EVER allows us to be alone. If by some small chance they both leave the small boy will get up and need a drink/a chat/something or Eldest Beautiful Daughter will come home for the weekend.

At 10.30 pm, we will go to bed as we have been exhausted by the children. The teenagers will go out, throwing their heads back with glee and an air of my work here is done, it they had moustaches they would twirl them, along with an mwah ha ha ha laugh.

Midnight will see a teenager waking us up as they try to be quiet, occasionally accompanied by vomiting.

2am will see the teenager who isn't home come home and wake us up with trying to be quiet.

5am will see the small boy awake and fully refreshed from his 9 hours of blissful uninterrupted sleep and just raring to go, he's got a whole load of thoughts he just has to share with us.

In which your auntie is bemused and confused ...yet again

In preparation for our house being shown to the general public (can you feel my terror oozing out t'internets at you?) I have had to tidy up, proper Kim and Aggie style tidy. This is difficult as we are clearly running the Leicestershire branch of slobs'r'us, get your slatternly habits ere. I can't even imagine it, ever, being presentable enough to actually sell. So I have had to channel my inner Anthea. This is difficult as my general default state is "can't be @rsed"

The husband is scared.

The children are very scared.

There is a whole rantie auntie post about the state of Beautiful Baby Daughter's bedroom and because I am a kind auntie I am not sharing the story, the photos and the smell with you. You're welcome.

Whilst clearing out 13 years worth of accumulated crap, I came across what I thought was an empty perfume gift box, you know the kind, the ones your granny gives you at Christmas. Anyhoo, I was all ready to recycle it but when I removed the plastic liner, I found a box of contraband, things my children would not have wished their mother to find, so had hidden in an empty box. There were things your auntie really did not want to even think about, never mind find.

In the middle of all the stuff they wouldn't want me to find was a harmonica.

Yes, that's right, a harmonica.

And that leads us neatly to why I was bemused and confused.

The C word

I don't like the C word, no, not that C word, although I don't care for that one either. My C word is compromise. In the interests of fairness there are many C words I do like - comfort, contentment, commitment and cake to name but a few, but compromise as a concept, presently I am struggling with.

In my head I think I can compromise, in my head I think I DO compromise, all the live long day, especially with the children. Maybe that's it, maybe I've used up my whole quota of compromise on the children and there's none left for the rest of the world.

Dearest readers, your auntie is trying to buy a house, I am all Zoopla'd and Rightmoved out. This is pushing your aunties ability to compromise to the max. I am fundamentally unsuited to decision making at this level, truthfully, at any level. This is probably why I haven't moved in 13 years and just about every room in my house is the same greyey/pinkey/beigey shade. However I am now married to someone who doesn't find decision making troubling and who's ability to compromise exceeds mine in spades. Clearly if he managed to marry me and accept all that comes with that gig, he is King of Compromise.

King of Compromise is a sensible sort of chap, he doesn't expect to find a 5 bedroomed detached house within walking distance of Market Harborough town centre decorated exactly to our my taste that costs £3.50. He has set a budget, a sensible budget, he is willing to look at each and every house and decide if we he can make it what we I need, you see the theme emerging. I have a huge capacity for wanting things my own way.

He knows that we should downsize, in September for 12 nights out of 14 there will be 3 of us living in this house and 2 of us share a bed. A 4 bedroomed house is more than ample but I would like a 5, so that all of the children have their own room, despite the eldest having her own house! He knows that by downsizing we will be able to retire a bit earlier and have enough money for decent chunks of travelling both before and when we retire, that bit of the plan I am fully signed up to, himself and I are ace at going on trips together. He knows we will need to buy a house that needs work so we can afford the space and location.

I know it's massively important to him to live in a house that has his name on the deeds and I know it's important to us to buy our first home together. I am genuinely, fully up for that part of the plan also. I am quite surprisingly cheerful about buying a wreck and doing it up, I am SO in awe that himself can fix things and rewire and re-plumb and tile and do manly things, I have no skill whatsoever and am massively impressed at his grown up ness and the fact he has 3 tool boxes

When I look at the houses on the internet I think I can live in them, we go and see them, I realise that I have a list as long as your arm about what I can live with, I want a better house than I have now for 2/3 of the price. But I still can't quite get my head around the concept that downsizing means a smaller house, with smaller rooms, when my children are actually getting bigger and have more stuff than ever. However, he can decide and compromise in 5 minutes flat, usually he's put an offer in before I've managed to drive home. Then I get the fear, that they will accept his offer and I will actually have to live in the house that a short while ago I was okay with.

I keep telling myself it's because I haven't found "our" house yet, that somewhere out there, in walking distance of Market Harborough town centre there is someone about to put a 3/4 bedroomed house on the market, just crying out be renovated and decorated in greyey/pinkey/beigey tones.

auntiegwen's guide to getting married

Ah you knew it had to come didn't you? The whole process of booking a wedding is sheer comedy blog fodder. The moral of this story is all about practice making perfect.

Practice smiling, a natural smile that won't scare the bejaysus out of people that you can turn on and off in a flash. You will have a million things said to you that your brain won't begin to understand, it gives you a minute to come out from being stunned and respond. You will also have a gazillion photos of you taken, from all angles and if like me, you look hideous in photos, it's best to get the practice in. This will be your most useful skill in this whole process.

Now stand in the street and hand out five pound notes to strangers passing by, this will get you used to giving away money for nothing, consequently this will make them very cheerful and you get to practice your smile at the people you give the money to. This happens more than you'd like.

When booking anything wedding related, have a figure in your mind about how much you think it might cost, then when you go and see the wedding related Johnny about it and they tell you the wedding price, you practice your smile and the handing out of money and then in the car on the way home, you and your beloved can have a good chuckle about how far out you were price wise, or an argument.

If like me, you are a (ahem) mature bride, when searching for a frock, always warn the shop lady that you are the bride, otherwise you will find yourself pointed in the direction of some fairly startling two pieces with matching hats, who designs these Mother of the Bride outfits? For me t'was streemly difficult to find something that was special enough to be my dress but not in white or ivory. On the plus side, I got to practice my smile, when my beloved sniggered every time he heard the word nude. Yes, my dress was nude, my shoes were nude, my stole was nude, my underwear was nude, knock yourself out Andrew, I will never say nude again.

Even if you have a small and intimate ceremony with just your closest family and friends, it will still take a ferocious amount of time and organising. It is probably best that you don't have it 5 days after Christmas as Christmas still needs the same amount of time and orgainising. You will also be low level aware of how your fancy frock fits and how much more you normally eat at Christmas, this may culminate in an 8 mile run on Boxing Day, whilst everyone at home gets stuck into the Quality street.

If you go to a wedding fair, prepare to be bewildered at all the things people appear to have at their wedding. Things you didn't know existed in that context or know you needed. For me I knew about chocolate fountains but thought they were a bit passe ditto fireworks, doves and magicians. New to me were ice cream vans, candy floss machines, pick and mix candy buffets (this will be after you've shelled out for a good dinner for them) and photo booths with props at the reception. My strangest was operatic pretend guests who would get up and burst into song between courses. You might be struggling a bit with your face to get beyond confused at this point never mind into a smile.

You may also decide you need sparklers and fortune tellers and romatic table trivia for your guests. You may also ponder that bubbles in mini champagne bottles would be great fun. You may get carried away in the whole wedding nonsense (who am I to judge you?) and also think that giving the ladies a mini white heart shaped bowl wrapped and tied in crisp white organza and navy blue satin ribbon so they could keep their own wedding rings in or put a wee tea light in would be a lovely gesture... This is the point at which your beloved will think you have actually lost the plot.

If you have managed to source said sparklers, fortune tellers, romantic table trivia in butterfly shaped boxes( in my defense it only came in butterfly shaped boxes), bubbles in mini champagne bottles and heart shaped mini bowls in white organza and navy satin... and breathe... if you have managed to source all of that, wrap it, pack it and fly it 350 miles, it's probably best that you remember to put them out on the table and not forget about ALL of it till around 10pm when the meal was all finished and the people who were most likely to enjoy it were a few glasses of the rose to the good. At that point my beloved family and friends were making their own entertainment.

Afterwards when it's all over, you will have tons of free time as you don't have anything wedding related to do, you get a bit overgiddy with it. You need something to occupy that previously wedding related void of time and money. I have now persuaded my beloved that we now need to buy a wreck of a house and renovate it, as we now are practiced at using up all of our spare time, spending money and smiling at the same time.

And when you reflect, you know it was the best day ever, worth all the time and effort and then some. You don't need to practice your smile any more.

Even on a cloudy day

Even on a cloudy day has become our household mantra. It's always easy to be there for someone in the good times, when the sun is shining on you and the world is good. The people you want with you are the ones that stick with you when the sun goes in.

In a few days time my blog will be 6, a few of you have been putting up with my drivel ahem reading about me and mine for that long. I have shared stories of my general lack of ability to be a responsible middle aged woman in a Per Una cardie, been with me when I gave up teaching, laughed with me over my romantic disasters and kept me going when the kids were defeating me. I think the kids defeating me has been the main theme of this blog. I should really be giving out prizes or money for your therapy at least.

Instead of which, I shall share with you a secret and possibly a photo or 2 of my favourites.

On Sunday, I got married. You can read all about it HERE

Things that make me a bit tetchy part 1

This could be a very rich seam of blog fodder as I am only a Per Una cardie away from proper grumpy old womanhood. I expect I'll get my badge after Christmas. You don't need a middle aged woman alert/rantie auntie warning do you? Proceed then, dearest readers to the next paragraph, at your own middle aged pace.

This is a refrain really, as I expect I have blogged upon this topic several times before but as, like your good auntie, you are getting on a bit and occasionally (okay, all the time, in my case) forget, I shall revisit this particular topic.

My 2 younger children cannot get up in the morning. I am a human alarm clock in a middle aged mummy form. My children have numerous devices all of which can wake me from 3 doors away but do not make a dent in their teenage slumber. Every morning I hear their alarm, get up, knock politely on each door and tell them it's time to get up. The Beautiful Son will actually get up then, this is a huge improvement on before.
I will go off and do what I please, sometimes I go back to bed, sometimes I make coffee, sometimes I go and log on and start work. The Beautiful Baby Daughter, however, is another story, she has been eaten by a very grumpy and hard done by creature. The Beautiful Baby Daughter was no slouch in the grumpy department herself but the ante has been upped. This auntie is displeased, mightily.

Whatever I am doing, I have to back at 5 minute intervals to reawaken Sleeping Beauty, and every 5 minutes, I am thanked ever so politely for continuing to ensure that she isn't put back on report for being late. Not.

If I don't go back at 5 minute intervals, she doesn't get up, she gets put on report, the school get cross with her, she gets cross with me and then the school get cross with me too, as sometimes I have to work outside of the house and I can't stand there at 5 minute intervals until she gets up. I expect if I didn't, she would remain there forever, a Miss Haversham type figure in owl pyjamas with last night's mascara smeared all over.

So sometimes, I'm in a hurry so I will say politely "C'mon Luce, get up, I can't hear you moving" to which she will thrash her arms and legs around the bed. But that doesn't fool me, oh no siree Bob, I have been a waking up Mummy for a very long time. I don't go into her room as the level of squalor/chaos/health hazards scare me so I remain very firmly on the clean side. We continue this at 5 minute intervals until she actually manages to get out of her pit, sorry typo, bed.

I have now added a festive twist, I now sing "Deck the Halls" with the full accompaniment of fa la lah's. I then go on to my repetoire of Christmas songs, I have many, I used to teach 4 year olds. Today I got to "When Santa got stuck up the chimney"

I expect Childline will be getting an official complaint about me soon because she wasn't very happy with me this morning. My favourite bit was "... and you're not even singing nicely to me, that was just shouty and mean"

University Challenge

Once again, the time has come to pass, that your auntie has a wean who has to choose where to spend the next 3 years and several thousand pounds of your auntie's hard earned cash. Decision making is not a skill that is in abundance chez auntiegwen, we tend to be of the "aye, that'll do" sort so these kind of things tend to be a wee bit trickier for us. Than for regular humans, obviously.

This time it is the turn of The Beautiful Son, who is further challenged in this area by the fact that he doesn't really know what he wants to do when he gets there, except the usual studenty pursuits of drinking and partaying. So we try the "what kind of a career do you want?" type approach but that's not helped by the fact that my bold boy only wants to earn bucket loads of cash and boss people around. And no, it's not helpful hearing that it's because he lives with a bossy kind of mummy and 2 ferociously bossy sisters that that's his life dream.

So writing the personal statement was a bit of a stretch for him as he hasn't a peg to hook his coat onto, so to speak. And I didn't much care to be told, by his teacher, at parent's day, WHEN IT WAS TOO LATE TO DO ANYTHING ABOUT IT (sorry about the lack of a rantie auntie middle aged woman warning) that she had red penned about 80% of it as he hadn't explained why he wanted to do management and the lack of any kind of relevant A levels. To make me reach further for the gin, himself tells her that he had sent off his statement anyway because he felt anyone helping him write it was kind of cheating. That's his view on revision also, it's about what he knows on the day, he's always been the same, drives me up the wall.

So, he writes the statement, failing to mention why he wants to be in management. For the love of God, my son a management consultant, the bitter irony of it, he'll probably drive a BMW as well (if you are new here, I have had a very chequered romantic history with either IT or management consultants who drive BMW's and are Virgo's or Gemini's.) He also has to boast a bit about why they should take his cash over his friend Craig's cash. This is hard, as Craig impressed our local MP on his visit to their A level politics class, that Craig got to spend a week as an intern at the Houses of Parliament. When Craig was there, my son was lying in bed, in his pants watching Rab C Nesbitt on youtube.

He then has to choose 5 universities, and to be fair to him, he visited 2 of the 5 and could locate on a map the other 3. And only 1 of them were chosen because they had a 2 week freshers.

So this control freak of a mummy has left him to his own devices pretty much, man, how that kills me and he now has offers from 4 of the 5, we have yet to hear from the last 1 but keep your fingers crossed as it's the one he really wants. And it's at home, if he gets in my boy will be going back to The Mother Country.

Little update - Edinburgh said yes, so 5 from 5, my boy will be going home

In which I am temporarily deranged

Last week I was complaining about my mother and then almost to illustrate the point that I am turning into her, I completely lose the plot. Do you need a middle aged woman alert? thought not, that's what you expect now really.

I could cite you several examples of my losing what few marbles I have, I could regale you of how I am so unenamoured of my new smart phone (cue hoots of derisory and slightly maniacal laughter from your auntie) and how my handbag (Cath Kidston large canvas tote, greyey bluey with polka dots, what? I know some of you were wondering) seems to keep accessing the interwebs upon it, resulting in 02 texting me to tell me I have used up all my data allowance. This has resulting in me keeping my phone switched off and I now switch it on once a day to check if anyone has texted or rang me. So, to recap I have a fancy phone that I chose so I could tweet and bookface and blog and email and chat and text etc etc all the time, so I could be part of the digital revolution and I now keep it switched off and check once per day. It is driving the beautiful children wild, all that technology going to waste. I am only feeling slightly superior to my mother in that I can actually text on it, albeit at arms length and with very wild spelling (the keys are very small and it's a qwerty keyboard, c'mon it's dead easy to hit the key next to the one you were aiming for.)Plus, I do keep it with me at all times just in case I need it, it's not in the kitchen drawer with the tea towels like my mother's.

I could recount the middle aged lady noises I made when I received a work email and in the signature at the bottom, not only was there the person's name and job title, there was also a photograph. A sultry pouty pose peering over one shoulder with a startling heavy blusher application to confirm that indeed the 12 year old child sending me the email was indeed a (and I quote) human resources executive.

We will brush over the fact that in the middle of the new James Bond film, I got overly excited and at a moment of much action upon the screen (I think the lady with the curly hair was kicking someone/something - I had eaten myself into a sugar coma at this stage) I exclaimed, in a not as quiet as it should have been, voice "Those are the Jimmy Choo's I want, they're called Lace" I don't think all the James Bond fans who were appreciating the film needed my fashion interjection.

And finally, in a shamefaced, fess it all up fashion. I completely lost the plot and spent £210 on madly expensive goop for my face. And as if we needed any more proof of how mental/old I am, I couldn't even read the damned instructions on how to apply it (even at arm's length), for all I know it could say " Ha ha ha, we have your money old woman, you are old and now £210 poorer, you don't need instructions, you will still be old even with the £210 cream, it matters not a jot in what order you apply them, in what way, use liberally and come back and buy more, sucker"

I still feel queasy when I think of what that money would buy, I have tried all the justification maths but I can't justify spending it at all, in any way, shape or form. This is nice lady things gone mad. I could give you my top 3 excuses as to why I succumbed to the hype

I am old, I would say I am middle aged but unless I live to 92 I would be lying

My skin tone would be scary to the general public if I went out with a naked face

My daughters are in that lovely youthful bloom stage and I just look awful by comparison (maybe I should make friends with some 80 year olds? then I would look better)

I just want to look like the best version of me I can, I am getting older, I don't look as good as I did 5 years ago and I'm doing all the right stuff, I run, I drink water, I eat healthily, I don't drink much now at all, I sleep well and usually 8 hours a night but I still look old. I have to accept the inevitibilty of ageing but I don't want to yet.

Thank God I don't have the money for plastic surgery, you wouldn't recognise me.

End of Story

Shall we start with the nice bit? If you're in need of a cheer up, just read the next paragraph and look at the picture of the cute baby and then click away, after that it's fairly rantie auntie, you have been warned...

I have been home, my new nephew is beautiful and teeny tiny and was a bit yellow but grand now, look how weeny he is compared to my big heffalump of a boy

Okay, that's the good bit, from now on in, it's fairly grim, on your own head be it

I am so trying and failing to enjoy my visits home now, I could give you a list of my main reasons why but I just sound like a grumpy teenager and the world so doesn't need another one of them, my beautiful baby daughter is, in fact, the world's grumpiest teenager and I have no wish for you to see where she could have got that from.

I really struggled with my mother this visit, her need to have her own way at any cost and her refusal to compromise annoys the bejaysus out of me. Her anxieties and stresses about any tiny change in her routine of watching telly and watching telly exasperate me beyond words. This combined with her life long habit of not listening and not remembering make for a bumpy time.

My mother's memory is worsening. A few days of groundhog day conversations made me say that I was worried. Her vehement denial and her refusals to visit her GP over the last 6 months (for her usual BP checks etc) makes me think she knows her memory is worsening too. She is remaining in denial land, no matter how many times we tell her that things have improved hugely since her mother's dementia demise, she remains resolute. There is no problem, she is absolutely fine. End of story, those 3 words are my mothers final and much repeated end to any argument. I must have heard them hundreds of times in my life.

I can't help wondering if her inability to accept any change and her lack of doing anything are because of her mental state. Is it the chicken or the egg? Does she stay at home watching telly and not go out because she can't go wrong? does she not listen to us so she can blame that for not remembering? when did she start having the word finding difficulties?

My dad says he can't remember the last time she cooked a meal, or did some housework or even did the shopping. He has been doing it all. She either tells him things 5 times over ar not at all and then gets completely furious with him when he says she hasn't told him, saying he's the one with the memory problems. He has raised the subject about her memory but the ensuing arguments it caused made him not push the point.

My sister says my mother has stopped visiting, she used to drive the 14 miles a few times a week but she hasn't been for months. My sister has also noticed that mum listens less well and retains less but sees this as an ongoing problem, a gradual worsening, an inevitability.

I am not a good daughter to my mother, our relationship isn't the best or the closest or the easiest, I find it difficult to be with her. The parts of myself I particularly dislike are things I associate with my mother. I put a good face on it, I visit, we speak, I know she would help me if I needed it, I try but it doesn't come naturally to me, I don't have the ease with her I have with others.

I am not kind and patient like I am with others who suffer memory loss. I am not accomodating and cheerful and understanding, I am cross and tetchy and I find it incredibly tedious. I seem to lack genuine compassion for her, if she was your mother I would be much more understanding. And that is a huge shame, she must be so scared, she looked after my gran who had dementia, it must be like facing up to your own personal doom. This is a massive failing on my part, something I will have to really work on.

I don't understand why she won't go to her GP, I have an overwhelming need to know, no matter how bad I need to know what I am dealing with. I am an ex nurse, I believe in getting checked and seeing if any drug or therapy or lifestyle change can help. I believe in having the positive mental attitude, in matters medical I believe that early diagnosis is crucial. I sincerely hope she goes and gets checked out to see if there is anything that can be done to help.

But maybe I'm thinking about physical problems but it's not a physical problem, maybe if it was my mind I was scared of losing, I would be right where she is, in denial.

The return of the auntie...

Well hello there, I can't believe that the computer nazi who hates my blog has popped out and left my blog open, after 9 months of access denied flashed across the screen I was stunned when I logged on as I have done a few times a week, every week for the last 9 months and I wasn't told to feck off. I wonder if anyone is still here, all this time after my last post, jeez, I have made humans quicker than this!

I feel like I should have a note from my mother explaining my absence, like at school, so

Dear readers

I am so sorry that auntiegwen hasn't doen her blog for the last 9 months. She apologises for any inconveneience caused by the lack of tales of the beautiful children, her general failure of life stuff and the ongoing struggle to give up cake. Genuinely this wasn't her fault, as her broadband is paid for by her employers and when they changed provider, Blogger was banned, The Book of Face stayed but no blogger.
She has no idea if she will be allowed back on anytime soon, so make a nice wee cup of tea and sit back and read on.

So where to begin, updates mibbe?

Eldest Beautiful Daughter

Is now in her 3rd year at uni, only 6 months left really as dissertation due in on April twenty something but we don't talk about that as real life still scares her. Finally, Glory be to God in the highest, she has a job, in a pub, and all the barmaids look like her, same size, long dark hair, nope not creeped out by that at all. All good with the EBD. She's still with Hot Boy but we see him so much less now she has a job but he's grand anyway.

The Beautiful Son

Doing his last year of A levels, still talking in his old man Scottish accent, still on the drunk paper rounds, spending most weekends looking at uni's, bit taller, still completely able to annoy his sisters to Olympic standard. New addition is a 1980's Adidas trackie top usually worn with a bobble hat but plus ca change, plus c'est la meme chose.

Beautiful Baby Daughter

Is killing me, Jesus, Mary and Holy St Joseph, she is out teening the world, it's not a blog post long it's an advert for contraception and I've no cake or gin to hand. She is queen of the eye rolling, sighs and disdain. Her hair has been pink, green (that was an accident, t'was meant to be blue), blue, pink again and now black. She looks like a scary member of bananarama. She remains unimpressed with everything connected to her family, no one understands her except her friends and life is just so shit for her. I do understand her, she wants to have her own way in everything and do nothing for anyone blood related to her in return and have NO personal responsibility for anything. If anyone is having that gig, it's me, I've earned it.


The Beautiful Parents

Slightly more dottery than before, dad still gadget mad, mother more forgetful but still with us, Glory be to God.

My sister

Is definitely having a baby, My new nephew will be born on October 24th. Despite having no money, nowhere to put a baby, becoming diabetic and having to have insulin, having such high blood pressure she can't do anything etc etc, my sister after 8 years of trying and several miscarriages is deleriously happy. And so she should be.

and me?

Well, I'm just grand. Still fond of the cake and the gin. Still bewildered by life most of the time, still trying (and mainly failing) to keep some kind of control of the children, but still here and still happy with my lot. Only new stuff in the last 9 months has been a slight addiction to Emma Bridgewater black toast range and house porn. I have decorated the hall, stairs and landing and the lounge in the same pinky, greyey beigey shade I painted my bedroom, oh don't give out to me, I have no energy for imagination. I am slightly obsessed with Etsy now and finding

a - a shabby chic type shoe cupboard for the hall
b - a shabby chic type very small, narrow bookcase for the landing that I can display things on ala Kettles Yard
and
c - a pair of nude killer heels for a posh do I'm going to at New year.

I have also managed to keep some orchids alive for some 6 months and I am running again.

If you are still here reading, good girl yourself, you deserve some cake or gin for that and many thanks to the people who emailed, texted, got in touch some other way to ask if I was okay. I was/am.

Hopefully, I'll be back before another 9 months.

Isn't it strange

... how years after your precious baby has learned to sleep through the night, at weekends you are sometimes still kept awake and pacing the floor by them? Or rather you are kept awake by pacing the floor waiting for them to get home. I'm not pacing the floor with a slightly inebriated 6 foot 3 lump of useless upon my shoulder, that would be silly. Not to mention, difficult.

... and how there is a mummy and son phone failure after midnight? O2 and BlackBerry should really get on that. My son never gets any of the texts or calls I make that start around 1am and continue at 15 minute intervals, they all arrive together once he is on his walk home. It really is most peculiar.

... not to mention that my hearing is also impaired on these kind of nights. He is definitely not slurring his words. I am just getting old and deaf.

... that even though it's 3.30am he isn't late, if I don't tell him each time he uses the front door what time his arse is expected back through it, he's not late, he's curfew free. Despite the fact we have these conversations at least fortnightly and the weekend and school holiday curfew always has been, is now and shall remain 1am.

... I am the only Mummy in the world that is concerned about what time their teenager gets home and how much they've had to drink and what effect all this partaaaying has on their health, not to mention their A levels. Apparently no one else's parents care. I am clearly quite deranged through lack of fun in my own life.

...that I worry so much about my child, when he is ALWAYS the most sober one there. He is never as bad as Johnny/Craig/Rachel/Mel and in this instance Imran.

...that I am not proud of my child's public spiritedness and caring nature, clearly he is late home because he is looking after Johnny/Craig/Rachel/Mel and in this case, Imran.

... that genuinely he appears sorry that I am awake but he continues in his mad notion that it is a choice for me to stay awake and worry. Trust me son, I would so much rather be in my warm bed asleep than pacing and worrying. I look like a caricature of a 1970's wife waiting on a husband's return from the pub, I have the dressing gown and sheepskin slippers off to a tee, only the curlers and fag dangling from my lip are missing.

... and now he is fast asleep in bed and I am still awake, and I would lay money on the fact that as soon as I get to sleep, I will be awakened a minute later when his 6am paper round alarm goes off.

... that I still love him. And some days or more factually 3,30 am's that can be slighly more of a challenge.

Things I still don't understand the 2012 remix

Hello my lovely readers, a very happy 2012 to you all. Vaguely bemused and confused auntie service is logging on for 2012, in fact this is my 5th Bloggiversary, auntie has been having her say since 2007!!!!

So much has changed in those 5 years, looking back at the photos I see how much my kids have grown and sadly how much I have too :( I used to be a very thin auntie, now I look like I ate the 2007 auntie.

Still, selfless and public spirited to my very core, here I am again, making you feel better about your own life. Ta da - let me present to you - things that still I don't understand...

Why every Hogmanay (December 31st for those of you who are not the chosen ones) I go mental cleaning my house. It has to be spotlessly clean and tidy by midnight so it stays clean and tidy the whole year. It does work, my house is spotlessly clean and tidy every year, on December 31st. The other 364 days it reverts to it's usual slum conditions.

Why there is no real difference between my son and my best friends 5 year old son except height.

How I was expected to keep a straight face when the lovely 5 year old explained how you tell boy dogs from girl dogs - to whit "they have a chubby bit down below, near the back that swing when they walk"

Why BBD put a dark brown colour in her gorgeous titian hair bacause she was called ginger then decided to dye her hair RED, a RED that could be seen from space, not a RED found in any place other than her hair and a child's paintbox.

How all I ever write about are my children and am I ever thought of as a mummy blogger? am I feck. No one ever sends me lovely free stuff to write about, all together now, poor poor auntie

Thanking you all most kindly for reading, for me it's been a great 5 years, I wonder if I'll be here for another 5? Who knows? please feel free to have some cake, it's most yummy and calorie free, what more could you ask for?

A wee present from your auntie

Have you had a good Christmas? Are you now feeling a wee bit low and full of food and all shopped out?

Fear not, auntie is here with a little bit of post festive cheer. Courtesy of Hot Boy




Now you're feeling a lot more cheery aren't you?

You're welcome.

My sentiments exactly

Pinched shamelessly from my friend Shirley's facebook page

In which The Beautiful Children sulk

Well, to be accurate only the 2 that live with me are sulking, the quiet in the house is lovely. The one who doesn't live with me is still at university and still loves me. Maybe that's the reason.

Do you need a HUGE MIDDLE AGED WOMAN ALERT. A RANTIE AUNTIE WARNING?

Are you sitting comfortably? Then I shall begin. Or if you want to, you can click away now and come back when normal vaguely bemused auntie service resumes, I'll still love you.

Like many of us, I have a job and children and household chores to do, I have grocery shopping (not nice lady things shopping) and laundry, I have children to drive to many lovely clubs and activities and social engagements, funded by me (of course), I have Christmas presents to buy and wrap, I have cards to write and post, I have a tree to put up and decorate, I am a busy auntie at all times of year, at this time of year I take busy to the max.

Usually, I do this with a side order of low level grumbling that is ignored or the children will pat me and say "poor Mummy" and then go back to ignoring me.

This week however, I am less grumbly and more cross.

I am as cross as I can be.

I have taken agin the children's selfishness. Both children. Especially on the subject of household chores. They think that if it is a chore then it's my job to do it.

I have taken agin The Beautiful Son's smart arse remarks on Twitter.

I have taken agin Beautiful Baby Daughter's back chatting and always having to be right.

I have taken agin their bedrooms, they should be rolled in foam and dealt with by the Royal engineers. Scientists would be queuing up to take samples, they are truly hideous.

I have taken agin The Beautiful Son's wandering in at whatever time he pleases and bringing people with him.

I have taken agin Beautiful Baby daughter's tone and eye rolling when conversing with me.

I have taken agin The Beautiful Son's can't be arsed attitude to school, voluntary work for D of E and anything that doesn't involve mates and alcohol.

I have taken agin most things except gin and cake. Gin and cake remain more than acceptable.


So, I have shouted and stropped and I have made them tidy their bedroom, they have to be Mummy tidy (this scares them, I can be ferociously houseproud when I'm on one)

I have explained that if they are living under my roof then things have to go my way. I am in charge. This is non negotiable. They have to attempt to be regular humans, pitch in with chores, don't backchat me, work harder at school and party less.

They have been grounded for a week.

The Beautiful Son's Crackberry, IPOD touch, laptop and XBox controllers are in the boot of my car. The internet router plug is living in my handbag. If I had room for the TV it would be removed as well.

I am not doing any laundry or chores at all, if they need something doing they will need to do it ALL BY THEIR OWN SELVES.

I am not being a human alarm clock, they are having to get themselves up for their paper rounds and when they oversleep thay are having to explain why to their bosses and get told off for it.

When asked at the last minute for lunch money, instead of driving to the cashpoint, as would be my wont, I say "sorry, I didn't go to the cashpoint, you'll have to take sandwiches from home"

In short, I am doing what my Dad advised me to do, go on strike.

The ex mrauntigwen is looking after them (very kindly, he rearranged his life to let me have a night off at very short notice) so I am off here today, to Kilworth House Hotel for a lovely Christmas dinner and sleep in a posh hotel with 5 lovely friends who are becoming my family. I will use the gym, have an afternoon nap, read my book, have a treatment in the salon. I am having a rest.

I may even spend their lunch money on a bottle of champagne.

Things that have confused your auntie this week...

To be fair, I could have been doing this every single week for the 5 years I've had this blog, I am, far too often, perplexed by life. But this week has been particularly bemusing to me. In no particular order, I give you

I have lost 1 pair of navy trousers, the top that goes with them and a very nice Dimity So bra.

I found a mince pie wrapped in a napkin in the front pocket of my handbag.

This morning The Beautiful Son's phone alarm went off at 6am, how come my children can sleep through an alarm that is inches from their ear when I can hear it from another room?

How come my children can only get up if only the human alarm clock that is their mummy comes in and wakes them?

How come my son was not in his bed but asleep on the sofa under the duvet he'd taken off his bed and wearing a ladies Primark zebra print onesie?

How come when I woke up a bit later and proceeded downstairs for the Sunday Times and the first of the coffees that would fortify my day, I met The Beautiful Son's ex girlfriend dressed in a fur coat (are they back in vogue?) and leaving very quietly?

How come I didn't notice there were 2 bodies under the duvet 2 hours earlier?

Miss Marple isn't too worried about me stealing her job, is she?

In which the Beautiful Baby Daughter makes her point

The Beautiful Baby Daughter had a maths test yesterday.

She was not best pleased. Not about the test, she is a well prepared child, unlike the other 2 work shy articles I've reared.

In fact, she was so displeased she wrote this at the end of her test paper

Dear Mr Badmathsteacher

I am writing this note to tell you that I am cross with you. In this maths test, there have been 19 out of 57 available marks that I have not been able to achieve.

This is because you have not taught me how to get these 19 marks. As you are a maths teacher you will know that this amounts to over a third of the total paper.

This will reflect badly on me as a student but it should reflect badly on you as you as a teacher as you have failed to do what you are paid to do. If you spent more time teaching us and less time in the maths staff room we would not be having to have this conversation.

Yours sincerely

Beautiful Baby Daughter

I wonder if I should warn Mr Badmathsteacher that you upset the BBD at your peril, I mean before he knows it, she'll be the head of that school and she'll be using him to put her feet up on after he's made her a cup of coffee and cleaned her car.

In which I make a holy show of myself in Debenhams

Yesterday the family von auntiegwen had to go into town. Now, en masse this is not such a good idea, if we go in two's it seems to work better and we have a remote chance of getting done what we set out to do. So, I get The Beautiful Son (because no one else will have him) and off we go. This is our list

Christmas jumper - Jack
Chino's 30 waist 34 leg (hard to get, it appears every man in Leicester is short) - Jack
New shoes - clown size - Jack
John Bishop DVD - Lucy
Flat boots - me

We whizz round in record time, that is the joy of shopping with a boy, he will accept any clothes that fit him in the first shop you find. Whilst we are in Debenhams I see a Virgin travel agency so I think while we are waiting for the others we will go and get a quote for our Easter trip to Florida. I haven't used a travel agent since 1998, I source flights and accomodation myself but I think I'll just get a quote, they may be able to get me a better deal.

Whilst we are waiting I ask TBS what he thinks it will cost for us to go, at the moment there are 3 adults, 2 teens and a child so if you want to come with us, let me know quick before I get booked. TBS reckons it will cost £2,500, I so wished he would be right, I didn't laugh outright then, it's unkind to crush a young man's dreams.

The nice Virgin lady takes all the details, I have my dates, I know how many people, I am so careful that we will be back for April 15th when BBD gets to see McFly, not only does she get to the concert she gets to meet them too, this is thrillingly exciting for her, a bit problematic re dates for me, and a real ball ache for her brother who thinks we should just book whenever we please, after all he had to miss MGMT because it clashed with a flight.

The nice Virgin lady tells me they have no villas left for rent, no 3, 4 or 5 bed villas. I ask for a quote for flights.

She can't get me back on an economy flight, TBS tells her not to worry, just book premium economy, it's only money says he, he's quite enamoured of the free champagne and the food served on real plates, I tell her to change the dates. As his paper round won't even cover the airport parking.

So, I get a quote for 6 flights, going for 11 days instead of 14. Guess how much?


Scroll down, get a bit of anticipation going




£7,937


again £7937

for economy flights. No villa, no car, just flights.

I did actually laugh, for quite a long time and my pelvic floor's not what it was (apologies for the TMI)

The nice Virgin lady explains that it's because they have sold the first allocation of seats, so they charge more for the next ones. In the brochure, they give you a guide price of £575 per villa per week, £969 fly drive per adult, £799 per child and £899 per teen, total cost £6654 which is still a huge amount for a holiday. Now when it says that in the brochure I think give or take a few hundred that's what it should cost, I'd be mighty miffed if I was buying a skirt in Marks and Spencer and it said £40 on the price ticket and when I got to the check out they said "oh it's gone up to £100 as that's the second batch we've ordered as it's so popular"

And also it's because I am going in peak season school holidays, that old favourite, get me taking kids to Disneyland in the school holidays, what a weirdo.

She advised me to go and try Virgin Atlantic directly as it'd be cheaper.

So I'm in a travel agents and they advise me to do it myself, marvellous.

PS - I found (on t'internets, all by my very own self) the flights she couldn't get me back on so the full 14 days, an executive (ooh get us, how very posh) 4 bed villa with private pool and games room, a 7 seater people carrier plus insurance and the grand total was £6930, a grand cheaper than I was quoted just for flights.

I can't think why travel agents are having such a hard time, can you?

PPS - I have refrained from tweeting #PRrequest about this (apparently bloggers can actually ask for stuff to review, although how I'd get it back to them would be the tricky part) but if any travel company would like the considered opinions of my good self and the beautiful children, please get in touch soonest, I will blog all the live long day about this trip, and I'd only be too happy, nae delighticated to tell the lovely readers about your kindest of kind offers.

I should have known

When you are setting an alarm that begins with the digits 05, you kinda think it's not going to be your best of days.

When you're are driving 90 odd miles north to Skegness at the end of November, you have a notion it's not going to be your best of days.

When someone hits your borrowed car from behind, you officially know

When your neck aches and bizarrely your tooth really hurts and you still have to drive another 80 miles, you are really getting the message

When you spend 2 hours on the phone to insurance companies and brokers and accident repair people and the people who's car you have borrowed, you have got the point loud and clear thank you very much.

When you receive not just 1 but 2 calls from personal injury people, wanting you to sue the poor person who bumped you, you get a tad tetchy

When you have to cancel your trip to see "Wicked" at the theatre because it's taken all too long to sort out and you just don't feel in a going out sort of mood, you feel crap, because you know you are disappointing your Beautiful Baby Daughter, who was really looking forward to a trip to London and a show and some mummy time

When it is time to kiss the day goodbye, you are so very, very glad that it's over

Really, my guilty pleasure

I have been watching a startling amount of television recently. This is a new thing for me, I used to be out running, going to gigs and flirting with strange men in bars, I had no time to waste on TV, truth be told, I was a little bit showy offy about not watching it.

Not now, oh no siree bob, I have embraced the telly like I would David Tennant. Nothing makes you auntie happier that her arse on the sofa and full charge of the remote control. I even have a special blanket now, not quite the one with arms that have a special name I've forgotten but a nice snuggly blanket to add to my viewing pleasure. Throw in a bag of maltesers and the aunties wee cup of happiness overfloweth. In twitterati #iknowhowtopaartaay.

I also have to say, the more crap the programme, the more I like it, I am mocked on a daily basis for my programme choices but I care not a jot, I lie there, mouth crammed with maltesers and tissues at the ready, a lot of my telly porn involves cheap emotion, sobbing is my chief exercise at the moment. The more mawkish the emotion, the better, channel 20 is ace for this, Sometimes you can watch "Extreme makeover - House edition", " Don't tell the bride" and "Bridezillas" on the same day - just frickin awesome.

For crap telly virgins EMHE is American, they come and build a house in a week for people who have had the most awful times, death/fire/major health problems etc, sometimes even in the same family. The house is always amazing and huge and free, they don't do aunties new kitchens apparently. Oh that's a regular 2 hanky job.

DTTB - is British, they give a groom and his best man £12,000 and they get to plan a wedding in 3 weeks and the bride just turns up, the best man has to be quite odd for best effects. This always usually turns out well and is a wee discreet tear "aawh don't they look lovely" job

Bridezillas is mental - very stressed, cross, shouty, screaming women who are quite clearly unhinged and in need of a good slap who make everyone unhappy. They're American, I'm sure you could film British ones though. This doesn't make me cry but I scream at the telly a bit and slobber malteser goo down myself though.

Add in X Factor (God, that Janet bored me to death, I know she was reallly young and I'm sure she's a lovely wean but I was getting right fed up with her), Living with the Amish (what nice, no one is going to punch your son in the face trying to steal his Crackberry on a Saturday night, yep, did happen but The Beautiful son is fine and still has his phone) and the Trinny and Susannah thing in Australia (lots of women who've been very busy being wives and mummies and quite often being ill as well to be all dressed up and glamorous every day to boot)

So, there you have it, I've fessed it up, my name is auntiegwen and I'm addicted to crap telly, am I on my own? what do you watch that you're secretly ashamed of? Not that I'm looking for ideas of more telly to watch because I'm middle aged and have no life, not at all, merely offering you the chance to feel oh so much better about your own life.

Selfless to my very core.

Ah, that explains it

I love my children, truly I do, despite offering to send them to live with other bloggers regularly, clearly I only do that so I can share their wonderfullness with the world.

Ahem.

I have been a Mummy for a very long time and I think I have a fair opinion of my offspring (I did type fruit of my loins but I had to delete it, it grossed even me out) I am not one of the showy offy type mummies, I do not regale others of my childs academic achievements overly much, I don't make you listen to their musical offerings or insist you peruse their artistic endeavours. I am much more likely to share their WTF moments. I am most definitely not the parent who thinks their child is the new Messiah, I am fairly realistic of their good and bad points.

Last night was parents evening at Beautiful Baby Daughter's school, this is the same school I used to teach at, so when they are talking to me, I know exactly what they are trying to say, there is no point in putting high heels and lipstick on it, I get told straight. This is not a big worry really as BBD has not inherited the "can't be arsed" gene, she has always been the sort that pushes herself and gets involved in everything, she's not naughty and she goes every day so parents evening throws up few surprises usually.

Her form tutor went through her interim report, subject by subject, explained her FFT predicted grades and then offered points for improvement.

For those of you who know the BBD, swallow anything you have in your mouth, do not put anything back in until you've finished reading this post, I do not want to be sent the bill for laptop repairs because you've spat all over your computer, I am skint and I've several weans and a Hot Boy to take to Florida, more specifically Harry Potter land at Easter. Consider yourself warned.

BBD's form tutor feels that the only thing that could be improved is if she spoke more in form, contibuted and shared her opinions more. Yep, that's right, my child, the one who talks at me till my ears bleed, the one who barristers practice their debating skills with, the one we call Chatty Annie or less kindly, Little Miss Last Word.

After I'd made a holy show of myself by laughing, I explained that she's only been quiet for about 15 minutes of her 15 years, he looked totally perplexed, apparently she never says a word, he didn't realise she was Scottish because he'd never heard her say more than "here" when he does the register.

And the reason for this, dear readers, explained with uncharacteristic succinctness by BBD

" For goodness sake Mummy, of course I don't say anything, I'm not awake yet in form time"

Too good to be true

Remember the last post where I was hoping that Beautiful Baby Daughter would be my only regular human child? Well, that's not working out too well, truth be told.

On return from school today Beautiful baby daughter informed me in a proud and happy voice that she'd learned a new word.

From her English teacher.

So far so good.

So, as is a good mummy's wont, I enquired as to the new word.

Would you like to know too?

Promiscuous.

Splendid, so no hope for me then.

As you were.

Help me

You know your kids aren't quite the same as others when...

Your elder daughter rings you and says " Mummy, I've just been to Asda and they had no pesto and when I came out there was a man weeing just outside the shop. What kind of a place doesn't sell pesto?"

And in another supermarket, in another town, your son says in a proud and happpy voice "Oh God that's brilliant, a free glass with the Budweiser, that means me and Johnny have the same glass, how good is that?"

So I have a daughter who doesn't gee her ginger at men weeing in the street and a son in the throes of a bromance.

Help me, Lucy Abigail, you're my only hope.