My West Wing hero - International Women's Day

Female role models, do you have any?

I’m going to celebrate International Women’s Day by writing down my female heroes, as they stand, right now.

Because role models change as we change. As you have new priorities in your life, so your outlook shifts, you turn your head in a different direction and there they are - new role models you never knew existed before.

I do wonder what role models say about us. Are they out-of-reach aspirational? Or real people sitting in the office next door, willing to help and mentor whenever you need it? Or entirely fictional, coming to life from the TV or pages of a book, into your subconscious and commenting silently on every decision you make?  

Mine are mainly real and are mostly journalists. I take a little bit of something from all the role models I have, I don't necessarily want to be them, there's just something about what they do, who they are and how they approach life as a woman that appeals to me.

Anyway. On this day of celebrating all things female here's my list - I have more who are close to me, but I'll keep those to myself.



CJ Cregg



(I’ve even provided links).

Eleanor Oldroyd – Broadcaster of 5Live fame. (I’ve worshipped her almost as long as I’ve stalked Bryan Robson)

Ann Leslie – Foreign Correspondent

CJ Cregg – character from the West Wing

Sue Davie - Chief Executive Meningitis Trust

*New entry* Fleet Street Fox – Tabloid journalist and proud

And here's an Oxfam link for good luck :)  http://www.oxfam.org.uk/get-together

I carried a water melon

I spend a lot of time telling myself to shut up.

I talk A LOT, but what you don’t realise is, that’s me holding back. Me talking a lot, is mostly me talking a bit, but holding most of the words in my head and preventing them coming out. Can you imagine how unbearable I’d be if I let it out?

In North Wales (where I come from) this incessant talking is considered normal. But everywhere else? It doesn't seem to be the thing.

I’ve been thinking about this because I had a training day yesterday, a small intimate group of six. Within minutes of arriving, in that awkward silence before the training begins, I’d (unintentionally) insulted the man sitting next to me and told the group all about my fasting. Something they really didn’t need to know. But I just couldn’t help it.

You see I can’t stand a group of strangers sitting in silence before a meeting starts, all worrying about what they'll say in the dreaded ‘round the table introductions’. I always have to chat, get people talking, find common ground (aka humiliate myself and insult a few people) so by the time we do the intros it's just not that bad.  

Apparently this is a problem. A work-based coach once told me that I needed to stop ‘forcing my personality on people’ and let people ‘come and find me’. Not everyone wants to be your friend, he said.

So I tried it for a week.

I was my normal self in the office but when it came to meetings or group discussions, I sat back quietly, let other people take the lead and desperately, painfully, kept all my words tightly locked in my head (the hardest bloody thing I’ve EVER done).

And what happened? I had a whole week of people asking what was wrong.
Was I ill? Stressed? Everything alright at home? Unhappy? Leaving? Pregnant?

No, I’m just letting you all come and find me. (weirdo)

But he had a point, not everyone likes a chatterbox and they don't all want to join in. So just let people be.

Dirty Dancing classic lines

So occasionally I put these tips into practice and remain silent, but most of the time I forget all about it and speak before engaging brain.

In my excitement and urge to make everyone feel relaxed, I tell inappropriate jokes and dole out excruciating insults.

They don’t look funny in writing, without the perfectly timed delivery and painful tumbleweed silence that follows.

But this t-shirt (bought for me by colleague mumofthreeworld) says it all.

Having a day off food - the fast diet

Following on from the skinny jeans post, I am fasting.

Not for religions reasons (although I have given up wine for lent, but not beer or gin). Mainly because my weight is creeping up and I have a wardrobe full of clothes I need to wear.

I am fasting two days per week and eating completely normally for the other five. It's a diet that isn't a diet. A way for people like me to lose weight. Someone who hates the idea of calorie counting, but often gets so immersed in what I'm doing that I can easily go without food for the whole working day.

You have probably read the publicity, seen Dr Michael Mosley's Horizon programme last year, or know someone who's tried this. What swung it for me is that I know GP s who are doing it for health reasons. It's not just about getting thinner.

Yesterday was my first day. You don't completely starve, you are allowed 500 calories as a woman (600 for a man). I'm going for the 12 hour fast, split my allowance between the morning and the night with nothing in between.

• 7.30am - small amount of porridge made with water : 150 calories.
• Usual coffees (without milk), water and mint teas all day as and when I liked
• 7.30pm – bowl of soup worth only 240 calories.

That's it.

So how did I feel? Completely fine. Coffee kills any hunger pains so I didn't even notice in the day. After the school run I fed the four year old but had to carry on working so didn't think about snack, I didn't feel hungry, just empty. But a really gentle emptiness that made me feel lighter, brighter and just that bit thinner.

The toughest time was about 6pm cooking dinner for the adults and kids asking for snacks. But then it's the bedtime rush and it's all forgotten.

My sister and mum are also doing it, they both reported having a brilliant night's sleep after fasting and their main symptoms were a late night headache, but other than that they too found it easy. Unlike a normal diet you know it's not forever, you know that tomorrow everything is normal again.

And today I'm off to Nom Nom Cupcakery :)

So that's me done until Friday. A completely normal life for the rest of the week, with as much beer, gin or cake as I care to eat. Perfect. I'll keep you posted.

Find out more here. (it's not for everyone, so check first)

Skinny jeans sinner

“Those trousers aren't designed for real women. They were only made in your size for a laugh. You were never supposed to actually buy them! Skinny jeans were designed for special women who live on special diets of only special lettuce. If you can remember the last time you ate a burger then for Christ's sake take them off….”  The Regular Guy, In the Powder Room

I hate skinny jeans and jeggings.

I hate them because they really don’t suit me.

But I just can’t resist the draw of the elasticated waistband, the stretch fabric that feels so great no matter how tough the terrain (or big the lunch portions).

I resisted for a loooooonnng time. I know have too much arse and thigh for skinny jeans, but I gave in when I was pregnant with number 2. I could wear them with giant maternity tops and get away with it. They stretched so brilliantly around my water-retentioned legs. (see picture)

Then I got hooked. I realised I could wear old dresses that had been hidden away for being too short (as I got older and my knees got fatter). Put them with jeggings and it’s a whole new outfit.

I can wear them with flats, with heels, with boots and with wellies. They’re warmer than tights and smarter than tracksuits.

I can eat as many cupcakes in a day as I like and they just STRETCH so I don’t even feel it. (If necessary I just change to a bigger top.)

I love them but I hate them and I just keep buying more. I'm addicted to skinny jeans and they're doing nothing for my figure.

As the Regular Guy once said:

“Your arse looks fantastic love, but are you sure those skinny jeans suit your fat ankles?"

Skinny jeans + 41 weeks pregnant = not a good look

Bonding in a Crisis - The Gallery

This photo makes me laugh out loud everytime I look at it. Bonding during a Friday night trapped in your office.

We form so many great bonds, my dogs, childhood friends, distant cousins. But the ones I’ve formed in work are some of the strongest because often they’ve been borne out of adversity. 

It's the connection you form by being part of the same crisis.

What a crisis brings to a team is a strong bond. A deeper understanding of how your colleagues behave in the midst of an emergency and the strength you all take from coming out of the other side. Battered, bruised - but smiling, stronger and much better equipped for the future.

And with memories and photographs that will make you smile (and wince!) for years to come.

there she is again...!

 The 2007 floods tested me and my colleagues to the limit. The challenges were everywhere. Continuing to deliver a service as demand increased, but without computers or an office. Keeping a staff rota running 24 hours at locations across the county when people couldn’t travel. Keeping morale up when staff were spending their spare time queuing for water.

Empathy is a big part of crisis communications, if you understand what people are going through you do a much better job, and we did.

As a result I feel a strong and lasting bond with the staff, organisations and reporters I worked with during that emergency. It improved the way we worked together and turned us into a slick, well-oiled machine the next time a crisis occurred.

Because from that experience we knew who we could trust. We saw the best and worst of people and shared something that would never be repeated.

So I now have a bond with a small group of random people that will stay with me for the rest of my life (mainly built around smelly socks, long nights without sleep and improvised beds) even though many of us don't work together anymore.

 It was an unreal time, working with amazing people and it’s something I never want to forget.

This post was inspired by The Gallery on the Sticky Fingers Blog. Click on the icon to read more blogs.

Cafe culture - Cotswold style

I want to tell you about an absolute gem of a cafe in the gloriously picturesque South Cotswolds.

It’s one of those places you want to shout about *whispers* but you also want to keep to yourself. shhh. 

Hidden away in the secret valley that is Uley, Gloucestershire, is Prema Arts Centre.  A wonderfully eccentric place where you can take part in all manner of crafty, cultural and musical craziness.

And now It’s got a café. 

The offer is simple; coffee, cake, panini, soup; and Adam (above) sets the vibe.  He loves coffee and he makes great bread. Enough said.

The atmosphere is cosy, comfortable and very relaxed - with just a touch of cool. Sit inside on the huge sofas and you could be in the more bohemian areas of Bristol or London, sit outside and you know you’re in the Cotswolds.

It’s a great place to meet, chat, work and chill out (free wifi). The welcome is warm, the locals are friendly and whenever I go in I meet someone new.

The cakes are made at home by a local resident, they taste good and are beautifully presented. The walls are adorned with art (that you can buy), it changes regularly so you never get bored and there's always good background music.

Try it out, I promise you won’t be disappointed. It’s just a great place to be.

http://www.facebook.com/prema.artscaffay

*not a sponsored post, I just really like it there* 

Don't be afraid to step in

The suspected abduction of April Jones is playing on everyone’s minds today, not just people with children.

Just last week I had a moment of fear and pulled my 4 year old son close to have the stranger danger chat again.

We were in a soft play area, perfectly safe, we go there all the time. But it was busy and as I was watching parents coming in and out I suddenly thought, if someone carried my son or daughter off, would anyone stop them? Of course they wouldn’t. Why would they think it was anyone other than their parent/guardian carrying them?

Even if the child was kicking or screaming, how many of us would probably sit there and sympathise, giving them a knowing ‘another tantrum’ smile.

So I sat down with the 4 year old and explained that he must never go anywhere with other adults, even if they said Mummy told them to pick him up. If they decided to pull him away or carry him, he needs to shout out ‘help me this isn’t my mummy’. If he simply cried and kicked, I know that the majority of people would ignore it, it’s just another naughty child.

It's not the happiest chat I've ever had with my son and I think he probably forgot it two minutes later. The odds of it happening are small, miniscule, there's probably more chance of winning the lottery. But it's the most painful, sick-inducing fear I have.  

There are plenty of messages out there for the kids but what about the parents?

Don’t be afraid to tackle a parent if a child looks in distress and you’re just not sure. If everything is ok, they would forgive you for interfering, but they’d never forgive you if you didn’t.

---------------------

Stranger Danger Gloucestershire Police website http://www.gloucestershire.police.uk/kids_aware/3.html

 

You'll be a Press Officer my son

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise.

You’ll be a Press Officer my son.

I’m convinced that Rudyard Kipling wrote the opening lines of that most famous poem after spending a week in a council press office.

I’ve got 13 years experience of working in (or managing) an in-house press team of some kind. So I feel I’m (only) just about qualified to comment.

I’m not talking Public Relations, I'm talking about good old fashioned Press Officers here. In-house, fire-fighting, crisis averting, blamed for everything, double-shifting, on-calling, dogsbodies.

It’s one of those jobs most people think they can do, but in my experience very few are actually any good at. By good I mean they can please people on all sides of the job. People with big egos and tight deadlines. The boss, the reporter, your colleagues and indirectly, the public.

It’s not just about good copywriting (but boy that helps) and it certainly isn’t about being super organised (we have systems for that). For me, it’s 90% personality and attitude. To be a great press officer you need to be wise beyond your years, positive, have strength of character, know and trust your journalists, have sound judgement, honesty, integrity, a sense of humour, and very very broad shoulders.

Most of all, you need to be willing to take the blame.

That shit policy that no one ever thought would see the light of day? Well it did, and it’s getting hammered all over the front pages. Yep – your fault for not getting the Editor on-side. Unhappy residents campaigning against service closures? That’s your fault too.  

But with the blame comes the honour of doing the job well. You might not be saving actual lives or facing danger – but you do get to play a big part in giving people accurate information at the most crucial times. From flooding to fires, from snow to pot holes. From school closures to public health scares, from MRSA to crime scenes. It’s a never ending job of long hours and often long nights. If the emergecy services are awake, and the media is awake, then so are you. And it’s a great thing to be part of.

If you can keep your wits about you, you’ll be a Press Officer my son.

  

UleyGirl retired from being in-house 3 weeks ago and is now seeing it all through rose-tinted spectacles.

Does my dick look big in this?

What does your car say about you?

Who cares? Cars aren't important to me, they just have to work, be cheap to fix, cheap to run and fit a pushchair in the boot.

Well.....a pushchair, two camping chairs, a baby back-carrier, balls, wellies, buckets and spades, bags of clothes for the charity shop I never manage to get to.

But back to the point. If I'm going to run my own business, my car is going to start giving out signals about the kind of person I am, the company I run and most importantly whether or not I'm successful. People will judge me on it and for the first time it might matter.

So I asked a friend, what does my car say about me?

"It's says you're a mum" was her simple reply. And why?

"Because it's full of dents and scratches down the side"

Well surely that just says I either live in a pretty dodgy area or I'm a terrible driver. She disagrees.

According to her the scratches and dents show that I've got other things to worry about. That the crying baby I'm trying to fit into the too-small trolley is taking all my attention, so I don't notice the trolley bash against my door, repeatedly.

That the loud screaming in the back of the car and the even louder music (to drown it out) prevent me from hearing the scrapes along the wall as I speed reverse into the drive.

And the nursery rhyme actions in my rear view mirror to entertain the smiling sing-a-longa baby in the back seat disturbed me long enough to miss the hedge I just reversed into. (twig meets reverse lights - ouch)

Ok I get it. It's not very new, it's not very flash and it's covered in scratches. It screams public sector, it screams working mum.

But change my car because of what it says about me and pretend to be something I'm not? I'd rather take the train.


Does my dick look big in this?

When work is the perfect excuse

The countdown clock has started and the tension is beginning to build. Less than 3 months to go.

I’m leaving my job, my big fat public sector pension and I’m setting up on my own.

But that isn’t what’s making me nervous.  From September, I’’ll be doing the school run.

No car waiting with the engine running, no traffic build-up to avoid, no flexi-clock ticking away timing my arrival in work. Simply put, I’ll have no more excuses. The boy is starting  school and I’M going to have to stand by the gate.

And smile

And chat

And STAY.

To be honest I’m shit scared. I’m supposed to be all nervous and excited about my eldest starting school and worried that he might not settle in properly…..blah blah blah blah blah blah.    But I have none of those fears. The teachers seem nice, the building is lovely and he knows a few people already.

I however, KNOW HARDLY ANYONE.

But will be EXPECTED TO STAND NEXT TO THEM AND CHAT. Probably for a good 10 minutes.

I won’t have work as an excuse anymore. In my new world I will do work after the school run and once the kids are in bed. In my new world I will act like the perfect mother, walking my child safely to school come rain or shine. (and walking back up that bloody big hill again, sweating like a fat lass at a dance and wishing I’d taken the car)

So I’ve got 3 months to find an excuse. I can’t withdraw my resignation, that just looks like I’ve bottled it. I’ll be working up til September so no time to wander on down to the playgroup and pick up a few mates that way.

I’m just going to have to face it. Stand alone for a while, hope someone notices me. Smile politely and look friendly (fine line between friendly and slightly mad). If I’m ignored I’ll play with my phone (slight problem with no mobile signal). 

Or I could go for the really painful option and force myself (with a bit of under-the-breath bullying ‘do it you coward, come on you unsociable bitch’) to go over and talk to them. Walk into a group of mums who know each other really well and say something cheesy “Hi, it’s my first day, what’s your name?”

What do you reckon? No me neither. Better phone the breakfast club.

To the Bride.....Iechyd da!

What makes a good hen weekend?

The bride-to-be having one last fling? The bridesmaids falling down drunk? Someone going missing and turning up in a strange man's bed the next day?

Or tacky pink barbie dresses, matching outfits, veils and L plates? It's all about broken heels, broken windows and broken feelings.

No.

Laughter makes a good hen weekend. Hours and hours of sometimes sober, sometimes wine fuelled, belly-aching, side-splitting laughter.

Low sugar, lack of sleep, hangover headache induced laughter. Laughing at things that no one else will find funny. Laughing at things you hoped you'd forgotten.

And laughing everytime you see someone who shared it too.

Now THAT's what makes a good hen weekend. And I've just been on one.

Not a prison cell or broken relationship in sight (just a lot of unused darker than dark fake tan and some unfinished dares).

TOWIE - thanks for the memories. 

Champagne childcare, lemonade wages

The average family spends more than a quarter of their income on childcare and we need to make it more affordable, says a report out today.

I don’t disagree. The cost of childcare can be crippling and it forces you to prioritise and make important choices in your life. To continue with the career at great expense (not always just financial) or give it all up because you just can’t afford it?

Reports like this always make uncomfortable reading for me and throw up some terrible moral dilemmas. The idea that childcare is too expensive makes me twitch.



practically perfect in every way



As parents we expect to have champagne childcare, but we're only willing to pay lemonade wages. 

We want our little monkeys to be looked after by Mary Poppins and we’ll pay them peanuts in return.

Then we’ll complain about the quality of care whilst we mutter disgust at the cost of last month’s nursery bill.

Because let’s face it, we’ll pay more for a cleaner than we will for childcare and to me that just feels wrong.

But I can understand why.  More of us live away from our parents and have no alternative support network. We don’t have the option to split the cost of care between family, in-laws and the occasional day at the child-minder.

Some of us just don’t earn enough to fork out several hundred on nursery care JUST so we can have the pleasure of slaving away at an unforgiving job all day, come home to a screaming child and another night of no sleep. 

The simple answer would be to give up work and look after the kids ourselves. But guess what, some of us don't want to, or can't afford to do that either.

As working parents, what we all want is affordable good quality childcare, with brilliantly trained staff who are paid properly for the amazing job they do looking after our children every day.

But that comes at a price we either can’t afford or we’re just not willing to pay.

So yet another think tank has looked at all the evidence, all the other European countries and has made another set of recommendations. 

The report concludes that bureaucracy is restricting the childcare options we have available and the best people for the job are being put off by paperwork and regulation. Relax that and everything will better. I hope they're right. 

For now I just know that everyone should have access to good quality affordable childcare (fortunately I do) and be able to at least have a choice.

Have a read for yourself and you decide  http://www.centreforum.org/assets/pubs/affordable-quality.pdf

Somewhere to run

I’d always dreamt of having a tree house. We had 3 greenhouses and a shed, all packed to the rafters with plants in various stages of growth and tools of every kind.

But there was no room in any of them for me. A tree house would have been perfect because then I’d have had somewhere to run.

When you’re a kid, how important is it to have somewhere to run?

Two conversations I’ve had today with two very different Mums, made me think of the tree house. 

Prolific blogger mum of three world talks about sibling rivalry and her eldest needing to get away from it all. And the other, my big sister, shared her fears for her epileptic son when he starts big school, where will he run when he needs help? Both expressed the same fear that they weren’t the ones they could run to. That not being there or your child choosing to run to someone else was a sign of failure.

But it’s not.



The olden days, but no tree house



I have vivid memories of running away many times; sometimes I’d pack a bag and mean it, other times I was escaping to sort my head out.

I had friends with brilliant parents whom I loved and trusted a great deal. I had my Nan who’d be there with a strong tea and lots of sugar (before phoning my mum and gently sending me home).

I’d run away, calm down, and most importantly, come back.

This wasn’t a bad reflection on my own Mum & Dad. I feel privileged that I had other adults I could turn to and looking back, thankful that my parents let me do that.

At certain points in your life, the last people you want to talk to is your parents, either through shame, embarrassment or more likely a huge fear of disappointing them (and most of the time I was probably running away from my sister!)

Kids get stressed, kids occasionally hate their siblings and kids will often feel alone. But as long as they’ve got a tree house they can bolt to, or a friend to support them, they’ll be fine.

And it certainly doesn’t mean you’ve failed. It means you’ve let them deal with things in their own way and if they’re anything like me, they’ll thank you for it and respect you so much more in the long run.

I still run away, all adults do, to have a beer, a walk, or a chat with someone other than my husband. So why should our kids be any different?

A test of community

The village shop is closing and the S.O.S has been sent out. Save our shop.

The current owners have been trying to sell for years but no one’s buying. It seems the village shop is in decline. Yet when threatened with closure all 900+ residents of our sleepy – yet upwardly mobile -  village come out to protest. So a campaign begins to keep the shop and run it ourselves. It's a real test of our community.

The big idea is a Community Shop & Post Office, owned by locals, run by locals, stocked with the things that locals want and opening just when locals need it.

This made me think, just how important to us all is having a local shop?

Very.

Ok, but do you drive past it to go and do your big shop in the local supermarket?

*shuffles uncomfortably in seat*

Do you use the post office only when you’ve carried that parcel in your bag for days cos you didn’t get chance to nip out in work?

Guilty as charged.

Do you only use the shop when you are at home and think it would be a nice, respectable middle class thing to do?

“Just walking down to the shop for the Sunday papers darling and some of those lovely organic sausages Matthew Fort raved about in the Guardian. Oh and they’ve just delivered some Hobbs bread, I do love those Baker Brothers.”

Yep, all of the above.

You see it’s not enough. Occasional use does not a thriving business make. So it’s being handed over to the community and it’s all very Big Society. We need to raise a lot of cash, quickly, and we need volunteers to run it. Soon.

The whole village has been asked to dig deep and buy shares within the next 4 weeks. This buys you a vote at the AGM and all being well, a small return in the form of a shop voucher.

I’m completely behind them and I hope this works. I also feel terribly guilty for not using it more in the past.

So go out and support your local businesses, spend with the people you know and keep your local shops going where you can – or at least where you can afford to. Use it, or as they say, lose it.

I’m off to buy shares. I’m an investor now.

http://community.stroud.gov.uk/general.asp?pid=40&pgid=2570

uleycommunitystores@gmail.com

Held together with glue

I remembered something today that made me chuckle.

It was something my Mum said, probably about 20 years ago, and she was in tears at the time.

“Everything in my house is glued”

It was a reference to the fact that she drops, smashes, or breaks everything. And if she doesn’t, inevitably one of her kids will (more than likely me)

Twenty years on and I’m feeling her pain. My house is starting to look the same. Most things have a missing part, a missing partner, or are just plain missing (in action. Probably down the tip by now)

As I sit here typing I can see:

·        A three legged giraffe pen holder

·        A broken wine glass (the last of a set of four)

·        A recipe book stand that won’t stand up (snapped the leg off)

·        A chipped vase (tap again)

And that’s just in one room. Outside on the drive sits my car, with the bumper hanging off (nothing an occasional kick can’t sort), the back door opens only from the inside (3 yr old comes in handy)  and the glove compartment won’t close (unless my passenger kindly wedges their knee against it). Even one of my fingers is glued on. (but that was my sister’s fault)

I never get through the day without breaking or spilling something.

Yesterday I threw Weetabix all over my 1 yr old. Today I almost threw the one year old as I tripped up the stairs. Once I tripped and threw a whole jar of pickled onions. And when I’m not throwing things I’m throwing up. All over my car ceiling (yes, inside) and in someone else’s glove box.

I’ve blamed lots of things, bad eyesight, terrible hand/eye co-ordination and hereditary clumsiness.

But basically I’m just in a rush. And now everything in my house is glued too.

Gather with your females

When faced with extreme stress, apparently women like to ‘tend and befriend’

This is because when under stress we release a hormone that arouses our nurturing instinct, which in turn ‘encourages us to gather with other females’.

I read this today and it made me laugh out loud. The thought that a moment of stress (usually an annoying email) sends a hormone surge through my body, forces me up and out of my office chair, walking hands in front of me,  zombie like towards the nearest gathering of females. Where I’ll gabble inanely until the hormone rush is satisfied and I can return to my work.

It turns out that the more we nurture and join with our friends, the calmer we become. Common sense really. A phone call, a coffee or a long walk with a female friend is all I need.  Moan over, smile back on, normality resumes. And it’s scientifically proven to work.

My husband prefers to use bad words and kick things. But that’s life.

You had me at Nigella

Tonight I switched on the TV to see another over-made-up starlet in a tweed skirt, pulled tight at the waist, seductively dip her ‘crunch to pack a punch’ bread into a runny egg.  And promptly switched it off again.

Cookery programmes. All desperately trying to be cool, all with a book to accompany the series and now on

Every

Bloody

Night.

One good cook a week is enough for me (ooh err). But now there’s one every night and they’re all too thin, too groomed and too perfectly scripted. And don’t get me started on the camera angles (all that zoom isn't good for me labyrinthitis).

And talking to someone on the other side of the room? What’s that about? HEY LOVE, WE’RE OVER ‘ERE!

At least Nigella knew what women (and men) wanted. Food for sex, food for comfort and food for PMS. Simples. Don't give me this fancy shit.

I’m giving up on cookery programmes, TV producers think of something new will you.

You had me at Nigella.

Hello Goodbye

Someone just left in work and it’s strange to see how we all reacted.

I can cope with people leaving, moving on, usually to bigger and better things. In fact I’m usually pleased. If I like someone I always want them to do well. So they leave and I just carry on as I am, plodding along, ready to welcome in the next person.

Everyone is replaceable, no one is indispensable. No matter how good they were, we survived without them before and we’ll survive without them again.

After all, the next day you will wake up, you will go to work and things are 99% the same.  This could be someone else’s big chance to shine.

But for this week, we're a group of slightly batty women floating happily on our hope filled sea.  Rudderless.

Like someone came and stole the steering wheel but the foot’s still on the pedal and until the fog clears we really have no idea in which direction we're heading.

So I’m going to bury my head in the sand and hum loudly. Then I’m going to give myself a good slap and get on with it.

Winning!

I hate goodbyes, I’d much rather say hello.

“Why can't we get all the people together in the world that we really like and then just stay together? I guess that wouldn't work. Someone would leave. Someone always leaves. Then we would have to say good-bye. I hate good-byes. I know what I need. I need more hellos.” ― Charles M. Schulz

They don't make 'em like they used to

Onions.

I realised this weekend that onions don’t make me cry anymore and they haven’t done for years.

Magazines, newspaper columns, Bettaware catalogues all used to be full of magic ways to stop the flow of tears as you chopped. A spoon or a piece of brown bread in your mouth. But now, no matter how or when I chop them, they just don’t make me cry. Is it the onions or is it me?

I fear it’s me. These days I can only cry at things related to children. Lost children, found children, happy children, sad children, abused children, amused children. From birth to babies, tots to teens. Children make my eyes water.

I used to cry at sport. Or ER. Or the theme-tune to West Wing. Or anything to do with Aidan in SATC.

Now it’s just babies and children.

Onions haven’t changed, but they don’t make me like they used to.

A Mother's Guilt

I seem to be in permanent state of guilt. I’m guilty. I suffer from guiltiness.

I have been feeling this way since 16 May 2008. I can pin-point it to the birth of my first child.

 

No one warned me that being a mother meant living a life plagued with guilt. They told me of the joy, the closeness, the fulfilment, even the pain. But they failed to mention the guilt.

Guilty for that cheeky coffee you have when they’re asleep (and you should be cleaning).

Guilty for going to work ‘for a break’.

Guilty for leaving work early, but picking them up from nursery late (I had some shopping to do).

Guilty for leaving work at all.

Guilty for leaving your husband in charge – just the once.

Guilty for staying on for an after work drink.

Guilty for lying in bed for an extra half hour.

Guilty for letting them watch TV while you have a shower.

Guilty for the fight that’s just broken out because I’ve been ignoring them whilst I browse through facebook.

Guilty for breathing.

We have no reason to be guilty, no one is making us feel guilty, for some reason it’s something we like to do to ourselves. Like no sleep, a fat belly and stretch marks aren’t punishment enough?

We are mothers. We are guilty. As charged.