20

Today my beautiful son is 20, tomorrow my beautiful baby daughter sits her last A2 level and will never be at school again.

Sometimes  it seems like in a heartbeat they are grown and gone. Sometimes when they are being particularly challenging, the grown up and gone thing can be a long time coming.

This photo was taken on Olu Deniz beach in 2005 or 6, I think, it shows Jack and Lucy on an empty beach, just playing. It has always been one of my favourites.

Happy birthday Jack 

Good luck Lucy

I love you more than you will ever know.

You are both, and always will be, a cuisle mo chridhe, the beat of my heart

Je suis auntiegwen

Just before we went to Paris there were the awful shootings in Paris, at feck it's early tomorrow we fly out to Copenhagen, I think I am a jinx!


Don't fret though as I have been to Edinburgh without any fatalities.
And it's been under  duress. Extreme duress.
Tis half term and beautiful baby daughter fancied a trip up to Edinburgh to see her brother, as they have spent the last few years embroiled in a sibling conflict on an epic scale, I was a wee bit surprised to say the least. Undeterred and heartened at the thought of sibling harmony, I agree to drive BBD to Edinburgh, she can spend some 1 on 1 time with The Beautiful Son, I will spend a bit of time with them and a bit of time with my chum auntielou and all will be well.


I am trying to gloss over the many hours spent in a car, with no escape, in hand to hand conversation with BBD, she is a child who can take offence at anything, and she does, she is extremely good at it. She has practised, a lot.
We also all pretend that she doesn't smoke and that being in an enclosed space with me and no escape to top up nicotine levels has the propensity to make her a bit tetchy. Nonetheless, we are undeterred and we headed North. We are now back, we have survived and we are still on speaking terms, this is a huge achievement. I have bitten a hole clean through my tongue and my eyebrows are still somewhere in my hairline but we are intact.


My son was like a puppy on speed, he was not on drugs nor was he drunk but he was very animated and bouncy, he is now 6 foot 5 and being with him was quite tiring, it was like he was still  his 6 year old self  who had consumed a LOT of sugar and was very overexcited as a result. My daughter was unpredictable, mood wise and I was quite exhausted at the end, auntielou was lovely as always, we have been friends now for over 25 years, she is understanding of the children, for that I am truly grateful, I don't have the usual explaining to do like I would with the unsuspecting public.


In the car on the way home, my BBD reminded me that I am a total hypocrite,  I am a "do as I say not as I do" Mummy, I shame her publicly for the mess in her bedroom, taking photos and everything  yet my car is a total disgrace, and she's right, it's a tip.  Je suis auntiegwen and my car is messy. Do you think that will cover public penance or do we need photos?

And when you thought it couldn't get worse...

Take your pick, let me know what you think is the worst, answers or shares of your own in the comments please


A - Someone who I  met a few years ago said in a cheery tone "the last girl who did your job was Scottish too" and when I reassured them that it was actually me they were quite disbelieving and said "Oh no, she was a little slim thing, you're at least twice her size"
I am now on the 5 - 2 diet, I started today, it's a 500 calorie day and I am quite tetchy, I expect I will have to go to bed early, in the interests of family harmony.


B - My parents are coming for Christmas, they are staying for 12 days. I don't like anyone if I have to spend 12 days in close proximity to them whilst having to be a cheery hostess. I am also having to miss my wedding anniversary trip up North to stay at the hotel we got married in and am missing spending New Year with my friend Lou in Edinburgh. No one should visit you for 12 days when you have to look after them.  NO ONE (in capitals for emphasis)


C - The Beautiful Son is working in Edinburgh on Christmas Eve, Christmas Day and Boxing Day, he will be getting squillions of cash for it but he won't be with me, I shall miss him muchly. I am also sad that he will be waking up on Christmas morning on his own, unless he gets lucky on Christmas Eve. I expect there are some girls left in Edinburgh who he hasn't met yet.


D - My job that I luff is going as part of a restructure, I will be able to apply for one of the new jobs but they aren't my job, that I luff. Did I mention that I luff my job?


That's plenty isn't it, there's more but who needs to read my whiney whiney poor me's.

Point of origin

Today I drove home from Edinburgh after dropping The Beautiful Son off to start at university there. I feel comforted about him going home and being in a familiar place (if only to me!)as he was barely 5 when we headed south.

As I drove away, my mind was filled with a million memories of the cuddly snuggly squishy baby who became the shy boy who needed his mummy so much who now stands before me as a confident, humane & friendly young man.

I will miss the day to day stuff with him, the comfort that he brings just by being in my life. I will miss his chat, his bad jokes and the hugs and his love more than he will ever know. There is a space in my heart that only he can fill.

And he does.

So my beautiful son, go and start your independent life, explore, make friends, live, love & enjoy.

You are the joy of my heart and I love you more than words can say.

Things I still don't understand, the 2013 summer remix

My family are annoying and odd, maybe your own beloved family have quirk or 6 too or maybe I am quite alone, Queen of the Oddite tribe. I, myself, have no quirks at all, despite old blogs telling you otherwise, mine are just lovely little things that make me adorable to my family, ahem, as you were...

These are this weeks "Why do they do that's"

Why, in the name of God and all things holy, explain to me...

Why is it my Beautiful Baby Daughter's ambition to dye her hair every colour in the paint chart? It's not even a nice Farrow & Ball chart, it's a nasty chart. Currently it is a wishy washy lilac, necessitating bleaching all colour out with peroxide and then adding dye. She looks like a pensioners blue rinse gone manky. Tis hideous and quite startling to the unsuspecting public.

Why must she always completely ignore the special hairdressers dye towel bought specifically to save my real towels? This time she used my en suite and ruined my White Company bathmat and towels, they have peroxide patches and look quite affronted and unaccustomed to such treatment, they are from the White Company and live in my bathroom, with the clean and tidy people. She can't see that there is a problem with a piebald mat and towels, they still work, you may have heard my reply to that smart a*se comment, you may have heard in quite clearly, even if you live in a different county, nay even country to me. And are deaf.

Why does The Beautiful Son think he is on holiday and can lie in till 4pm? If he's not going to university in September, he's UNEMPLOYED (in capitals for emphasis) and

Why does he think that fiddling about on the internet for an hour a day looking at jobs online is job hunting? Not in my book it's not, job hunting is getting your a*se and face vertical and outside of a bed and ASKING (ICFE) or begging people to employ you.

Much as it pains me to say it, as a mere newly wed I don't like to criticise the lovely mr auntiegwen, but The Beautiful Husband has some odd stuff going on too, maybe he caught it from us?, I know not but

Why does he wait until he is turning the corner AND changing gear to put his seatbelt on? Why not do it before you start driving, when you are not trying to do 2 other things as well, some people are more suited to multi tasking than others, he is not one of the chosen ones. I don't want him to die and leave me with them children, I know they're mine and all but I need someone on my team. And a little teeny tiny other thing...

Why must The Beautiful Husband ignore the hand soap at any of the 4 sinks in the house and use the washing up liquid in the kitchen? We have much more liquid soap than washing up liquid (ratio 4-1, in fact) and when we run out I can't quite bring myself to use Dove/carex/whatever is on special offer at the supermarket instead of the Fairy liquid on dishes.

Now please feel free to add your own "Why do they do that's" of your own in the comments, we may even have a prize for the oddest of them. I don't expect it would be an exciting prize but I am happy to come and give out to your nearest and dearest, I am only spectacularly ineffective in my own home.

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

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 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?

More teenage boy stuff

Just because your boy has grown to 6 foot 2 doesn't mean he's grown up in anything other than a physical sense.

The Beautiful Son had a sore throat, it was so painful that we had biscuits and crisps in our house that survived more than a day, which was unheard of. I told him to go down to the doctors and make an appointment. Our surgery insists you present yourself in person (or a representative if you are too ill to leave home) at their reception desk at 8am to make an appointment. They won't do it by phone, I am sure there were communist bread queues shorter than we have at our surgery.

TBS insists he can't go by himself, so off we go and make his appointment. We get one for 9.10 am, so we go back home for an hour. He insists I have to back with him too. I enquire would he still want me there if it was for a sore bum, he assures me I'd still have to show up for that. As he put it "you're my mum, of course you'd have to come, I can't deal with doctors on my own" I just pray he never gets an STD.

The doctor diagnoses tonsillitis, prescribes antibiotics and says if things don't improve in 48 hours to return for a blood test to rule out glandular fever. He also remarks on TBS being an infrequent attender. TBS felt slightly put out, a bit like he'd been shirking.

Of course TBS can't go to the chemist by himself, I have to take him there too. I tell him he can't take alcohol whilst on them. I elaborate by telling him that mixing alcohol with antibiotics causes diarrhoea, and it's so fast acting most people don't get to the loo on time. I wonder if I can still get away with him believing everything I say if I use my mummy's never wrong tone, will it still work? I see no signs either way.

Later I overheard him tell his friend Johnny "nah, I'm not drinking at Rachel's party, no chance I want to cack myself"

The last word goes to me, we all know how I like the last word. Scuse me whilst I throw my head back and laugh like a muscateer.

Ma wee lad's a sailor

This is the bold boy prior to his ex girlfriends fancy dress birthday party. Those are Hot Boy's white skinny jeans, t shirt and sailor hat, the denim jacket is mine. The pants are his.

I will spare you the photo of what state the clothes came back in but it really was a Daz doorstep challenge. As was the bouncing off the walls arrival home at 2am, followed by the chat with EBD and Hot Boy just outside my bedroom. I wasn't madly keen on the ex girlfriends tearful and very loud phone call either.

At 6 am, The Beautiful Son wasn't leaping out of bed to do his paper round and had to be woken up 3 times, handed clothes to wear and helped to find his luminous yellow paperbag. Which he insisted was his sisters as it had a bike lock key in it. We had to find the identical luminous yellow bag with the identical bike lock key in it. Which we did because it's a luminous yellow bag and they are always in the same place, it was just that the son couldn't quite get his bearings. I can only apologise to the good citizens of auntiegwentown for their missing/wrong/half ripped paper on Saturday. Still it's not everyday you get a hungover/still drunk sailor on a bike attempt to deliver your paper.

A chuisle mo chridhe

Tomorrow The Beautiful Son will be 16. I love being his Mummy, although he drives me round the bend with...

his omnipresent moaning about how slow our Internet speeds are
his work shy tendencies
his eat anything and worry about ownership later stuff
his ability to wind both his sisters up to cross, shouty, shreikyness
his complete disinterest in revising for any test or exam
his total obsession with stripping down his bike/Call of Duty/youtube/facebook and twitter

BUT

He still talks to me.
He still kisses me and hugs me at least once a day.
He makes me howl with laughter in a way no one else can.
He knows when I'm upset when no one else notices.
He said on FaceBook (which makes it official) that I was the person in the whole world he was closest to.

I wouldn't change a thing, he makes me happy and I love him. Jack, a chuisle mo chridhe.

Where did I go wrong?

I have a lovely son, a son that I love and adore, a son I have tried so hard to make into a well rounded human being (okay a regular human)

Sometimes I think I've cracked it, he'll show me a depth of feeling or a sense of empathy and understanding that I am still surprised by, and I will allow myself a proud mummy feeling. I will bask in the glow of maternal pride and think I made him.

Other times not so much.

On Saturday he was telling me about his cunning plan to make money. He is going to find himself an older lady who he will accompany to parties and business functions and he will then sleep with her. For money.

My son, aspiring to be on the game. I am so proud, my friends sons only want to Doctors and lawyers, my son wants to be a gigolo.

He has found a website called sugarmommies which promises to spoil young men and he is so looking forward to being 16 so he can join said site.

Far be it from me to tell him of the flaws in his cunning plan. I am sure that successful business women will be flocking to him, every woman who has climbed the corporate ladder would be dying to have a 6 foot 2 lump of useless who needs washing, dressing and plugging into his Ipod every morning, wouldn't she?

And I'm sure any ones work colleagues would be madly impressed with his urbane chit chat about Facebook, the best laughing babies on youtube and his extensive Call of Duty knowledge. He could whisper sweet nothings in her ear in his best GCSE French. He could wake her up every morning with a cup of coffee before he goes off to do his paper round. Who could fail to be jealous as he turns up on his BMX to collect his lady friend and give her a backy to said business functions with his pants on show to the world. And I'm sure he'd wear his best Jack Wills ones for such a lucky lady.

Flawless plan son, who wouldn't want to date this fine specimen of male?

TMI

You know it's time to de friend your son on facebook when you read

Formspring

"You ever kissed a boy?"

Answer

"yeah"

So, you have to ask, don't you?

"Did you really kiss a boy?"

"Yeah, it was a dare, I was drunk"

I'm going back to Mummy denial land, this time I'm keeping the duvet pulled over my head.

Oh Christmas Tree

I must warn you, if you are of a Bah Humbug disposition you may wish to avoid visiting for the next few weeks as there may be a whiff of the seasons around the posts. I am very keen on Christmas.

I'm not overly keen on the preparation though, due to my can't be arsed gene. I love all the decor, the food, the presents etc and I would love them even more if I didn't have to facilitate it. The Beautiful Children probably are because they don't. The exception to this is my Christmas tree, I love doing my tree.

On Sunday I have to put up the tree, The Beautiful Son has to get the tree down from the attic because I have watched Michael McIntyre and know that as a woman I'm not allowed in the loft.

The Beautiful Son and Beautiful Baby Daughter decide they want to help me. Now you think I'd be glad but I'm not. I am a bit possessive of my tree and yes I do know I keep saying my tree. It is mine, fully mine, I only let the others look at it because I'm kind.

I like my tree to look nice, this is why I don't want help. I have been decorating my own Christmas tree since I was 22 and that is a very long time ago, I put on Christmas music, light my Crabtree and Evelyn Noel candle and have a tasteful one colour theme tree. I do a good tree. The children have their own tree, it looks like Christmas on crack, it has every colour ever known and is done up like the tinkers dog. They can't be arsed with 2 trees this year, they just want the one, my one.

I relent, they can help, he is 15, she is 14, they're not little anymore, in fact he can now reach the top of the tree and save me standing on a chair. We have the lovely Christmas smelling candle, we have the lovely Christmas music. At the end we have a not quite as lovely as if I'd done it myself Christmas tree.

I was slightly hurt when he compared me to Stalin and she compared me to Monica from Friends.

Still, David looks cheerful in his Santa hat, doesn't he?

Nature v Nurture

The Beautiful Son and his first girlfriend have split up. Eldest Beautiful Daughter read it on the book of face and told me. I told Beautiful Baby Daughter and explained that although he annoys the crap out of her, she was to make allowances and under no circumstances give him a hard time.

I asked him how he was and he actually said "These things happen, it just wasn't working" I was a nice kind Mummy and didn't laugh, it was a 6 month thing, that's fairly heavy duty at his age.

Readers, we were worn out being nice to him, I was fetching cups of coffee in bed for him, watching what he wanted on TV, ordering pizza in, trying really, really hard to wrap him up in a big blanket of love.

I shouldn't have bothered.

Eldest Beautiful Daughter read his Formspring (for the middle aged non facebookers amongst you it is a thing where you can ask him anything and you can remain anonymous)

On this Formspring there were several enquiries asking why he'd dumped her, heavy duty guilt about how miserable she is, lots of comments on the new leggy blonde thing who has been worshipping at the altar of Jack for several months and a few enquiries about his parentage. I can assure you I was married to his dad, I have the lawyers bill to prove it.

I was not happy.

Neither were his sisters.

So, this bold boy of mine, who had been brought up to respect, no, actually revere women has dumped a lovely wee girl, has had a replacement lined up, had us, the women in his life in flitters looking after him because we think he's been dumped and not cracked a light?

As his big sister says "We fail, he's turned into a bloke"

Boyfriend of the year award...

You would think that being surrounded by girls that The Beautiful Son would have a head start, not to mention having a mush junkie for a mother. I always thought that my son could be trained to be the perfect man, stop laughing right now, I can put you on the naughty step...

Last week it was the new girlfriend's birthday, they'd arranged to go into town, see a film and then go and eat afterwards, there was a group of them going. Just as well.

The Beautiful Son came home from school and feeling a bit tired, decided to have an afternoon nap, so got into bed and set his alarm. This was at 3.15 pm. At 7.45pm he was awakened by his Dad, who'd just got home from work, enquiring as to whether the cinema trip had been cancelled.

The bold boy had slept through his alarm, 8 missed calls and a gazillion text messages.

And she still didn't dump him, apparently she found it quite funny that her boyfriend slept through her birthday. How very understanding of her. Maybe he has other redeeming qualities that I, as a mere Mummy, can't see.

Happy Birthday to the boy I love

Today my beautiful son is 15. This has been a year of firsts for him. He started high school (he's at a 14-19 college, we have a 3 school system in this county), he has had his first spots, his first exams (when he remembered to go) he even has a GCSE today, he's most disgruntled about my bad family planning and also his first girlfriend, it's not a secret we all read about it on the book of face.

I'm very proud to have made him, he's extremely kind, screamingly funny, useful at getting things down from a high shelf and I have it on very good authority, he's a hot boy.

It's amazing the difference a year makes, in the post I wrote last year for his birthday, he wasn't that much taller than me, see HERE and this year he towers above me.

He is now and always will be mo chridhe, my heart.

The Beautiful Son - genius.

School has changed the way they do their exams, in some of TBS's GCSE subjects they now take half the GCSE this year in year 10 and take the other half next year in year 11.

TBS and his maddest mate Rhys Daniel arrived 15 minutes late for their year 10 graphics exam, in their defence, they had an exam timetable telling them to go to the sports hall at 1.15pm which they duly did.

The exam lady gave them a bit of a row but when she was shown their timetable, there was a bit of to ing and fro ing and then they were allowed into the hall and told they would have an extra 15 minutes on at the end as it wasn't their fault.

School in their infinite wisdom have got half the hall sitting year 10 graphics and on the other side, year 11 graphics.

TBS and his mate are shown to the wrong side and given the wrong paper.

Rhys Daniel starts to read the paper realises it's year 11 and too hard for him, sticks his hand up and tells and gets moved to the year 10 side and given the correct paper. Like a regular human would.

My son? of course I couldn't have normal weans could I? he says nothing, not a word, doesn't want to make a fuss, just has a crack at the year 11 paper. At least half an hour passes then Rhys notices that my son is still on the wrong side of the hall with the wrong paper and puts his hand up and tells the invigilator, who duly comes over, ascertains that the bold boy is actually a year 10, brings him over to the correct side and finally after nearly an hour, himself gets the correct paper.

The worrying thing is, despite only having just over half an hour, he finished it along with the rest who started on time. Not holding out much hope for a pass in graphic design...

The Beautiful Son - fashion guru

My son was not terribly interested in fashion. He used to wear anything he was given, not a bother on him, the good old days, when clothes were cheap and Mummy was happy. Then he got slightly fussier, he wanted a say in what he wore, fair play, he is now fully Jack Wills'd up. I am skint. Enough said.

He's not quite so sure about what women wear though, he has a bemused and confused look when asked for his opinion of an outfit, you can see his wee brain trying to come up with something useful but as he can't play Call of Duty on it or eat it, he's not terribly interested.

He did ask me the other day if I'd slept in my running kit, no dearest son, I get up and leave at 6 am for my run so I get back in time to spend from 7am to 7.45am getting you out of bed, with a sliding scale of irritated voice in proportion.

But the best one was on Friday night, I'm dressed to go out in my new white and silver maxi dress and silver sequinned fit flops (I know, I'm sad) and he looked at me with the bemused and confused look and said "Is that a nightie or are you getting married?"

Gok Wan is shitting himself.

Am I mean?

I have the battle scars from far too many children's parties, we seem to have done them all, swimming parties, bouncy castle parties, bowling, cinema, sleep over, discos, wacky warehouse etc etc etc.

In my 18 years of, quite frankly, top notch mothering, no fillings or asbos, I thank you for your round of applause, I feel I can say I've been there, done that, got the t shirt.

I won't even begin to do the party maths because I am fairly certain if I hadn't spent that money on sometimes 3 parties a year, plus invites plus party bags and all that goes with it I would not be driving an 8 year old car, I would be driving a very swanky new one. I just sucked it up, I have 3 kids, they have a birthday a year, they either have a party or a birthday treat with friends, I just hand over the cash.

The Beautiful Son came home with an invitation to his mate L's birthday treat, it's next week and they are going paintballing, my son is one of 3 other boys invited. It wasn't so much an invitation but more a bill.

If I don't hand over £30 my son doesn't get to go, this is before I've even bought the boy a present. I have never in my life asked for a contribution to my kids parties, if we didn't have the cash we'd do something that cost as little as possible, if my son was heart set on an expensive thing we'd limit the number of friends he could bring.

The only thing the birthday boy's family are providing are the lifts there and back, I'm surprised they didn't ask me to contribute to the petrol.