(not) Wired for sound

I've made some bad purchases in my time.

One year I bought my husband an electronic dartboard. It added up the scores as you threw. He was confused, I was hormonal (I'd recently had a baby). I thought he could put it in the shed and play happily against himself to hide away from the screaming and tantrums (and that was just me).

Anyway I took it back.

Two years ago I bought him a big fat pair of wireless headphones. He was confused again (this time I was 37 weeks pregnant with a second child). He smiled, we put them on the 2 year old and watched him play along with Family Fortunes, laughed a bit, then forgot about them.

Until recently.

The wireless headphones have made a comeback and they are my new favourite thing. Our living space is open plan, we have one big room in which the whole family does everything. Playing, cooking, eating, working, watching TV. To watch something you have to compete with a whole host of other noises. So I generally don't bother.

But now I can watch the news, sound off/headphones on, whilst cooking dinner (the cooker hood made too much noise before). The other half can watch TV while I listen to the radio. The headphones can babysit the 5 year old while I make work calls and use the PC.

And the reach is good. I can wander into the next room, do as much multi-tasking as I like and I can still hear what's going on.

But I can't hear anything else. No fighting, no calling for 'MUMMY', no 'that's my bike', no 'is the kettle on?'. Nothing. I live in blissful ignorance. Happy in my headphones.

Wireless headphones. They are bloody wonderful.

I have no idea what make or model they are, I panic bought them in Lidl along with some funny red things in a jar. This is not a sponsored post.

Beloved - 20 years on

"Where words could be spoken that would close your ears shut. Where, if you were alone, feeling could overtake you and stick to you like a shadow. Out there where there were places in which things so bad had happened that when you went near them it would happen again."

It's 20 years since I read Beloved. I remember loving it then and that it made a huge impression on me. But what I remember are the sights, sounds and smells. Where it was set more than what it was about.

A couple of weeks ago I saw it again. It hit me hard, the memory of the book and I remembered feeling drained once I'd read it.

So I picked it up and started again. Twenty years on, knowing more about the world and less of a romantic. Less time to spare but not in a rush to finish.

It's the story of slavery and the experience of slaves. How impossible is to ever be free of it. How one mother kills her child rather than let it lead the life she lived and how that ghost - and many others - come back to haunt her.

It's a story full of pain and it's so much worse now I'm a mother, an aunt, a godmother. I'm hearing, feeling and responding to a completely different story than the one I read before. A story about the desire and drive to protect your children from pain, whatever the cost. 20 years ago I just read it. This week I feel I've lived and breathed every word.

It's stunningly beautiful and just brilliantly written and it carries you along at a sing-song pace - but makes your heart ache. It's packed with detail and full of character. It's a heart-breaking story that you hope ends in peace. Quiet, restful, let-out-a-huge-sigh peace. But when you finish it's impossible to get out of your head.

Phew.

So I'm going to continue this theme and go and find more books that made an impression on me 20 or 30 years ago and see how I like them now.  Next stop is a book my Grandad gave me as a teenager, To Sir with Love. If you do the same, let me know.

Beloved by Toni Morrison, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature.

Beloved

Bingo wings and swollen feet - it's Summer

The thing I like about the wonderfully unpredictable Great British weather is the huge range of wardrobe options you need to survive a year here.

It's hard to plan what to wear too far in advance and every day is a new and exciting challenge. Cotton dress and flip flops in the morning and a quick change into thick cords and wellies by the afternoon. Never a dull wardrobe moment. (I have a jacket for every occasion)

But this heatwave thing that we've got going on, is not only boring (oh look it's sunny again) but it gives me wardrobe issues of a whole different kind. How to deal with gentle perspiration in a ladylike manner.

Footwear - have I painted my toenails and will these shoes still fit in an hour when my feet swell and elephantitis sets in?

Tops - can I risk sleeveless and the big bingo-wing reveal? Too low cut and you'll see my tanline, might even risk showing the beads of sweat disappearing down my cleavage.

Middle - this is the biggest issue for me. There's a huge risk of sweat lines and the material getting folded into your baby layers when you sit down. I reject so many clothes on this basis. (I did consider losing weight but fortunately I've noticed that slim people sweat too)

Skirts and dresses - they let the air circulate and are generally much cooler to wear, but you've got to consider all of the above, with the added joy of some hot thigh rubbing. Lovely. 

And the best materials for the summer - linen and cotton - usually need ironing. Plus I'm absolutely sure that body hair grows twice as fast and suncream gives me greasy spots.

So God, please send me some gentle rain, a breeze and maybe some hail for a day or two.

I want a day off shaving and a bit of a challenge when I get dressed. Just give the sun back in time for the weekend :)

My coffee story

DO PEOPLE CONSUME TOO MUCH COFFEE? Asked the BBC this week.

'Does UleyGirl consume too much coffee?' replied my coffee-fuelled paranoia. It felt like the whole of Twitter and Facebook was asking me the same question. I think I need to defend myself.

I talk about coffee a lot but that doesn’t mean I’m addicted (I talk about exercise and sex too – see what I mean?)

Sometimes I can’t face coffee so don't drink it. I never get headaches, experience withdrawal symptoms or throw small animals from upstairs windows. Because I’m not addicted. (Or if I am, I'm not admitting it yet)

I may be happier after a coffee, talk a bit more and occasionally burst into song, but that’s no bad thing is it?

I like sharing it, making it for others, smelling it, savouring it.

But I'm not a coffee snob. I know what I like. I don't like tons of hot milk and I don’t like instant. I used to drink plenty of it but stopped really tasting anything. That's the problem with even the best instant coffee, it doesn't compete on taste and it lacks impact.

So instead of drinking ten cups of instant a day, I drink on average one large cup of filtered coffee or espresso (double – with hot water) per day. Sometimes two, three at the very very most. I can’t drink more than that.

I care about coffee and I really enjoy it, therefore I want to drink a cup roasted, blended and prepared by someone who feels the same way. Which is why I spend most of my time in Nom Nom Cupcakery (serving deep and delicious Rave signature blend) and Prema Café (nutty and smooth just like the owners).

So there. My coffee story.  *blows raspberry and puts the coffee on*

 (and I can think of lots of people who agree)

 Me, having me-time at Nom Nom Cupcakery

I love you Germany, I do

I love Germany. But I didn't realise everyone else did too.

I was just a bit surprised when they topped the 'most popular country' poll last week.

If it had been the most popular country once people had visited, I could understand it. I’ve been there and it’s great. But I thought I was alone and everyone else had a reason to really dislike the Germans.

Because they don’t laugh much. They wear terrible clothes. They eat raw meat. They work too hard. They don't like spending money. They put towels on sunbeds and they don’t queue. They speak better English than we do and they generally take life too damn seriously.

Except most of that isn’t true (except for the English bit).  

How can a nation with such a crazy dress sense, that created the Love Parade (RIP), take itself too seriously?

They love football, drink decent coffee, had mayonnaise with chips long before we did, drink copious amounts of good beer, eat really good food (if you like meat) and surround themselves with absolutely delicious cakes. They recycle with an efficiency and dedication we can only dream of.

And staying there with a family is an absolute pleasure. My Dad took my sister and I on a swimming tour when we were teenagers, then back again to see the families we met. I went on my own, with my family, I even took my friends. I clubbed, ski’d, shopped in C&A, swam in lakes and drank cognac for breakfast. I have memories of me and my sister laughing so hard we didn't think we'd breathe again. The most generous, welcoming and warm experiences of my life.

It's a great place and finally somebody, everybody, agrees.

My son, German football's biggest fan

Birth and my life in football matches

My son is turning five so I started thinking about the day he was born. What do I remember?

That my husband was wearing a banana t-shirt (imagine that being the first thing you saw on exiting from the gift shop??)

I remember that on the morning after his birth I was late transferring back to Stroud Maternity because I wanted to watch the FA Cup final (Portsmouth 1-0 Cardiff).

I remember that I finally left the 'Stroud Hotel' because United were playing Chelsea in the European Cup Final and I wanted to watch it at home.

I also remember my milk coming in during the first half (feel free to look away now). I felt a mixture of pain and panic, trying to force a tiny baby to drink to relieve the pain, but with breasts rapidly expanding like Violet, the one ton blueberry from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Ever had the feeling you're about to explode??
 

I didn't think I'd live to see the second half, so sent the husband out to scour the supermarkets for a hand pump.

He returned and United won on penalties.
I was elated and the boobs thankfully, deflated.

There you go, my birth memories. All based around football (and I don't even follow it anymore).

We need more men in childcare

Gender imbalance in the home, in the workplace, in life, largely focuses on how to make things better for women. Lately I've been thinking about childcare and how important it is for children to be cared for by both.

Early years education is dominated by women for many reasons I don't need to go into here - negatively perceived ones such as pay, hours, status. But also for positive reasons like experience, expertise, empathy (and our ability to multi-task!)

But we're not going to change stereotypes or teach children to view men and women equally unless we do something about the care they receive in those very early years.

That means changing the way we behave at home (if we can) and encouraging more men to follow a career in child care.

Sexism isn't exclusively part of the male  psyche (oh how we all love to blame them). A quick poll of some of my mum friends reveals a suspicion of men who work in childcare. What are they doing that job for? They must be weird/sexually motivated? Couldn't they get a proper job?

This reaction offends me in oh so many ways.

It is a decent job and one of the most important anyone can do, a child's life is shaped in those first five years. It's well paid in the right setting, with excellent training and opportunities to study and progress. Looking after children is fun and rewarding so why shouldn't men enjoy it? Guess what - men like kids too!

We also know that children without fathers benefit from having strong male role models in their life. 

My children have been cared for by men and women in daycare and I'm hugely grateful for that.

So let's encourage more men into childcare, reduce the ridiculous stigma attached to doing a 'female' job and start giving all those who work with children the respect they deserve.

They taught me, my husband and my children everything we know.

About that six day warning...

Last week I wrote a post about the unrealistic expectations and laziness of men when it comes to leaving the house. You can read it here. One male blogger, incensed by my nonsense, sent me this response. Read it and weep.

Dear Wife,

Last Sunday you told me that we would be going to your Sister’s house this Saturday, for lunch. I grunted my acknowledgement and forgot about it instantly.

On Monday, you mentioned that we would go for a walk in the woods while we were at your Sister’s at the weekend. I filed that under ‘that’ll-be-nice’ and gave it no further thought. We only need legs to go for a walk and I have two of those. I considered myself ready for the challenge.

On Tuesday, you said how excited you were about going to your Sister’s at the weekend and I distinctly remember asking what day we were going, why we were going and what we were going to do while we were there. You did a special womanly sigh and informed me that we were going on Saturday, for a walk and for lunch. “What time will lunch be?” I asked, “Lunch time, or later?” It’s important to know the difference between a ‘meal’ which can be served at any time, and ‘lunch’, which should be at 12 O’clock. I’m very set on this detail.  “Lunch” you replied.

On Wednesday you asked me what time we needed to set off in order to get to your Sister’s for lunch on Saturday. I remember thinking to myself that this was a remarkably strange question considering that I didn’t even know we were going to your Sister’s, not to mention the fact that we have both lived in the same respective houses for at least six years and we have visited them at least four times a year ever since. Surely by now you should have got the hang of how long it takes? We don’t even use the sat-nav anymore. “Half past ten,” I say, “eleven at the latest if we are to get there in time for lunch.”

On Thursday, you had a day off talking specifically about your Sister but instead spent an hour banging on about how you don’t have anything nice to wear at the weekend, and the general lacking in your ridiculously over-stuffed wardrobe at the moment. I told you that fourteen different outfit combinations looked lovely on you but no actual decisions were made.

On Friday, you pointed out that if we were to leave the house for half past ten the next morning, then we was really going to have to get on with it when we got up. You mooted the idea of setting an alarm but shelved it in favour of a gamble that the kids would wake us instead. I reminded you how long it always takes you to get ready and that we really did need to be away in time because your Sister’s kids would eat all the sausage rolls again, if we were late. You nodded in agreement – that particularly cold and food depleted visit has never actually been forgotten nor forgiven.

For six days you have nagged me about this visit. For six days you have been planning it.

So why is it, love, that with twenty minutes to go you are still sat in your PJ’s with your nose deep in Twitter and need me to tell you to get ready?

An hour ago I mumbled that perhaps you could possibly have a shower first, on account of how much faffing this always entails, and you shrugged me off. I looked over at the kids half an hour ago and I thought you were leaving it a bit late to get them ready. I shook my head in disbelief at your apparent lack of thought. 

It only takes me five minutes to wash my pits, sack & crack in the shower (I’m nothing if not thorough), five minutes to dry and throw on the closest pair of trousers and shirt to the end of the rail, and another five minutes to follow you around as you use your special female Voodoo magic to locate my otherwise lost phone, keys, socks and sunglasses.

Fifteen minutes – that’s all it takes me to be ready! I’m ready with five minutes to spare and where are you? Upstairs, messing about with the kids now that you’ve finally noticed they aren’t ready.

Will you please get a move on? Those greedy nephews of yours will be tucking into the garlic bread soon.

Love you

Husband x

About that 20 minute warning...

Dear Husband

We need to talk about leaving the house and that 20 minute warning.

Nothing annoys me more in this world than when, after an hour sprawled in front of Breakfast TV drinking coffee, you announce that we’re leaving in 20 minutes.

Then……in 20 minutes, when you’ve showered, dressed and packed your one bag – you start shouting at me, “COME ON! AREN’T YOU READY YET? WE’RE LEAVING!” then under your breath “bloody woman, she takes hours to go anywhere.”

You see, your argument is based on how long it takes YOU to get ready.

Just You. With hardly any hair (no drying), hardly any packing (one pair of pants for 5 days), and absolutely no one to look after whilst you’re doing it.

In the 20 minutes you’ve kindly allocated me to get out of the door, I am:

·         Having a shower

·         Wiping a child’s bottom

·         Getting back in the shower

·         Breaking up a fight

·         Giving up on the shower

·         Standing on lego (allow 1 minute for pain to pass)

·         Clearing up lego

·         Washing up breakfast dishes

·         Losing my towel

·         Answering the door to the postman

·         Remembering I lost the towel….Hello Postman ;)

·         Putting my underwear on

·         Retrieving my pants from a child’s head

·         Throwing my clothes into a suitcase

·         Throwing clothes for two kids into a suitcase

·         Putting the rest of my clothes on

·         Setting my hair on fire with the straighteners

·         Setting my towel on fire with the straighteners (oh, there it is!)

·         Breaking up another fight

AND I didn’t even get chance to check Facebook.

So next time you shout “20 minutes and we’re leaving”, I’ll grab my one bag and I’ll see you in the car.

Love you,

Wife
Read the Husband's response to this letter...click here

Hope, opportunity and adoption

 “I saw this chubby little boy. He looked nice, but it was weird thinking he was going to be my son. We felt protective towards him very quickly. He’s just adorable. We wouldn’t be without him.” Adoptive parent, Gloucestershire.

One of my biggest regrets in life is not adopting a child.

I have two beautiful homemade children with their lives ahead of them but I still regret not taking the plunge. I feel that by not adopting I’ve taken the easy way out.

Weirdly, it was Barack Obama's thank you speech to his campaign team that got me thinking about this again today. (see it here)

He talked about making a difference to people's lives and opportunity and hope. And my mind wandered back to adoption.  

But  all I ever do is think about it (and I know my big sister does too). I don’t pick up the phone and make the one call that could have changed my life, but much more importantly, somebody else’s.

Adoption isn’t just for people who can’t have kids. It isn’t and should never be a last resort. It’s a decision to give someone the opportunities and the life they deserve.

There are 484 children in care in Gloucestershire alone. This year the number of young children and babies coming into care has increased. Many have been abused and neglected and what they really need is a forever family.

It's National Adoption Week so if you’re thinking about it, take the bull by the horns and at the very least get an information pack. There's no harm in just looking http://www.gloucestershire.gov.uk/adoption

Listen to Paul Coxon's story, the view from an adopted child http://audioboo.fm/boos/342246-my-story-part-1-about-my-adoption

Better at making gravy

A conversation. Sunday night at 9pm:

Me:                   I can't bear to watch Downton. I might blog.

Him:                 Ok. I’m going to do my ironing.

Me:                   I won’t be blogging about ironing.

Him:                 You can’t, you don't have any experience.

Me:                   Yes I have. I ironed H’s football shirt once..............

I was always better at making gravy. 

Gold medal mojo

The Olympics, they make me feel 13 again.

I can’t sit and watch every minute of every hour like I did then, but it turns out that my thirty-something self is still capable of forming Bieber-esque crushes that turn me into a squealing mess, leaving me searching the internet for hours for glimpses of my heroes.

I’ve got a girl crushes on Rebecca Adlington and Gemma Gibbons. A big brother crush on Bradley Wiggins and a poster boy crush on Mark Cavendish (phwoar). I want to invite Mo Farah for tea and I’ve got a growing ginger obsession with Greg Rutherford.

And after four Olympics I still desperately hope to marry Ben Ainslie.

I spend my evenings sobbing with joy and my sleeping hours dreaming of relationships I will never have.

I'm out cycling with the wind in my hair, enjoying the sunshine, looking stylish in lycra (is that even possible?). When I hear the whirr of the wheels behind me, feel someone coming up close, almost feel the breath on my neck. It’s Cav.....that cheeky boyish smile and mean determined stare....... We lock eyes....

.......and the alarm goes off, I change my baby's nappy and head off to work at the council.

You get the gist. After a summer of sport, we’ve all got a spring in our step, we’re proud to be British. And thanks to the poster boys I’ve got my Mojo back. :-)

mmmmmmm Cav.....

(And when I grow up I want to be Clare Balding, with Denise Lewis's body. That's all.)

Did you make any new friends today?

Making friends - it's such a ball ache. It's something you spend your whole life doing yet most of it dreading.


This weekend I've been thinking about it a lot. I mean, who doesn't worry about making friends?


From starting a new school, to going to Uni, moving away for your first proper job and then changing job. Buying your first house and meeting the neighbours, buying the next house and wondering if you'll build the same relationships again. Starting a family and fitting in with the mums, finding a life for yourselves that's more than just the kids.


But looking back, every time my life has changed direction (or location) I've met more great people to enjoy the journey with. Turns out there are a lot of friendly people out there, more than happy to let a welsh girl in.


So as I get ready to give up the day job and get the eldest off to school, I should be getting that familiar anxiety of starting all over again. But this time I'm excited, turns out this place I live in is full of crazy people and I think I'm going to have a ball.  


(Besides, if I didn't have any friends, I'd have to spend more time at home with my husband)

The heartbreak and the joy of SATC

*girly post alert*                     *girly post alert*                        *girly post alert*

I was always an Aidan kind of girl. Big does nothing for me. I love Carrie the most when she's with Aidan.

The best thing about a night in alone is being able to watch old DVDs of Sex and the City. For the last few weeks I've been back onto SATC, my faithful companion for roughly the last 13 years. It began during one of the best times in my life, when I spent my whole time with a small group of very close friends. Whenever I watch it, it takes me back there.

No matter how old I get, I still love Season 4 the most. Mainly because it's the second time Carrie breaks Aidan's heart and it's the most painful.

Because with pain comes joy. To suffer pain you need to have had some joy first, Aidan and Carrie joy. And I always love an unhappy ending.

This clip kills me every time. Watch it and see for yourself.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=x5LP85uElbw&feature=related

Staying-in-bed Olympics

There’s no moving me, I won’t be beaten. We’re competing in the ‘staying-in-bed’ Olympics and I’m going for gold.

You thought your luck was in when I reacted first to the cries, didn’t you?

A quick glance at the clock, 5.45am, on a Saturday. You roll over to face the wall as you hear me talking calmly, hushed, my reassuring tones soothing the baby. You’re hoping for one of two things; I get her back to sleep and return to spoon you back into slumber; or I’ll take her downstairs, out of earshot and play with her quietly until the 4 year old whirlwind races in to wake you up.

But I’m on to you. There’s no way this baby is going back to sleep and there’s no way I’m getting up. So let the games begin.

I climb back into bed, baby wrapped tightly in my arms and soothe her “shh” stroking her gently, urging her to close her eyes. Just 30 more minutes, please.  I close my eyes tightly and pray silently.

She wriggles, she kicks, she’s up in a second. Sitting, shouting, pulling my hair, fingers in my eyes. I keep them closed as tight as I can, ignore the fingers poking me, the nails scratching my cheeks. I know that if I persevere she’ll get bored, she’ll move away to the other side of the bed. To Daddy.

A few more minutes and she’s gone. Shouts of “DA, DA, DA” ring through the air and I hear you groan. “You get up” you say. I ignore you, pretend I’m sleeping.  I know you are weak. I know you can’t take the ear-pulling, elbowing and slobber sliding down your cheek. The snot being rubbed into your face.

We both know we’re in competition, we both know we’re playing the same game. We both know I’m going to win.

If I wanted to get up, I’d have jumped out of bed by now and you know it. This is all about staying power, will power, the power to resist, the ability to ignore the grating sound of a child now starting to whinge.

Just a few more seconds and I’m there.

“God, I’ll get up then” I hear you complain as you spring out of bed. I smile silently in my sleep.

Victory is mine (until tomorrow).

Driving each other mad

There is only one thing that causes massive arguments in my house and I'm sure it's the same the world over.

It's not actually in the house, it's in the car and it turns two mild mannered individuals into crazed loonies.

It happens when we head for somewhere we've never been before and I'm in charge of the map, he's in charge of the steering.

This is generally how it goes;

Ø  if HE takes a wrong turn, it's my fault for not concentrating on the road. Oh I'm sorry, I was cleaning up the child vomit you hadn't even noticed has covered the back seat and whole of the ceiling

Ø  if we can't find a road, HE DRIVES FASTER, giving me absolutely no chance of reading the street signs to see where we are

Ø  if we are lost he starts to panic, and screams "look at the f***ing map" as loud as possible at me, whilst I - not one to swear - politely respond with "stop the f***ing car and I will"

Ø  so as we get more lost, drive even faster, and now have a square metre of map fully opened and obscuring the driving view, he decides we're GOING HOME

Ø  yes, defeatism sets in. We're never going to find it, we're late anyway, he's turning the car around and going back. It doesn't matter how long we've been driving. He can't be  arsed with this shit car / shit place / shit holiday / shit night out I'm making him go on (delete as appropriate)

Ø  he ignores my shouts of "BUT WE CAN'T GO HOME’ because *through clenched teeth*  we’re in a hire car, we have to return it, to the industrial shed from whence it came, on the OTHER side of this motorway we CAN’T SEEM TO GET OFF.

Ø  too late, we've missed our flight. F***ing typical.

Just drop me at the bus stop.

NB: I'm sure the other half would give you a different story.

Confessions of an amateur pap

I have a paparazzi confession to make.

I’m a costume drama pap and I have, on many previous occasions, gone in search of houses-made-famous-by-the-BBC.  Andrew Davies’s adaptation of Pride & Prejudice has a lot to answer for; I even considered getting married at Lyme Park.

Luckily, a National Trust membership and a car gets you access to most of the houses you see in TV dramas and films. But not this one……



Longbourn - The Bennetts



To get this picture I had to drag my other half on a 12 mile hike armed only with an OS map and a couple of cereal bars. It’s a private house and I had to get a leg up to peer over the wall for this shot. Worth it though wasn’t it?

On another occasion I tagged along with a reporter friend on the pretence of ‘work experience’ and tried to gatecrash Paul Scholes’ wedding so I could get a shot of the Beckhams, the Nevilles and Sir Ryan Giggs.

But my sister is MUCH worse. She drives around whole counties looking for houses that match the one she’s cut out of an OK magazine photo shoot. Well she did once anyway, it took all day and I was with her (for moral support).

Yep, him again.

She never did find his house or meet him, but my brother got to (at a fan club party my sister dragged him to so she didn’t look sad). HA.

Notes on a Ryanair flight

Oh Easyjet you were just too easy.

We got the electron card, we had babies so got on first and we had sunglasses to block out the orange glare.

Travelling with you isn’t a struggle anymore, so we’ve dumped you for RYANAIR.

Oh and it was tough, really tough. But I made some notes (it's only fair) and here are my recommendations for RYANAIR.

·        Air Conditioned Check-in…..

…….Cos when you’re wearing your flip-flops in your boots, cargo pants over your skinny jeans, with your swimwear underneath, a vest, two t-shirts, your hoody and your coat – the last thing you need (and I don’t CARE if it’s February) is a heated check-in area.  Two hundred people sweating like a fat lasses at a dance just to save a few quid.

Ryanair – if you are going to push DOWN the baggage allowance, at least turn UP the air-con.

·        Put the nets BACK on the seat……

……..You know which ones I mean, those things you put your book, purse, water-bottle, glasses, phone and ipod in? Well they’ve GONE!

So where’d you put the stuff in your hand (cos I ain’t getting up and down 10 times when I’m sitting in the window seat)? Under the seat in front of you of course!

(Slight problem there, on take-off I  lost the water bottle (several rows back) and gained some crusty ends of a sandwich and an empty can)    

Ryanair - Bring. The nets. Back.

·        At least sell me a fake Gucci……..

………Call me a traditionalist but I’m used to looking at a catalogue and then waiting for a trolley to politely head my way offering me perfume. What I didn’t expect was a hawker (cunningly disguised as a flight attendant) flashing his wears like he'd walked straight off a costa-del-sol beach.

Ryanair - If you’re gonna sell goods at every opportunity ("you look worried, can I offer you some imitation fags for take-off sir?"), at least show me some fake Ray-ban’s or a knock-off Gucci handbag with a sparkly clasp.

·        Sell your brand ideas to local councils…..

……….cos there’s a lot they could learn from your ability to exploit every opportunity to improve your reputation. I’m talking fanfares here. When you 'land on time' with Ryanair a full-on trumpet fanfare plays, with a message reminding you that Ryanair lands on time more than anyone else – and don’t believe a word you read in the Daily Mail.

Councils – listen and learn. I’m recommending a fanfare every time a cheery bureaucrat answers the phone within 3 rings, DEALS with it, and doesn’t pass it on...and on...and on...and on....

Ryanair - Sell councils that fanfare, make some money and watch Council satisfaction ratings take off...

See you next year Ryanair

UleyGirl

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6_WocH1-qEM

A husband first and a dad second? Or not?

I can't go on enough about In the Powder Room, one of my favourite sites for women writers.
The fabulous Glen (from Glen's Life) blogs as Regular Guy and has written a heartfelt and moving response to my post 'A Mother First'.

Read it here - if you are a wife, mother, dad, husband, it'll make you weep I promise.

http://www.inthepowderroom.com/read/me-time/2012-02-putting-the-mother-first.html



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It's not like on TV

The problem with getting older is you realise more and more that life just isn’t like what you see on the TV.

Take Rugby. I’ve watched more rugby on the TV than I have seen in real life. I watch the players, I note the moves, I plan my Wednesday session.

I go on the rugby field, I become the player. I AM the player.



After tonight's training



Only I’m not.

The coach describes the drill, I take it in (keen as mustard me), only the disaster that occurs the other end isn’t what I’ve seen on TV or what I’ve planned in my head.

And why can't I stay clean for once?

In local government speak, I’m just not achieving the right 'outcomes'.

The same would happen if I ever went on Strictly Come Dancing.

In head – Ola Jordan.

In reality – Ann Widdecombe.

(and don’t get me started on Masterchef and my high-speed chopping of veg)

I’m going to give up watching TV, it’s making me set unrealistic expectations. As my Uncle Bill (RIP) would have said, “it’ll end in tears”

But I live in Hope.

(and die in Caergwrle)