Very Bored in Catalunya

Review - Personalised Baby Changing Mat

2012-02-01T15:45:00.000+01:00

Bags of Love are a great little company who specialise in personalised gifts. From Mother's Day presents to Valentine's gifts and birthday presents, they offer unique gifts that will be treasured forever.

Bags of Love also do a great range of products for babies. These can be personalised either with the baby's name, hand and footprints or a favourite photo. Products include blankets, sleeping bags and keepsake boxes. The products are lovely and would make fantastic presents for a new born or as a Christening present.

When they approached me to review a personalised baby changing mat, I couldn't refuse. Well I needed another baby changing mat anyway and even better to have a personalised one! There are various options to have, just the name, hand and footprints, or a collage of different photos on either a white, blue or pink background. I chose a pink fleece changing mat with a photo of Amber surrounded by a border with her name.

The mat arrived really quickly—in just 3 days— but they promise next-day delivery for UK orders. My first thought was that it was really big and the picture of Amber is actually larger than real life. It is lovely and soft in a pale pink fleece with a waterproof backing. The mat is washable and light and easy to roll or fold, so is great for putting in a nappy changing bag or large handbag.

The baby changing mats retail at £29 for one or £44 for two identical mats - handy to have one for home and one for the changing bag. Delivery charges vary depending on where in the world you are.

There is also a Spain based sister company www.fotoregalosoriginales.es

Husbands - can't live with them, probably shouldn't live without them!

2012-01-30T11:42:00.000+01:00

T'husband is away on a fishing trip. He is sunning himself somewhere in southern India attempting to catch some type of fish I had never heard of, and cannot begin to spell. I am left at home holding the non-proverbial baby.

As it happens I'm not jealous. I've been to India before and have no real desire to return. I am especially glad I'm not there having read a text from t'husband telling me he'd just seen a dead body float down the river and then get eaten by a crocodile (I am however checking the life insurance policy - just in case).

It's been rather nice, just the three of us. We've stayed up later than normal and on Saturday night all shared the family bed for a big cuddlefest.

However, I have slipped very quickly into some seriously slovenly ways. The usual Saturday blitz of the house was relegated to a quick sweep, my no carbs after breakfast degenerated into a diet so laden down with carbs that my belly has swollen back to its 6 months pregnant state. I have drank too much wine and stayed up way past my bedtime. Oh, and I may or may not have washed my hair for 3 days.

The most worrying turn of events though, is my television viewing. Without the constant background of Sky Sports News on a loop I have had free reign with the remote control. This has resulted in me watching some truly appalling car-crash TV. From watching 3 episodes back to back of the stunningly atrocious Geordie Shore on both Friday and Saturday night, to tuning into the various 'fat person becomes thinner person' type of program—usually whilst stuffing my face with some item from the 'white' food group, my television viewing has got me alarmed.

High-brow viewing

Given that t'husband doesn't return for another week, I fear for myself. At this rate I will have the Kardashians on series link and be tweeting about #thebiggestloseraustralia by midweek.

For the sake of both my health and sanity I am wishing the t'husband a speedy return (along with the return of my i-pad). My apparent lack of self-control clearly needs taking to task and with a man about the house I am obviously forced to keep up a certain level of appearance and personal hygiene. So much for feminism eh?

Listography - 5 Blogging Tips

2012-01-16T14:41:00.001+01:00

I thought I'd join in with this week's Listography on the Kate Takes 5 blog. The subject this week is blogging. Blogging about blogging is something I try not to do too often, but I couldn't resist this.

Lots of other bloggers have mentioned twitter, touched on SEO, blog buttons, aesthetics, word verification (for the sake of the Lord would you switch it off!) and various techie things, but I wanted to come at it from another angle.

Here are my 5 tips for bloggers:

1. Be your own person

Don't follow the crowd, unless you really want to. Write what you want to write, not what you think you should be writing about. Write for the enjoyment of it not for the hits - the hits will come. There is no set way to blog, no magic number of words, no set amount of pictures, no pre-determined amount of times you need to blog each week. It's your blog so do it your way!

2. Don't expect a huge following straight away

It takes time to build up a blog following, and lots of hard work pimping yourself and getting yourself known in whatever circle you want your blog to be successful in. Don't be surprised if it takes 6-12 months to feature in any rankings list.

Expecting PRs to start throwing free stuff at you when your blog has only been going a couple of weeks is seriously unrealistic, and really off-putting to your readers if you start begging for products to review.

3. Think about who you're writing about

Anything you write on your blog can be found, unless you've locked down your blog. Chances are that if you write a scathing post about your husband's best mate they will find it and be mighty pissed off about it. If you can't say whatever you want to write to their face, then don't put it on your blog. And always ask permission before posting pictures of other people or their children on your blog.

4. Ride the loss of blogging mojo

It will happen, one day you will run out of blogging steam. You will be devoid of ideas, anything you attempt to write will just look stupid and you'll toy with the idea of giving it up. Don't stress yourself out, just give yourself a few days/weeks off and the mojo will be back.

5. Don't steal, credit

Quite often I get the inspiration for a blog post from reading someone else's post. It's perfectly OK to cover the same subject as someone else, to either completely disagree or add to the original point with your own views, just make sure you link back to the other person's blog. Extra brownie points if you're really nice and retweet theirs or share on Facebook.

Not Keeping Up with the Carters

2012-01-12T08:08:00.003+01:00

Much has been written about Beyoncé and Jay Z's new bundle of joy, Blue Ivy, although bizarrely nothing about the current trend of naming your child something that sounds like a bathroom cleaning product... Blue Ivy, Harper (harpic) 7... etc. All the articles I've read on the matter seem to have a lot of emphasis on money, which could make the average run-of-the-mill parent like myself feel a little bit of a skint-flint when comparing.

The couple allegedly spent over a million dollars bullet-proofing their maternity ward and hiring a top-notch security team to patrol the hospital. Just in case any piddling member of the public wanted to get a glimpse of the tot before they've sold the pictures for a few million bucks*. Sadly this seems to have meant that some other new fathers have found themselves on the wrong end of a face-palm from a bloke who looks like a brick shit-house, when all they wanted to do was go and tend to their own new-borns and knackered wives. But still, a million dollars to ensure the safety of their child, and here am I re-using Joseph's old car seat. Bad mum!

In the few days of Blue's short life (seriously who'd name their kid after a colour *cough*), the child has already amassed a fortune of gifts worth over a million pounds that includes designer outfits, a Swarovski crystal covered highchair and a solid gold rocking horse worth £390,000 from a Japanese jeweller. Clearly plenty of money does not equal good taste, but hey I'm sure Bouncy Bouncy and Jay Zed can find some nook or cranny in their palatial New York pad to house all this tat. Not to mention have plenty of time shout to each other "Shawn, Shawn! Quick, get that bloody horse out of the box room, Mr Miyagi San's at the front door!" And let's face it, it won't be Beyoncé scrubbing pureed parsnip and regurgatated weetabix from betwixt those bloody crystals will it?

Her crib, the one she lies in not her house (see, I'm down with the kids), apparently cost her parents, or whichever damn fool who bought it, a staggering $12,000 and was described as fit for Cinderella—which is odd 'cos I always thought Cinderella was a pauper? Anyway, I can only look in dismay at our teething chewed, Joseph hand-me-down Ikea cot-bed that he'd only just stopped sleeping in months before she was born. God-damn shameful Mum!

Thank fuck my apartment is the size of a matchbox

Who only can guess what other riches this child will have bestowed upon her before her first birthday, but I'm sure the Daily Fail will take great delight in telling us. Right after they've chastised Beyoncé for walking in killer heels, but in a separate article praise her super-rapid weight loss. At the same time my daughter, just a couple of months ahead of Blue, will be dressed in last year's sale clothes and I'll be in my five year old birkos carrying two pregnancies' worth of undesired weight.

Still, two good things can come of this: firstly that no-coat wearing Holmes/Cruise child will get less press attention - please God let it be true - and secondly I'll hopefully be long dead before all these overspoilt little girls become women and get papped even more for being famous for being famous.

* in my humble, if not a tad cynical, opinion.

Review - Dream Bag España

2012-01-11T08:07:00.001+01:00

Anyone who has a new born baby will realise that sleep can be hard to come by. Some people are blessed with children who could sleep through hurricanes and never stir, sadly both of my children would wake at a drop of a feather! Anything that aids a few more hours sleep a night is a huge bonus.

Currently Amber is still in her Moses basket, there isn't a great deal of room in there for her but our bedroom isn't large enough to have the cotbed in, well not if we want to get in and out of the room anyway. The cover that came with Moses basket was seriously inadequate, just a small, shaped padded cover that wouldn't stay on her. Blankets were either too constricting if tucked in or would again end up in a heap, or worse over her head with her constant thrashing around trying dispel some trapped wind.

The Dream Bag is great, as it means that we can keep her temperature constant, no faffing around with blankets and there isn't that shock from putting her down on cold sheets when she's fallen asleep in my arms after an early hours feed. The bag is quite a bit longer and wider than other ones that I've used, this is great as again it gives her more room to manoeuver, especially when she's pulling up her knees so much. The 2.5 tog is great for the colder Spanish winters, where tiled floors and heating via air conditioning units do not make for a very cosy environment and the fact that it's quilted on the inside makes it feel warmer than other makes.

Amber in Daisy Daisy Dream Bag

I received the Daisy Daisy bag to review and I was seriously impressed at how beautiful the embroidery is. Even my 5 year old boy commented on how pretty it looked! I can also vouch for how well the Dream Bag washes after a couple of incidents with projectile vomiting.

The clever ladies of Dream Bag España have taken all the good design points of other sleeping bags for babies and incorporated them into one bag that can be used from 10lb up to 3 years of age. Full length zips, poppers on the shoulders and a cover over the zip fastening so older babies can undo the zip themselves are all great features. The bag also comes in 11 colourful designs that would suit either a boy or girl and three different tog sizes to suit the climate.

Living in Spain, I am forever amazed at how expensive baby things are, having recently been stung for €60 for a hand breast pump I tend to buy most of what I need for Amber on the internet from UK stores. Coming across Dream Bag España was brilliant, not only were their sleeping bags very reasonably priced (prices starting from €29.99 or £25) they also delivered the bags for free.

Dreambag España currently has a January sale on.

Guest Post - Slummy Single Mummy

2012-01-09T07:43:00.002+01:00

Today I have a guest post from a fantastic blogger: Jo from Slummy Single Mummy. Jo writes an eccletic mixture of posts covering parenting and world issues and even a post about Marmite! I especially loved this one which explored different perpectives on pornography. I hope you enjoy her offering, particularly as it runs along the same theme as my post last week.

The void is not shoe shaped

I came across a picture today that I love.

It's called 'The void is not shoe shaped.'

Most of us will at some point experience that feeling of something missing, of a gap in our lives, that we try to fill. Some people fill it with work, some with religion, others with alcohol or drugs. I often try to fill mine with Jaffa Cakes, which I find to be a pretty effective short-term solution.

Longer term though, how many of us ever find the thing that fills that hole?

Some of us might think we know what shape it is, and then we get the salary and the car and the shoes we wanted, and find it doesn’t fit after all. Try as we might, we can’t make it plug all the gaps. We stuff in around the edges with extra clothes and sweets and glasses of wine, but it doesn’t work. Things leak. Sometimes it’s a controllable drip, drip, drip. Other times a swirling torrent.

Or maybe that’s just me. Maybe you’ve found the thing that fills the shoe shaped void?

picture credit

Is True Happiness Unachievable?

2012-01-05T15:41:00.000+01:00

The New Year usually has me in a reflective mood and added with my recent coming of age I seem to be doubly so at the moment. Whilst I have made all the usual New Year's resolutions that I will no doubt break before the month is out (lose weight, drink less, get fit, blah blah blah) I cannot shake the overwhelming feeling that I need to do more with my life.

My timing sucks, a new baby, a five year old with more extra-curricular activities you shake a stick at and working part-time from home hardly leave me time to tackle the housework, let alone go out and find and hopefully improve myself.

I often question if we, as a generation, are much harder to please? Were our parents in this constant pursuit of happiness, or did they just knuckle down and get on with things. Why are our heads in the clouds, constantly dreaming of a better life; more money, great career, bigger house? At what point do we say: "hey, let's take a step back and be bloody grateful for what we do have"?

I just read a post on the brilliant Bloggertropolis blog. Steve admits that he and his wife are searching for something else, something to make them feel happier in their lives. Steve mentions his job as being one of the main reasons for feeling unfulfilled in life. I often look back at my old career, missing the independence, the money and the responsibility. I conveniently forget the hours stuck in traffic, the impossible deadlines, extra hours worked without pay and moody colleagues though. Can any job really give us the emotional success we strive for? Surely even Hollywood movie stars want to throw a sickie every now and again.

Money seems to be on everyone's list as a way of achieving happiness. OK, so life is much less stressful if you can pay all your bills on time and don't have to dig around in bargain bins, but is being rich in money the same as being rich in life? We have become obsessed with obtaining things, just recently as a family we have amassed a lot of hi-tech goodies, a kindle, an iPad, a DS3D and an android phone a-piece, does it make me happier that I can now access Twitter from 5 different machines in my home? For all the hundreds of hard earned euros spent, the Christmas present that has bought us the most fun and joy is the age-old game 'Guess Who'.

A new baby brings new perspective. Suddenly everything becomes simple again. I look down at the little girl in my arms as she smiles her beautiful gummy smile and goos and gaas at me. The overwhelming sense of love and, yes, happiness is like a kick in the stomach. I've been looking at this all wrong; I don't need to do more with my life. I actually need to do less, want less. Just kick back and enjoy my young family.

More fun than an iPad

I'll still worry about how much money we have. I'll still want to move to a bigger house (preferably back in England) but really none of that really matters because there will never be enough money, the perfect house, the best job etc. I don't think I'll ever be really satisfied with anything that can ultimately be bettered. The grass will always be greener!

Never mind the i-Pad, all I wanted from Santa was my i-Sight

2011-12-29T14:00:00.001+01:00

Christmas 2011 will always be remembered for one thing - the Christmas I almost went blind. The build up to my (hopefully) temporary impaired vision was slow; a cold which led to a watery eye, nothing unusual there my eyes always get effected by colds. This time around though I had been on a mammoth cleaning session in preparation for the arrival of my Mum and t'in-laws. With cleaning products such as bleach, oven cleaner and Cif (Jif for those of a certain age) on my hands, the constant rubbing of my eyes turn a mild irritation into two extremely blood shot and swollen eyes and the start of a week long conjunctivitus episode. A lesson to be learned if ever there was one - no good ever comes of cleaning!

By the time my Mum had arrived I could barely open my eyes, the following day we welcomed t'in-laws and I looked like a cross between a lizard and a frog. My eyes were continually streaming and all the skin around them dry and flaky.

Sadly, life doesn't tend to let you sit around licking your wounds nor does it allow you hours on end to apply cold compresses and rest, there was a school concert to attend. I may have mentioned a few of the things I've done that probably make the locals thing I am a bocadillo short of a picnic and my wearing of sunglasses on a dismal December day—indoors—has undoubtedly strengthen this notion, or maybe they think I am a huge fan of that twat Bono! In fact I got so paranoid about my wearing a pair of shades inside a darkened Casal waiting for the annual ~~earplitting~~ ~~truama~~ showcase of local dramatic and choral talent, that I kept periodically taking them off ensuring that a few of the locals got to see my offending eyes. The rationale behind this being that I would encourage some conversations like this:

Did you see that crazy English woman wearing sunglasses at the concert, pretending she's some kind of rockstar

I did, but did you see her eyes? Terrible allergies. She's practically blind.

What like Stevie Wonder?

Sí

Ah, vale!

Those who were treated to this spectacle of gammy eyes gasped and asked me if I was suffering from allergies, usually whilst backing away and reaching for some antibacterial spray. I decided to stop doing this when I noticed that a gaggle of 8 year old girls were staring at me, looking extremely terrified.

Never knowingly had conjunctivitis, just twat syndrome

Luckily (or not depending on your point of view), my eyes had improved enough by Christmas Day to cook the Christmas meal although my vision still hasn't returned to normal now, some 10 days later. My distance vision has everyone with 4 eyes and a moustache and anything further than about 4 foot away from me is slightly blurred. It's like walking around on a permanent acid trip. Thankfully my near-sight is well enough for me to play with my new i-Pad.

Disclaimer: any typos, grammatical and spelling mistakes are due to my condition, alright!

Christmas Lost in Translation

2011-12-16T11:44:00.004+01:00

or these Catalans have some funny ways at Christmas.

We regularly get letters sent home which I have to rely on Google Translate to decipher, mostly I get the jist even if the translation it offers up is a tad peculiar however, this latest offering has got me wondering....

The letter was basically advising parents of the timings of the Christmas Carol service that the children are to perform in on the last day of school. Included was this paragraph:

Enguany, com a novetat, i per a no perdre una tradició molt arrelada a les nostres terres, un caga tió de mesures mai vistes, visitarà el nostre poble.

Which Google translated to this:

This year, as a novelty, and not to lose a tradition deeply rooted in our land, a guy shits never seen action, visit our village.

Eh? What sort of weird traditions do these people celebrate? Some dude, probably a virgin, shows up and takes a dump. And this is their idea of novelty? Good Lord, how will I explain this to my Mum and t'inlaws who will also be at the concert?

Reading further on in the letter, we are to deliver to the town hall, a small gift with our child's name on it which is to be handed out at the concert, I am assuming by the aforementioned bloke.

Santa and the Three Kings have been seriously upstaged!

I say old chap, is that man having a shit? What would Jesus think?

*Amendment - I have now got to the bottom (pun intended) of this. The 'un caga tió' mentioned is actually a log that shits presents. I kid you not...

PS not sure why the log is Mexican.

The F word

2011-11-23T13:54:00.000+01:00

In just over a week's time this ol' donkey will be turning for... I said turning for... try again... turning fort.... no, it's no use, I just cannot say that word. It's too depressing, too sad. It makes me all nostalgic for the youth I so misspent, it makes me weep for the decade that has so quickly flown by and all the things I haven't achieved.

I remember feeling much like this in the approach to my thirtieth birthday. In fact, I think it took me over a year to get over it. I would pay any amount of money, sleep with whoever, do whatever to be back there now, obviously with all the things I have now, kids, husband, home etc... although that extra stone can bugger off!

I've read recently a couple of those lists, you know the type - things to do before you turn fort... bollocks—one year older than 39. I wonder what I am missing in life, aside from travel which any long-haul plans are scuppered for a few years due to the recent arrival, I don't think I've missed out on too much.

Some of the lists have such bland, mundane things on them that I wonder if the writer of the list ever actually ventures outside of the house - hello, trying escargo? - you're either going to try them or you're not and calling them escargo instead of snails makes you sound like a nobhead. Others are just clearly showing off with their lists of death defying activities and extreme sports. I could live to 100 and I would never have the desire to thrown myself out of an aeroplane or climb Kilimanjaro, I'm just not that type of ~~girl~~ woman.

There are places that I wish I'd been to, not because I don't think I'll ever get there (frantically touches some wood), but because I think I've missed my peak age to really enjoy what the place has to offer, whilst New York will still be fabulous in a couple of years time, I know I would have really loved it 5 years ago. Likewise, Thailand would probably piss me off for the number of backpackers.

Reaching any age milestone makes you look back and evaluate your life so far. You start to ask yourself if you are where you thought you would be (no, not at all)? If you have any regrets (not really)? And would you do things differently (yep, probably)? This reflection does nothing for you, it serves no purpose other than to annoy you even further and curse the hands of time.

Entering a new decade brings about some very serious new issues to deal with. Questions that never entered your head before are becoming almost daily considerations, although I should probably stop reading the Daily Mail online. Your actions and opinions have been shifting, oh so slightly that you never even noticed until now. You used to like Jamie Oliver now you prefer the no nonsense approach of Delia Smith. You used to know what was number one in the charts even if it was just to scorn it, nowadays you only listen to radio stations who play music from the 90's and before.

Your bathroom sessions are getting longer and longer, eyebrow hairs are now growing further and further down your eyelid, the daily hunt for the grey hairs is now taking up a good hour (half hour in the morning and again before going to bed), you've started measuring your teeth to see just how much your gums are receeding—that's just me then? You wonder how much fillers you can inject in your face without your husband mistaking you for a pillow. Botox is now becoming a viable option, hell who needs to smile anyway—I am officially an old git.

I guess I need to look back and count up all the things that I have achieved, count my blessing for the good things that happened in my 30s and maybe start hunting out 'Things to do before you're 50' lists, oooh a whole ten years to procrastinate about more stuff!

Anyway some of the things I did do....

Meet and marry t'husband
Go on an African Safari
Tour around northern India
Move to another country
Learn to speak another language (badly)
Have two children
Go on several very scary roller coasters (never again)
Learn to play squash (badly)
Eat pig's cheeks (very nice, highly recommend)
Drank a million litres of wine (más o menos)
Squander a least 3 years on twitter/facebook/blogger/internet forums

I'm Speaking Out Against Domestic Violence

2011-11-18T08:23:00.005+01:00

I don't often do serious posts but when I do they will always be about something that I feel passionate about, or something that I have first hand experience in. When Kristin from Wanderlust contacted me to say that she was becoming an Ambassador for an International Domestic Violence Awareness Campaign and would I lend my support, I immediately said yes.

Today's post only slightly fits the bill, in that my experience is second hand, a witness, an innocent bystander if you will. Touched by domestic violence but not slapped, beaten, kicked or punched by it. Made to watch, listen and dread on the sidelines, feeling helpless whilst it happened in the next room. Using music to drown out the arguments and preferring to be out with my friends for short relief from the unrelenting tension in the house.

I'm not sure what made my Step-dad violent. I know that he saw his father before him beat his mother. He talked often of his hatred for his father for that very reason, and yet here he was, doing the same thing. It wasn't drink or inexplicable rage that set him off, on the surface he seemed a very amiable man (don't they all?) and indeed it only started once they'd got married, had a kid and moved into a new home. Almost as if once he was the King of the Castle he was bloody well going to behave like one.

What I realise now, after much contemplation about writing this post, is that it was all about power and control. Luckily for my Mum the violence was never so bad that she bore any scars or visible bruising, no bones were broken, no trips to the hospital. He didn't need to go that far. He had her right where he wanted without having to break into too much of a sweat; scared, panicked and under his control.

Never a person brimming with self confidence and carrying the burden of a very unhappy childhood she was probably an easy target, she wouldn't have taken much effort to break. Her self-esteem was probably quite easy to kick into the gutter.

I feel that in writing this post I am breaking the one blogging rule that I have imposed upon myself—never to write about other people. My immediate family don't know that I blog so are unlikely to ever read this post, however, I do feel the need to only tell things from my point of view. I don't feel that it's right for me to speak for someone else, particularly not about something so deeply personal. I'm not sure whether I will delete this post after a few weeks, I guess I'll see how I feel about it.

Whenever I speak about what happened I usually talk of one particular episode, mainly because it directly involved me, but also because it was the beginning of the end.

First a little background: I was sixteen and had applied for an engineering apprenticeship with a large telecoms company, out of hundreds of applicants I had provisionally been offered a placement for that year's intake of 12. The placement was dependent on my GCSE results, specifically that I got at least 5 Grade Cs or above and that they included English, Maths and Physics.

The night before my final Physics exam the familiar sound of him shouting came bounding through the walls of the bedroom, I knew that he was slapping my mother around and I could hear the cries of my 1 year old baby brother who was still in their room at the time. He came crashing into the bedroom I shared with my sister and dragged me out of bed still shouting at my mother who was holding my brother at the time, trying to console him. I was made to watch whilst he hit my mum a few more times and then he stormed out of the house.

I can't remember how long I stayed in the bedroom with my mum afterwards before she sent me back to bed, I don't actually remember much about the night at all, it all happened so fast. In the days following my mother took my brother and sister and went to stay at a battered wives refuge. I didn't go, I couldn't, I was in the middle of my exams. Extra guilt for me not going with my mum, I almost felt like I was siding with him by staying. Oddly enough, I never felt in any personal danger from him, I think I knew he would never hit me and in fact he was perfectly pleasant to me the entire time my mum was away.

Life at the refuge centre wasn't exactly the safe haven she'd supposed it was and after a couple of nights of listening to life-hardened women fighting with each other and trying to steal her few possessions, she returned home.

Thankfully he never hit her again, as the next time the tell tale signs of shouting started late at night I darted out of bed and ran next door and asked them to phone the police. I never saw him again.

I always wondered why he'd picked that night to drag me out of bed—it wasn't a coincidence as he knew how important getting my Physics grade was to me—but prior to the violence starting we'd always had a good step-father/step-daughter relationship. My answer came a couple of years later as we were re-decorating the living room. Having stripped the walls of the old wallpaper the answer was there, painted on pink plaster walls in white paint were the words 'Wendy thinks she's going to be an engineer, no fucking chance!'.

Wow, it struck me then, he was jealous. Not only that but he hadn't been able to control or scare me as he had done my mum and younger sister. Power and control—he hadn't managed it over us all.

Our experience of domestic violence was relatively short-lived, but the after-effects that it had on us all as a family and as individuals will last forever. It took years for my Mum to rebuild her self-esteem and even now you could argue that her sense of self worth is extremely low.

As for me, well I got an E in the exam, unsurprisingly. However, my employers still granted me the apprenticeship and allowed me to resit the exam the following year where I got the required C. In the end I didn't go on to finish the apprenticeship so didn't end up an engineer, instead I switched jobs and had a decent management career in the Pub trade with a company car and expense allowance.

Grapevines whispered of my stepdad's subsequent marriages and more abandoned children, all I guess ending the same way until he went long-term unemployed to escape paying any maintenance for his brood. He never saw my brother once after he left the family home and never paid one single penny towards his upkeep.

Some twenty-three years later my mum has never entered into another serious relationship, something that she deeply regrets.

Please go and visit the Wanderlust blog, read some of the other posts in the Linky and lend your support.

Post Partum Observations

2011-11-08T08:27:00.005+01:00

So it's almost 2 weeks now since I fired a small ginger thing out of a hole not quite big enough, so I thought I'd share with you some of my post-birth observations.

1. There are bones in my feet, not just big squashy marsh-mallowy, spongey things—proper bones.

2. I have rather nice ankles, they too have bones.

3. Pubic hair is wild and free and plentiful, French-plaiting on Saturday night.

4. Catalan mamas and grannies can sniff a newborn from about half a kilometre and will actually break into a run to catch up with you.

5. Catalan mamas and grannies are unable to coo over a baby without shouting.

6. My daughter wears a look of shock and bewilderment when cooed over by shouty Catalan mamas and grannies.

7. Breast pumps are not fun, despite what t'husband thinks.

8. Meconium is much easier to chisel off a girl's bum than a boy's.

9. Maternity wards are the worst place in the world to get any rest.

10. Fear of taking that first dump is almost as bad as the fear of giving birth.

11. Trying to take a cute picture of ickle tiddy feet is nigh on impossible if the owner of said feet is awake.

12. Of course she's a girl - you think I'd dress a boy like this?

13. How big my boy is now, an absolute giant.

Epidurals are for Wimps!

2011-11-05T13:22:00.004+01:00

Cometh the hour, cometh the woman and rather speedily, cometh the child. Of course, it's the long awaited birth post!

Clearly my little donkey foals don't like to stay in the womb too long, Joseph popped his head out 12 days early and his sister decided that 8 days before the due date that she'd had enough bathing in my amniotic fluid and would make her appearance.

Wednesday night and t'husband was tucked up in bed early nursing a hangover from his birthday the day before, I turned in around 11.15 pm having felt a bit weird all day, almost as though I had a cold or virus brewing.

Almost straight after lying down I felt a strange sensation like something popping on the left hand side of my abdomen, it was quite painful and felt extremely bizarre. Five minutes later and I started to feel a pain spread through my groin, at first I put it down to the SPD but when it passed and then returned a few minutes later I figured maybe things were about to start.

A quick consult with Dr Google about what the first contractions feel like (a cross between period pains and wanting to poo—check!) and I knew we were in business. I woke up t'husband telling him things were starting to happen and decided to have a bath—as you do.

I initially told t'husband we probably didn't need to rush but better to phone Ann (the lady who had kindly offered to come over and sit for Joseph when the time came) soon rather than wake her up at some random hour, it was 12.30am.

After about 10 minutes in the bath I realised that the contractions were coming thick and fast and that Ann needed to be phoned right away she had a half hour drive to reach us and then we'd have 20 minutes to drive to the hospital.

Out of the bath and dressed the contractions were now less than 2 minutes apart and full on, Ann arrived at about 1.15am and we made our way to the hospital. The contractions seemed to slow down on route to the hospital coming every 4 minutes or so and the first few weren't that painful, however they decided to speed up and become much more intense as we pulled up to the hospital with the result being me throwing up in the A&E department toilets whilst waiting for t'husband to park the car and return.

We were taken up to the delivery ward which was mercifully quiet, clearly I was the only one giving birth at that time. Much confusion followed with me not understanding the most basic of questions, clearly my concentration was otherwise occupied with the constant contractions and in the end the on duty midwife gave up trying to get anything remotely sensible out of me and proceeded to examine me and break my waters.

We went through to a labour room (although cubby hole would be a better description) and she asked if I'd like an epidural, I nodded wimpishly and t'husband set about consoling me that they were getting the needle ready and it wouldn't be long. I didn't have the time to tell him that the midwives were only preparing the drip and that I would have to wait for an anaesthetist to come and administer the epidural as the contractions were really severe and coming every minute. I wanted to push.

It came as no surprise to me when the midwife shook her head and told me in the nicest way she could, that there wouldn't be any time for an epidural. "You're just going to have to do this" said t'husband, winning a gold medal in stating the bloody obvious whilst I quietly wept over the lack of gas and air.

I was positioned in place and t'husband stood meekly by my side offering occasional words of encouragement whilst looking terrified at being so close to the 'business end' due to the size of the room.

Much huffing, puffing, grunting and gutteral noises, that I wasn't entirely sure were actually coming from me, and I was at the stage that will live will me for the rest of my life—the head was just there. "Did I want to reach down and touch it?" asked the midwife. Good lord, no. I was too busy freaking out over the feeling of having a watermelon, oh all right then, a canteloupe, stuck between my fanny and my arse and wondering what would happen if it didn't come out. What seemed like an eternity passed, although was probably less than a minute, and at 3.10am a bloodied, squirming hot thing was placed on my chest. T'husband grinning inanely stating "that was bloody amazing".

Much stitching followed with the midwife, clearly a keen cross-stitcher in her spare time, admiring her handiwork and then muttering to herself that perhaps another one here... and here... I fully expect my vagina to look a little something like this:

About half an hour later and with much more pain than I had anticipated, I finally managed to expel the placenta with the help of two midwives kneading my abdomen like a couple master bakers working on a bloomer. I think both me and t'husband were slightly shell shocked to see the placenta plonked onto a trolley right next to us and left there for a considerable amount of time that left it almost impossible to avert our gazes. I wasn't asked if I'd like to keep it.

So that was it, after 8 months and 3 weeks my pregnancy was over. We had a long, thin, pink thing instead with a shock of red hair just like her brother. Our short list of 3 names was quickly narrowed down to the winner, as of the three we really could only go with Amber.

Amber Sophia 2.795kg (6lb 2oz) 27-10-2011

Mumsnet Better Miscarriage Care Campaign

2011-10-14T16:26:00.002+02:00

It may seem odd that I would want to write about miscarriage when I'm 37 weeks pregnant, but the Mumsnet Better Miscarriage Care is campaigning for better treatment for women who are suffering miscarriages is happening right now and I wanted to lend my support.

Whilst I didn't have my miscarriages in the UK, there is clearly a worldwide, or at least Europe wide issue here that drastically needs to be addressed. I have read many heart-breaking stories from women who felt that they were severely let down by the Health Service in their hour of need, treated badly, with little or no sensitivity. In the interest of balance I would like to point out that I have read some women's tales of great treatment, of compassionate staff and real genuine emotional support that they needed, so clearly there are some hospitals and staff who are doing it right.

@mmelindor is hosting a linky in support of the Mumsnet campaign where others have told their stories, none of them have been easy to write, nor do they make easy reading. However, we need to highlight the way the women who miscarry are treated by the Health Service so that improvements can be made.

I've had two miscarriages; both in Spain. The first was a full on miscarriage that required an ambulance ride, a D & C under general anaesthetic and a shared room. Sadly in our local hospital the maternity ward and the obs/gyne ward are one and the same thing. Luckily for me I sharing my two-bed room with a woman in her 60s who I assume was in for a hysterectomy. I went in at lunchtime on the Saturday and was home for lunchtime on the Sunday. It wasn't a pleasant experience, far from it, but I was lucky in that I was treated well by the staff and managed to not see a new born baby until I was walking out of the hospital.

The second miscarriage some six months later was an entirely different tale. I discovered that I had suffered a missed miscarriage at my routine 12 week scan, the information imparted to me in a rather blasé fashion I thought. I was told to go to the hospital the following day to have the situation addressed. I had expected that I would have a D & C performed as before and be home the next day but the hospital decided that they would attempt a stage managed evacuation using pessaries first, which aside from being extremely painful did very little.

This debacle carried on over two nights where upon I was sharing another two-bed room with a woman who had obviously just given birth. Sadly for her, she was not actually with her baby, I didn't enquire as to why her baby was in the special care unit but I assumed due to the volume of visitors she had that it was nothing too serious.

My two night stay was a catalogue of insensitivity, from putting me in a room with a woman who had a constant stream of visitors until quite late at night, all full of new-born cheer whilst my body was attempting to painfully expel my own dead child, to eventually performing the inevitable D & C using a spinal block so I was awake and very aware of what was happening to me. I then had to suffer the indignity of having to recover in the room next to women who had just had c-sections performed on them, a thin curtain separating me from their new born babies as the mid wives duly washed, injected with Vitamin K and wrapped them for their proud waiting mothers, I think I probably heard their first cries before they did.

Other insults to my fragile stage included telling me times that I would be seen by doctors only for several hours to pass by without me being seen. Not such a big deal you'd think, unless that is you've told your husband and son not to bother coming to the hospital because you were expecting to be operated on any moment. After my first set of pessaries had been administered, I was handed a silver dish and told to try and catch the remains of my expelled foetus and save it for them, thankfully I didn't have to put myself through this and I don't honestly think I could have done.

Having a miscarriage is a horrible and frightening time for a women and none more so then when you're facing it alone due to being without the support network of having family close by—my husband had to look after our 3 year old son whilst I went through the whole sorry saga solo. To add in the mix not one but two alien languages, as despite being told that I could only speak Castilian they mostly tried to communicate with me in Catalan. None of this of course is anyone's fault, just my particularly circumstances, but a little communication would have gone a long way to making me feel less vulnerable and alone.

The thing that pisses me off the most however (even more than putting miscarrying women on maternity wards), is the terminology used. I will now forever have on my Spanish medical records that I have had two ‘avortaments’. You don't need to be a master linguist to work out that means abortion. Abortion to me is about choice, I didn't choose to lose my babies.

Please check out The Salt & Caramel blog and the Mumsnet Campaign, either lend your own story or fire off a letter to your local MP or simply share the information on your facebook page or twitter account.

Thank you.

Aiming Low

2011-10-14T09:32:00.001+02:00

They told me at school that I wouldn't amount to much, said I set my sights too low, didn't push myself enough. Pah, what do they know....

My debut piece has just appeared in Aiming Low - an online magazine that is right up my street, given that I can swear, write toilet humour and generally be as low brow as I want. Yay!

Go check it out. You may also recognise a couple of other esteemed writers there as well!

http://aiminglow.com/2011/10/ways-annoy-pregnant-woman/

The nocturnal ramblings of a pregnant insomniatic mind

2011-10-10T12:55:00.002+02:00

11.30 pm - Eyes tired and heavy lidded. The words on the page of my book are starting to blur, perhaps tonight I will get a decent night's sleep...

1.27 am - Ah hello there bladder, what took you so long? Yep, hang on a minute, you know how this works. OK - pelvis brave yourself, legs swing round now, slowly does it. Now then, feet - you ready? Hips? Let's go - shuffle left, shuffle right, shuffle left, shuffle right. Marvellous.

Bladder, next time you wake me up could you manage to piss more than an eggcup full?

2.13am - Man Alive! That was a weird dream. Must remember to look up the likelihood of having a prolapsed umbilical cord, and work out the odds of the ambulance not being able to park near my apartment but outside the school gates with the entire village seeing me being carried out on a stretcher with my arse in the air... Gotta be quite low, right?

3.00 am Seriously Wendy, it isn't going to happen, go back to sleep!

3.26 am Need to turn over, this will be fun - not! OK, slowly does it, inch by inch. What is that great lummox doing on my side of the bed? Owww, ouch, fuck, shit, ouch...(some 25 very painful manoeuvres later...). Bladder, you have got to be kidding me, after you just witnessed that you want to piss again?

3.32 am Thank god for shitty Spanish architects who love to make bedrooms ridiculously small, how I long to be able to store my pee and be able to piss like a cart horse again. It's the simple things in life...

3.37 am Oh great, t'husband is breathing in my ear.

3.39 am At least I get some cold comfort in the fact that I can now out-fart t'husband in bed.

3.40 am Bowels, seriously? Could you not have showed your hand when bladder did? What time is this to want to evacuate? No-body needs a dump at this time of the morning! Come on then... for the love of God, yeah I know pelvis - it hurts. Hips - work with me now, c'mon.

4.00 am Stomach, is that you? What do you mean you're hungry? Do you realise what time it is? We haven't got any hob nobs. No, not even the non-chocolatey ones, we scoured the biscuit aisle in Spar yesterday, remember? I know you're craving something oaty, can we not just have a bowl of muesli in the morning? Well we'll make flap jacks instead then, now pipe down.

4.26 am Little girl, I'm sorry that you've clearly been blessed with the arse from my side of the family but would you care to bring it in slightly. I'm beginning to feel like Sigourney Weaver in Alien, fearing that you will burst out of my abdomen buttocks first and catapult yourself to the ceiling.

5.12 am How is it possible to have heartburn and be hungry? Bugger, only 8 indigestion tablets left, I will have to get someone to send me out an emergency supply.

5.32 am So knackered. Can't. Stay. Awake. Any. Lon...

6.30 am "Morning Mummy!"

I'm Marketing Milk Today

2011-09-19T10:38:00.000+02:00

For one day only I can be found over at the fabulous Marketing to Milk blog, where I discuss my attitude to lazy parenting.

Go check it out.

Feeling Rather Indignant

2011-09-12T17:47:00.001+02:00

My nose has been pushed out of joint today. Someone has stolen my thunder. My centre of attention has been diverted. Not once, but twice.

For today whilst finally taking Joseph back to school after the long summer holidays I spotted TWO of Joseph's friend's mamas who are quite clearly up the duff. Did they ask my permission to join the club? Couldn't they have waited a couple of months before parading their very obvious bumps around. Hell they have even stolen my 'aren't you big?' crown as both are hardly small in that department.

"My bump's bigger than yours" - "yeah well you should see my piles"

How very dare they!

I bet they've had chronic morning sickness as well....

Hmphh!

Clearly I am going to have to come up with something pretty spectacular to be the talk of the town again, like give birth in the middle of the playground.

Things I wish Spain had...

2011-09-08T15:57:00.001+02:00

and things I wished it didn't have.

If you don't already know that I live in Spain, you must be one of the numerous PR's that infiltrate my inbox daily to offer me wonderful opportunities like reviewing fabric conditioner. For the rest of you who've actually bothered to read my blog, I am now in my 7th year in this wonderful country.

I came across another expat blog recently who does a weekly blog hop, now normally I avoid blog hops, link-ups and memes like the plague, but she does raise some interesting topics and I need to write about something other than being up the duff.

This week Tales from Windmill Fields has asked expat bloggers like myself to write about 5 things they wish their adopted country had, and 5 things they'd really rather they didn't.

Whilst there are many times when I am desperately homesick, there is equally a great many things that I love about this country, however this is a given opportunity to rant and whine (my two greatest skills) about some of the down sides of living abroad.

So without further ado...

Things I Wish Spain Had:

1. Better Communication

After a recent farce involving 3 days without water and a very uncooperative water company, I would have said 'a sense of urgency', but on reflection to give Spain some urgency would take away her very essence, the reason that makes Spain, Spain. Spanish life is gentle, it is slow, it does take an eternity to get anything done, but once you get used to it you quickly find it's a nice way to live. Certainly my stress levels are a fraction of what they were in the UK and a gentler pace of life means that by and large people are much nicer to each other.

However, that said, I would love to have slightly more communication. Much of my life here is based on pure guesswork, Joseph's school term dates, when great whopping great bills will be taken out of your bank account, times workmen will turn up, deliveries etc... Much of this has been resolved by the 'stick your head over the balcony' method, where I've seen that hmm Joseph should have been at school this morning, and oh there goes the delivery man who's clearly rang the wrong bell again.

2. Decent Takeaways and Taxis

Now I am speaking from a rural Spain perspective here, I'm sure that big towns and cities are awash with various pizza joints etc that will delivery tasty fare to your doorstep. But nestled within the rice fields I deeply miss that Friday night takeaway, will it be Thai, Chinese, Curry? Actually, none of them. Likewise with taxis, our nearby resort does have taxis available in July and August but forget it for the rest of the year, someone always has to be the designated driver.

3. A better selection of fresh vegetables

I know it probably sounds odd but Spain doesn't have half the choice of fresh vegetables that the UK does. The plus side of this is that the food is generally grown locally so there are less food miles attached to it, but I miss things like mange tout, mini sweetcorn, baby vegetables, pak choi, anything remotely organic. We have tried growing stuff ourselves with varying success but mostly we just eat boring carrots, broccoli and cauliflower.

4. The Sunday supplements

Obviously you can buy British newspapers in Spain but the highlight of my Sunday morning used to be drinking coffee, delving into a Full English Breakfast and fighting off my hangover by trawling through all the Sunday supplements. You only get the main paper here, and I'm buggered if I'm paying €3 for the bits I can read for free on the internet.

5. Gas and Air

Sorry, I slipped back into pregnancy fodder again, but with the due date looming the thought of epidural or nowt fills me with dread.

Things I wish Spain didn't have...

1. Toll Roads

I'll try to keep this brief because I can be easily led into a full scale rant about this. We have a national road called the N340 and a motorway, the AP7, which do exactly the same thing, ie run the length and breadth of the country down the coast. One is free but runs through all the towns and villages along the way, the other is a toll road. The toll road is dead, whereas the national road that runs through towns and villages causes much pollution, traffic accidents, pedestrian deaths, road wear and tear etc. and is extremely busy.

The clever traffic people have come up with a solution though—build another road. One that does exactly the same thing as the AP7 and the N340, and call it the A7 just to really confuse everyone. Spend a gazillion euros the country can't afford, knock down people's properties that might be in the way and build bypasses around the villages where traffic congestion is at its worst.

My solution would have been to take the tolls off the sodding motorway, but what do I know eh?

2. Mosquitoes

Is there a valid reason for their existence? Really? Surely there are enough other flies and insects for the geckos and lizards to eat.

3. So many pieces of paperwork

To do anything official (and plenty of seemingly innocent things) here you need to be armed with a filing cabinet's worth of pieces of important paperwork. Most of these important papers seem to contain exactly the same information but have a slightly differently worded title.

God forbid that you try to do anything official without every single one of these pieces of paper, because after queuing for several hours (sometimes in completely the wrong building), you be given short shrift and told to go home and fetch such and such a document, or go to another official building to queue for hours to get another important piece of paperwork that will say exactly the same thing but have a different rubber stamp on it.

4. Ex-Pats

OK, so possibly shooting myself in the foot here. But there is a certain type of expat, the type that complain about everything and anything. They only ever mix with their own kind, where they'll spend most of their days getting leathered, gossiping and having scandalous affairs with each other, before falling out with everyone and starting an expat war.

These are usually the kind who read the Daily Mail, complain hugely about the immigration issues both here and in the UK whilst claiming every kind of benefit going in the UK and not paying any taxes for their illegal work here.

5. Micro Cars

Bits of fibre glass held together with a few screws, these are usually driven by the elderly on roads where the speed limit is 100 kph. They of course, drive at 30 kph, weaving in and out of the hard shoulder at will and generally causing tailbacks and reckless scenes of dangerous overtaking from souped up Seats that think nothing of overtaking 20 cars at once.

All the Pregnant Ladies...

2011-09-02T12:37:00.004+02:00

Clearly this 38 week pregnant lady, Alaine Kashian, is not suffering from SPD! Hats off to the lass, I couldn't dance like that before I got up the duff.

Very funny, enjoy!

Some Belated Thanks

2011-08-31T09:49:00.001+02:00

A few months back I was constantly mithering people on Facebook and Twitter to vote for me in a couple of things. I have been rather remiss in thanking folk for taking the time out to vote, and in some cases vote often, so here is my little thankyou to you all.

The MAD blog awards

I was up for an award in the Best Post Category and thanks to everyone who did vote for me as I reached the final. Sadly, I won't be able to go to the award ceremony to plaster a fake smile on my face as one of my competitors swoops the prize, as I will be 35 weeks pregnant and unable to fly.

I'm really gutted about not going actually, it would have been great to meet some of my favorite bloggers, and there are a couple of bloggers in particular that I would love to ~~go on the lash with~~ share a few sherries with, namely Heather from NoteFromLapland and Nickie from Typecast! I would have quite liked a free outfit too.

Still, there is always next year...

Circle of Moms - Top 25 Expat Blogs

Huge thanks again to anyone who voted for me, especially those who took the trouble to vote multiple times. I managed to scrape in at no. 23 which is no mean feat given the sheer number and quality of expat blogs out in the blogosphere. You can see my little interview with Circle of Moms here, I'm just below some bird from Rochdale!

Adeu i moltes gracies

Pregnancy Related Things I've Said This Week

2011-08-30T12:11:00.000+02:00

I did make a promise to myself that my blog wouldn't become a 'pregnancy' blog, but with the lack of anything else remotely interesting going off in my life the subject does seem to crop up in most of my sporadic posts. So, may as well just accept that for the next two months I've bugger all else to talk about.

Here are a few snippets of conversation that have been entered into this week:

T'husband: "How soon after the birth can we start having sex?"
Me: "When you've had a vasectomy!"

Obs/Gyne Dr Bloke - "Pipí bien? Caca bien?"
Me (afterwards) "What the fuck, I know I'm English but I'm not 3. Are there no adult words for piss & shit in Spanish?"

Severals mamas in the queue last night for Joseph's school book: (translated) "How are you, well?" " How long do you have left?" "Really?" (said in a very high pitched voice with accompanying disappearing eyebrows).

One lovely mama in the aforementioned queue: "You look small." - now I may well have completely misheard her, or there is a word in Spanish that rhymes with pequeño that actually means 'beached whale'.

Me: "I think these pelvis and hip pains are SPD."
T'husband: "hmm, self-diagnosing again? God bless Dr. Google."
Me: *death stare*

Joseph "You're a pretty mummy in that purple dress."
Me: "Did I ever tell you that you're the most wonderful little boy in the world? And maybe you need your eyes testing, for a start the dress is blue.."

Little Mara's Grandad at the swimming pool: (translated) "Waahay, that's a big one in there!" complete with double hand grab of t'bump.
Me: polite smile whilst muttering "fuck off you old codger" as I walked away.

Me: "I don't remember being in so much pain and discomfort when I was pregnant with Joseph."
T'husband: "Well you whinged and moaned just as much...."

Obs/Gyne Dr Bloke: "That's quite a big head."
Me: *sigh*

Somewhere in there is a baby with a massive head!

Bi-lingual Naming Issues

2011-08-20T12:53:00.002+02:00

With just 11 weeks to go (when I say 11 weeks out loud it's usually followed by a long sigh and wistful look at the wine rack), we seem to be no nearer to finding a name for the child currently playing bouncy castles in my pelvis.

One of the downsides about living abroad is that you need to find a name that will fit equally well in both cultures, a name that will be easy to pronounce and preferably, to spell, in both languages. Or in our case 3 languages, if we're going to be really picky.

Because of the obvious differences in proununciation between Spanish/Catalan and English, many names have had to be ruled out of the running, including some of my personal favourites. Anything with a 'll' is a non-starter, ditto anything with a 'v' in there. Names starting with 'H' are gone, although t'husband had ruled out this anyway because our surname begins with a 'H', not something that particularly bothers me, but hey ho.

'J's' work OK in Catalan (they can be prounounced more as a 'y' but it's slight so liveable with) but don't really work in Spanish, and we already have one J...

We've ruled out using traditional Spanish or Catalan names, mainly because they don't really work with our surname and secondly because there is less likelihood of them being unique.

Other considerations are accents, how would our daughter's name sound spoken in a Leeds or Nottingham accent should we return home to live. Some beautiful names can be destroyed forever for the sake of a regional accent.

However, the real problem is that we just cannot agree on names that we like, we have a very small shortlist which we've agreed are good to go if this baby is a red-head like her brother. For some reason t'husband thought I was going too far in compiling lists for names for other hair colours, and in particular names for mousey hair!

It seems that every name I hear either doesn't work in Spanish or I or t'husband just plain hate it. I'm getting concerned now that we'll end up with a name that we both only like as opposed to love, just because we agree on it and it will be pronounced correctly.

How were you inspired by your child's name?

My Day in Numbers

2011-08-16T19:08:00.000+02:00

Just because...

31 = º centigrade, more in my non-airconditioned car!

6 = bathrooms cleaned today

1 = bathrooms cleaned that I actually frequent

23 = spam emails received

672 = times I've cursed the woman who works for us for requesting a day off on a change-over day

3 = fellow road users that have pulled out in front of my seemingly invisible car

3 = times I've used inappropriate language within my son's earshot

317 = litres of sweat that I've expired

2 = wheat-based products mistakenly eaten (that Twix just flew into my mouth)

0 = ice creams consumed so far today

7 = mosquito bites I'm currently sporting

4 = shoe sizes my feet have gone up since being up the duff

31 = minutes snatched in a small siesta

3 = supermarkets visited that were closed this afternoon

6 = chips snaffled off Joseph's plate when he wasn't looking

100 = times I wished it was September

477 = jobs that I've put off until tomorrow

3 = blog posts this week

Some of these numbers may be guesses, and some just plain old made up....

Listography - 5 Guilty Pleasures

2011-08-15T13:30:00.002+02:00

I've decided to join in with Kate Takes 5 weekly meme - The Listography, mainly because I am devoid of any ideas for blog posts and I desperately need to kick start my blogging habit or risk losing it forever, and anyway this week is a good subject.

So here goes, 5 of my guilty pleasures are as follows:

1. Ice Cream

Now I could easily blame my over indulgence of ice cream on my pregnancy, pretend like it's the baby needing calcium or some such thing. Truth is, I'm like this every summer and need to eat an ice cream every day. I try to reign myself in by only eating mini magnums (or Mercadona's own brand version), although sometimes I do eat more than one. Dark chocolate or the almond ones are my favourite.

2. Knitting

I know you've all got me down as some really cool bird who's out at all the best parties, knows all the movers and shakers etc, well I hate to burst your bubble but I am actually quite sad. I love knitting, especially baby clothes and will spend far too much time and money looking at yarn on ebay. Sadly though my love of knitting doesn't extend to finishing off as my small pile of baby cardigans that need sewing up will testify. There is something about knitting cables that really does it for me as well! Oh yeah, sex, drugs and cable knitting!

3. America's Next Top Model

Or Britain's/Australia's/Canada's/Outer Mongolia's Next Top Model. Obviously I rarely watch the television unless it's a program about the arts or a documentary about something very high-brow. *cough* However, I am a sucker for watching a house full of girls tearing strips off each other, whilst being completely justified to comment on their appearance whilst balancing my knitting on my belly, stroking my double chins and wrinkles just so long as I 'smize' whilst stuffing my face with my 3rd mini magnum of the evening.

4. Tinie Tempah

I know that I'm far too old to be down with this and I'm far too much of a music snob to actually buy or download any of his music. but the lyrical mastery just never gets old for me. Such genius lines as "I have so many clothes I have to keep some at my Aunt's house" and my personal favourite "I been to Southampton but I've never been to Scunthorpe" will probably please me until my dying day. For the record Tinie, if you're reading, I've been to Scunthorpe but never been to Southampton...

5. Men With Brummie Accents

I used to have a massive crush on Frank Skinner, this was then followed by an unhealthy interest in Adrian Chiles, where I'd insist that t'husband watch MOTD 2 on the Sunday instead of the normal Linnekar/Hanson/Shearer Saturday night offering. I was gutted when he left the BBC and was replaced by Dara O'Briain on The Apprentice—You're Fired! program. I also had a little something for the lead singer of The Twang (who....?) because he sang in a brummie accent. You'll be relieved to know that my infatuation with brummies has not stooped so low as to actually fancy Ozzie Osbourne.

Speak northern, boy!

2011-08-14T12:12:00.001+02:00

Something odd has been happening at Casa Very Bored lately; the boy has decided to go all southern on us. Now, before I inadvertently start a North V South blog war, I'd just like to say I have no problem with southerners, nor with the way you speak and am probably much more offended by the accent of my home towners than anyone who lives south of the Watford gap, see Jenny in the video below for clarification... but...(of course, there's a but) I really do wish my child would stop talking like a southerner.

I blame Nick Junior, well there really isn't anyone else to blame, seeing as my own accent is a very watered down Nottingham twang and t'husband has a posh Leeds accent - yep, that really does exist, posh in that it's just more of a generic northern accent rather than anywhere you can place, oh and he takes less than 10 minutes to say the word 'no'. (That'll be death threats from the Yorkshire contingent then...)

As a child of a working from home mum, my boy ~~definitely~~ probably spends too much time in front of the telly, so much so that his day to day vocabulary is punctured with sayings from his favourite TV programs, at the moment the phrase 'it sure is.....' seems to be spouted at regular intervals, I'm not sure which Spanglish character is to blame for this, Dora or Diego, but I've warned the boy that if I ever catch him saying 'baby jaaaagwaaaar' then he's to pack his bags and leave home immediately, 5 or not!

baby jaaagwaaaaar

The English based programs are much less nausiating but they do all seem to be dominated by home counties accents. It obviously makes sense to make children's programs in accents that are easy to understand, and regional dialects will hold limited appeal to the masses if it takes too long to figure out what the hell people are saying. I mean would Peppa Pig be so popular if she was a scouser or a geordie? Probably not.

But... (it's back again) I find myself continually narrowing my eyes and scorning at my son's speech nowadays.

"Mummy, Daddy makes me larf"

"laff, Joseph, it's laff, not larf."

"but Humf says 'larf'."

"yes but me and your Dad say 'laff'."

"when we go to the beach will you help me build sarnd-carstles?"

It sure is a larf making sarnd carstles.

"no son, I will not. But I will help you build SAND CASTLES, hard 'a' no 'r'."

"saaaand caaaastles?"

"better lad, better!"

And so it goes on.

Anyway, I'm hoping it's just a phase, sure enough not that long ago he recited numbers in a brummie twang copied from the lady who occasionally babysits for him, we managed to beat it out of the boy (joke) but were rather red-faced when he would then correct our friend saying "Aunty Ann, it's not 'foive' it's 'five'." etc.

It could be worse though, the boy shows no interest in watching CBeebies so no danger of him trotting out an West Indian accent from watching Rastamouse.

Dear So and So..

2011-07-28T20:53:00.002+02:00

The Back in Leeds Addition

It's been a while since I've done any of these but I have so many little greviances that it seems like the perfect vehicle to slap them all into for a blog post....

Gratuitous picture of a Growler

Dear Next

Just because you have a sale on doesn't mean that women have stopped being pregnant, please put your maternity range back in your stores before I leave.

Yours the slightly annoyed pregnant woman in need of some maternity jeans.

VBinC

-----

Dear Shops (too many to list individually)

Why are the Maternity/Baby/Children/Toilets alway up 4 flights of stairs/escalators/lifts I can't find. I'm pregnant you know, my feet/pelvis/back/ribs hurt and I want to spend my money as painlessly as possible.

Also, why is everything I want to look at at ankle level. Yes Boots - I'm talking about you!

Yours in agony

VBinC

-----

Dear Self

Giving yourself 1 minutes and 20 seconds to hoof it across Leeds Train Station would be ambitious at the best of times, downright bloody stupid in your current condition.

I can only apologise to any innocent bystanders and other travellers on the Ilkley train. It won't happen again.

Yours eternally embarrassed

Me

-----

Dear Maternity Tights Makers

Announce yourselves, preferably before Saturday as I need a nude pair for a wedding.

Yours in desperation

Fat bird needing something to cover up her crappy legs

-----

Dear Old Crow in Marks & Sparks

Your 2 year old grandaughter isn't petulant because she's a redhead, she's petulant because she's 2. And, whilst we're on the subject; a toddler throwing food off their highchair doesn't require a smack just a firm reprimand.

And your lipstick was too bright for daytime!

Yours narkily

The non-smacking mother of another redhead

-----

Dear Fellow Shoppers

It's just freerange rude to comment on a pregnant woman's size. Yes I may have looked like I was ready to give birth in the queue in Next, and yes by the time I'd got to Boots I probably looked like I'd given up on life in general, but keep your comments to yourself eh...

Yours not appreciating the "you haven't got long left" comments, aka "fuck off and die bitch, I've still got another 3 months to go..."

VBinC

-----

Dear In-Laws

Just how many different types of blue cheese can you taunt me with? One or two varieties would have been enough to ensure a cheese jealousy but 4 is verging on cruel.

However, I did very much appreciated the pork pie.

Yours affectionately

Can probably (just about) wait until Christmas for my Stilton, daughter-in-law

-----

Dear Family

Why are we unable to travel anywhere in the world without one of us becoming ill on foreign soil?

Yours hoping it's just a 24 hour bug

VBinC

Numbers for Names

2011-07-11T10:28:00.002+02:00

So the Beckhams have given birth to their daughter, well Victoria has—I'm sure David looked uber cool in his scrubs putting off the midwives whilst Vicki was having her ~~tummy tuck~~ c-section though. I don't usually pay much mind to celebrity birthings etc, but obviously with us expecting a girl I was interested to know what the new Beckham addition would be called.

A false alarm had the girl called Felicity last week, I rubbed my hands together with glee—Felicity was not on our list! Now Harper Seven has been brought into the world and my twitter timeline is littered with both approvals and virtual smirking, with most agreeing that 'Harper' is quite nice but not really digging the 'Seven' bit. There was even some unkind fellows suggesting that it sounded like 'Half-past Seven', obviously being the mature, Beckhams loving person that I am, I didn't laugh—much. Personally, Harper sounds too much like Harpic to my mind and Harpic Seven could be some kind of industrial strength loo cleaner.

But I did get to thinking about naming children numbers, it's not without its plus sides. If you've got a few kids, like the Beckhams, and are somewhat forgetful when it comes to folk's names, like myself, then numbers could work.

As we are yet still very undecided about a name for our unborn daughter, I quick as a flash asked t'husband what his football shirt number was, after much deliberating he decided that he also worn number 7, or sometimes a 4.

Well obviously seven is out... can't be seen to copying the Beckhams, how chavy is that! But thinking on, Four could be mistaken for 'For', and that could be very confusing. Back to the numbers board then, or twitter for some help in this matter.

Hmmm, Eleventy Six, hang on though... how will that be pronounced in Catalan? "Elebenty-Seesh", nah that doesn't really work. In fact very few English numbers worked particularly well in either Spanish or Catalan, trust me I'm sad enough to have sat here and worked through them. 40 and 50 were players, although coupled with our surname it did rather sound like someone was asking for a quantity of cigarettes, and our name isn't Benson or Lambert.

A-ha! We could use Spanish or Catalan numbers. Cuatro has a nice ring to it, as does Ocho. But the child will be a Catalan so really Spanish numbers are out. So what do you think? I'm rather toying with the idea of Trenta or maybe Disset?

Laugh or Cry Moment - AKA Joseph's Upsteps Party

2011-06-28T14:29:00.000+02:00

Boy: "Mummy, I'm going to have a party upsteps"

Me: "OK, sweetie, that sounds like fun"

Boy: "Yes, you can come upsteps when I'm ready"

Me: "OK, shout me when I can come upstairs"

Some ~~twittering~~ important work happens, then 10 minutes later...

Boy: "Mummy, you can come upsteps to my party now!"

Me: "Erm.... " *thinks to self - WTF!* "Why have you taken all your toys and books off the shelves and piled them into the middle of the room?"

Boy: "For the party, oh it doesn't matter Mummy, go back downsteps!"

Just in case you think it doesn't look that bad, I would like to point out that under all the bigger stuff is a box of dominoes, various lego bricks, jigsaw pieces, the plastic sticks from kerplunk and various other small plastic bits of stuff that need putting back into the relevant boxes.

I am holding off the tears... for the time being.

The Two Sides to Breastfeeding in Spain

2011-06-21T19:55:00.004+02:00

On the face of it Spain looks like it's a very breastfeeding-friendly place to be. Certainly in my neck of the woods a high number of women breastfeed and do so openly in public without anyone batting an eye. Whether this is more down to living in a rural area as opposed to a big city I couldn't honestly say, but I would love other expat mothers to comment on how breastfeeding is perceived in their local area.

Spain is also (to my knowledge), the only country that allow fathers breastfeeding rights in the workplace until the infant is 9 months old. Not entirely sure how this works, but hey it's progressive and forward thinking right?

Then I came across a guest post on PhD in Parenting, highlighting the plight of a mother who has had her baby taken away from her. Habiba (an assumed name) is a young woman of Moroccan descent who had the misfortune to be living in a women's shelter in Madrid, her 15 month old baby, Alma, was taken away from her because she refused to stop breastfeeding.

Apparently in Spain, women's shelters do not allow mothers to breast feed and they are given medication to dry up their milk supply. The bizarre reasoning behind this cruel act being that should the child need to be adopted out at a later date it will be easier. Easier for who exactly? For women who will probably, due to financial reasons, struggle to feed their child well after they (naturally) wean, surely it's in the best interest of the child to give it the best start in life, nutritional wise? For the percentage of infants that do get adopted out (I don't have any figures but it can't be that high can it?) I would imagine that they will go through an emotional turmoil being separated from their mother, regardless of whether they need weaning or not.

This news has devastated me and prompted me to spend much of the afternoon googling facts about breastfeeding generally in Spain. I was surprised to find that UNICEF have no official data for breastfeeding rates in Spain. NO DATA? Are you kidding me, this is Spain not North Korea! Why is a first world country, one that is part of the EU, not documenting breast feeding rates?

I shouldn't be surprised really though, my own experience of medical records, or rather lack of them, has shown that Spain is woefully adept at not keeping medical records. I've been pregnant 4 times and each time I have had to give my complete history. Surely after the first time the initial data should be stored in the computer it's typed into and then added to?

Amongst the many questions I am asked each time I see a midwife for the first time in a pregnancy is what my husband studied and where? Quite what bearing having a Degree in Economics from Nottingham University has on our unborn child who only can say, but the information has been imparted and typed into a record of some description 4 times now.

Surely a question re breastfeeding could be asked at the many pediatrician visits we have as a Mother and Baby, upto the child is 3 years old. Thus building an accurate and current database of breastfeeding statistics? Not difficult really is it?

Maybe Spain is embarrassed of its low breastfeeding rates, by all accounts it shouldn't be. The figures I could find on the internet have ratios between 91% and 84% of new mothers starting breastfeeding, although those figures predictably decline as the baby ages, with anything from 25%-30% of mothers still breastfeeding at 6 months, depending on different sources. Whilst Spain isn't exactly challenging the Scandinavian countries it appears to be holding its own in Europe.

You can find more details of Habiba's situation on this Facebook page and there is a petition you can sign.

Dad of the Year - My Arse!

2011-06-16T15:37:00.004+02:00

So Peter Andre has won the 'Celebrity Dad of the Year' award for the second year in a row, an award that he took from that saintly dad and pillar of society; John Terry, back in 2009. An award that seems to be so ridiculous in its choice of candidates, that I fully expect Ryan Giggs to be a front runner next year.

Now I don't doubt that Peter Andre loves his children, and that he is a good father, but I worry that the notion of being a good parent seems to be on how much reality TV you appear in or how much dirt is dished about your private life.

To me the measure of a good parent is one who quietly goes about their business. They don't overly spoil their children, they try to keep them away from the glaring eyes of the gutter press and try their level best to give them a safe, solid and secure upbringing. Regardless of whether they have got divorced or not.

Starring in a reality TV series (actually not one, but two if you include Katie Price's offering) does not achieve that. I can't help but wonder what psychological damage the pair of them are doing to their kids. Seeing your parents divorce and hearing all the bitterness and bile that can get exchanged is bad enough for most kids, but to have it done so publicly must have a terrible effect on them, if not now then certainly later on in life.

Children should be allowed to be themselves and grow up without a camera crew following their every move in a bid to win their talentless parents more money and notoriety.

To see them be used so publicly as pawns to score points against each other as Price and Andre have done in the past, and then their every milestone moment that should be private used as celebrity magazine fodder pisses me off immensely.

Peter Andre was a washed up, 90s one hit wonder until he met and married Katie Price. Their sham of marriage made them millions and the only reason Peter Andre is still famous is because he is "against" Price, in some TV & magazine staged team event that makes both of them look like the thoroughly despicable people they are. Andre knows that whilst he still has a connection to Price, he can still make money. That connection is, of course, his children.

He could have just gone off and concentrated on his singing career (I use this term in the loosest sense), but no, he needed to fight back with a 'fly on the wall' documentary series of his own that feature his children heavily. Because without that connection he is no-body again.

My real question though is, just who chooses the candidates? Apparently Wayne Rooney was a candidate! Is this the same Wayne Rooney that cheated on the mother of his child whilst he was still in the womb? With a prostitute? Again? Other candidates include Elton John & David Furnish, what makes them better fathers than anyone else other than they have an extraordinary amount of money and a novelty gay angle? James Corden has been a Dad for all of 5 minutes so he's hardly done anything to warrant being up for an award.

The whole list is made up of men who are currently news-worthy, their actual fatherly skills have nothing to do with anything as far as I can see.

Where are the real dads? Those who are famous (preferably for having some discerning talent, rather than just being famous) who aren't in the papers every week for their philandering? Where are the dads who occasionally get papped taking their kids out on a Sunday morning to fly kites in the local park, or to football practice? Where are those fathers whose take on quality time with their children does not involve a ITV2 or Living camera crew?

For more reading on this subject Muddling Along Mummy has written a brilliant post for her Friday Rant and Emily at Real Parenting covers celebrity parents at large.

Just Call me Nancy....

2011-06-13T19:29:00.002+02:00

Blatantly copied from Nickie at Typecast, me & Nancy have so much in common we could be the same person.... well you've never seen us in the same room together! See how similar our days are.

Donkey

Mad Sven bonking Nancy Dell'Olio

Spot the difference!

Just a typical day at Casa Very Bored

I wake up early, despite the fact that I never really function at all. I’m gifted to not need a lot of sleep. Five hours is normal, seven is luxury, but it’s bloody unheard of. I don't have a very busy schedule, I have an ever growing bump that demands several trips to the bog and a four year old. I don’t need sleep.

I go to the bathroom, then I piss a litre of water, which my midwife recommends to stop me from embarrassing myself on the school run. I try not to do any work before 10.30am to allow me time to waste on twitter.

I like to relax, maybe write a few facebook status' in my gigantic pants, do a large breakfast. I have sausage, egg, bacon and mushrooms and a mug o' builder's tea, and after breakfast I empty my bowels. Seven times a week a man comes to give me a massage. I tell my randy old fella to bugger off and that it's that sort of behaviour that got us into this predicament. Or I read the back of the Davina Pregnancy Exercise DVD. And I love to roller skate in my village, but it’s so difficult to find the time and the pavements are pretty knackered.

Since I was a little child in Nottingham, people have looked at me, and not because I’m beautiful; it’s because I have a propensity to embarrass myself in public. I know it's fascinating. But I have a thick skin and it gives me something to blog about. I’ve never endured jealousy probably because other folk don't want to be seen in odd shoes or pegs on their clothes, but I don’t care. I’m special. The most important thing I have is shoes and pegs. And it’s part of my culture to take the piss out of people.

I’m not privileged to have good skin. It’s not olive, you know, it’s rose, and very delicate, the type that sunburns in Feburary much to the locals amusement. I dedicate no time at all to cleansing and moisturising. Lately I’m using a cream that also doubles up as toothpaste for my many zits, otherwise known as Colgate, it looks especially good in the evening. I love to look 25, like I look now. Then I wipe the steam off the bathroom mirror and look for my glasses. And it’s my goal to not be dead at 70, but it's unlikely.

Diet is important too. You need to ignore your metabolism. I like a lot of cheese — I always have cheddar and laughing cow in my fridge and I eat a lot of peanut M&Ms. But no bread. I take folic acid and some other shit the midwife gave me and I have a blood test at a clinic every 3 months, but that's being up the duff for you. When you’re in the public eye like me you need a 48-second window just to not give a shit how you look.

I phone my assistant, t'husband, and he tells me to stop mithering him at work. I love clothes but I am to fat to fit in Mango or Zara, so Tents'R'Us call and they send Prisoner Cell Block H style dungarees to me.

I have a lot of emails, which I like to largely ignore over lunch with my son, 10 seconds from where I sleep. Or the kitchen or sofa. I don’t know anyone who does as little as I do. I’m a work at home mum after all. I social network, call it twittering. I do social networking for very small companies in Australia, America and the UK. But it's boring, so I write the occasional blog post.

I’m reading a novel and a book about what to expect in pregnancy, and I want to watch two programs on TV, but I can’t remember which. I wish one day there’ll be a movie about how I spend my day, because I think Channel 5 probably have a small enough budget to cover such horse shit.

I’m a very loved person. T'husband and son, they both love me, and this is because I feed them. I hardly ever forget, which is important, but the characteristic I’m most proud of is that I don't spoil my man. Bloody lazy git can fetch his own beer from the fridge! I'm not a feminist, I’m a donkey. It’s my nature to be stubborn and lazy and I've always lived my life like this. I did it with my first husband and the second I buried under the patio, and I’ll do it with any new man in my life, even Jake Gyllenhaal.

I never wanted children; but I got knocked up anyway, I feel completely overwhelmed because I never have any time for me, 'cept for when he's at school and that, but I’m like a mother to my son. I shower him with attention — physical, material, psychological, back to back Peppa Pig — it’s the way I love.

And I don't require attention back, because that would probably involve some kind of effort. Sometimes it does get quite stressful. I’m normal, you know, so you’re going to have a very uninteresting and boring experience with me. But at the same time, I’m not fussy. I'm very easy. But then, those days are behind me now...

In the afternoon I avoid Spanish cold-calls on the telephone trying to sell me stuff, I read the online papers, scratch my mosquito bites. I still have to learn how to really relax. I love to be at home, to have a whirlpool bath with oils and candles, but my bathroom is very small and is full of rubber ducks and plastic fish.

I’m invited nowhere and I can’t say no. I sometimes change out of my PJs for dinner with my t'husband and I occasionally brush my hair. I’ve been going to the toilet a lot — it’s always been my passion — and I love the toilet. T'husband said already I’m the most intelligent person he’s ever met, but he was drunk at the time. I’m sure the majority of people haven’t sat through seven hours of America's Next Top Model as I have. I can describe every ANTM to you and I do know Shakespeare very well, he used to live next door.

Sometimes, if I’m too tired to take my make-up off, I remember just in time that it was 2007 when I last applied any and all is good with the world. I sleep on my side, with three or four pillows wedged in between me & t'husband. I wear a huge flannelette nightie but the bugger still tries it on...

I always wake up after two hours for a piss, then I need a trick to make me relax — it used to be a bottle or two of wine but now it's Fanta Lemon. Maybe people think I have everything. Clearly these people are deranged, but I am in with a chance of a Soda stream*....

*if you vote for me in the MADs

The Trouble With Pregnancy Books...

2011-05-27T09:58:00.000+02:00

is, well actually there are many issues with pregnancy books.

Firstly, the books I have were printed in the UK so fully expect that it's readers will be having their pregnancy and births in the UK. Fair assumption, but somewhat annoying when they devote a whole chapter to birth plans, birthing pools, birthing balls, gas & air and all those all things that constitute choice.

I will give birth in Spain, with an epidural, flat on my back, feet in stirrups attached to a foetal monitor one side, a blood pressure monitor the other and more than likely a oxytocin drip. I will not be able to eat, drink, walk about, play my favourite music, have scented candles, bounce on a ball, take a bath, get high on gas & air (actually, of all the things I won't be able to do this is the one I am most jealous about) and you know, have some remote say in how things go.

I was however, tickled somewhat by the two page chart that one of the books has about which type of pain relief is best for me. First colomn in is breathing! Now, I've been on this earth a few years and for most of them I've been breathing, it's never yet help me overcome any kind of pain, not a headache, toothache, backache, blister, boil or bruise has ever been eased with breathing. The other colomns I can cross out as well include:

Aromatherapy - for the most part, until I'm ready to actually give birth I will be in a cubicle no bigger than an average public toilet cublicle. In this space a midwife or two, an anesthetist, t'husband, various machines and probably a sick bucket will reside. There will be no space for oil burners or candles (health & safety anyone?) or plug in vaporisers.

Not bloody likely....

Hypnotheraphy/Acupunture/Reflexology - Hmm I can just imagine some dude fighting for space in between buxom midwives and men with even bigger needles going: "Look into my eyes, my eyes, look into my eyes - you will feel a little prick. My God woman, have you seen the size of your feet?"

Massage - Did I mention I'd be strapped down attached to various drips and monitors?

Water Bouyancy - well maybe I could take a dip in the Med en route to the hospital?

Tens Machines - actually this is an option, well it would be if I could get hold of one in Spain. I rather think I'll be rigged up to enough machines though.

Gas & Air - OK, listen up medical peeps over here. Why the fuck do you not have gas and air? You could probably save yourself a fortune on anesthetists and drugs if you provided gas & air, not to mention having a lot less puke to clear up.

Pethidine or Other Opiate Drug - no pethidine available and I reckon jacking up smack might not go down so well.

Epidural/Spinal Anaesthetic - yup that'll be the one. Just in case anyone was wondering why 95% of women in Spain have epidurals, read the above again.

Secondly, the books are clearly aimed at women in their 20's who were probably no more than a size 8 before they got up the duff. They will unhelpfully have some super slim model to pose throughout her gestation, where at full term she will look like I did pre-pregnancy after eating a sandwich. Along with these there will be a blow by blow account of what your body should be doing week by week. For instance, at 17 weeks I should just about be showing. Just about? Good Lord, already my arse takes a full 10 minutes to enter a room after my rapid protruding belly button.

Allegedly, my feet won't start to swell until my 3rd trimester. Hmm, well the only shoes that fit me now are the flip flops I managed to break yesterday running some errands in the village, leaving me to walk back home with one bare foot (even the trusty Birkenstocks give me blisters along the side of my foot), and my ankles are already rather puffy. God knows what I will look like come July when it's really hot, but a matriachal elephant springs to mind! Not to worry, they do give advice on how to avoid fluid retention. It basically involves not doing much and putting your feet up a lot. Well Mrs Stoppard et al. I am an expert at sitting on my arse with my feet up and it's still happening. Apparently it gets worse in warm weather—no shit?

My final bug bear with these books is the chapter—usually near the end of the book—that shows graphic images of a woman mid birth. I don't want to see these. I want to ignorantly wallow in bliss, like a pig in shit, for 9 months not thinking about the actual birth. I certainly don't want to see what it looks like; remember I'll be flat on my back, legs akimbo, so I'm not likely to be able to see what going off down the business end myself, well not unless I suddenly take up yoga and that's probably not good for the oedema*.

*Some smart arse will probably tell me that it's an excellent way of controlling oedema. If they do I will just ignore them and start singing la la la la very loudly.

Is This the Most Abusive Spam Email Yet?

2011-05-23T15:33:00.001+02:00

I, like anyone who owns an email account (or ten), am no stranger to spam. You've heard all about the 20 or so messages I get each day asking me to cheat on my husband and I'm sure you're all familiar with the penis enlargers, the viagra pills, the lottery wins, not to mention all the African dignitaries wanting to give you a shed load of cash?

However, even I was surprised when the following email popped in gmail account (click on it to enlarge).

I must confess to being a little confused, does this particular spam approach actually work? Do many people suddenly find themselves so incensed that they feel obliged to click on the supplied links? Surely, most people would think "I haven't just dumped my lover of 7 months over the internet—I did it by text message!" or, "What, that video that makes him look like he's in need of a penis enlarger? He sure could have used some viagra". Or maybe even "my boyfriend's name was Mark not Kunwar Manvendra Pratap Singh Tomar, and just how many girls was he dating? It must have taken him hours to upload all that footage to YouTube."

Just for the record Kunwar, if I were to dump you over the internet the title of my email would probably read 'You're Dumped' not 'Need a Little Space', I'm quite a direct sort of person, very to the point. I don't beat about the bush... regardless of what's on that video!

Is this the MAD Blog Awards Post of the Year?

2011-05-21T08:23:00.002+02:00

As mentioned yesterday, and maybe a bit on twitter, erm and facebook.... I'm a finalist in the category of Post of the Year in the MAD Blog Awards. Here is the famous post that you should be voting for.

Parenting; it’s as simple as ABC

A is for Arguments. Easily handled with a touch of tact and diplomacy, listening and taking on board that small person’s point of view, alternatively I find the stock answer of ‘Don’t Argue With Your Mother’ covers most bases.

B is for Bedtime. Be firm and consistent in this field. Determine the latest possible time that you can go before needing to dive headfirst into a bottle of Chardonnay, and make bedtime 30 minutes beforehand. Each time they get out of bed to go to the loo, have a drink of water etc, you earn yourself another glass of wine. When you start slurring your way through the 9th rendition of the Gruffalo you should probably go to bed yourself.

C is for Chocolate. Obviously it’s not very good for them but why should you go without? Always keep in a high cupboard and eat it with your face in said cupboard (as far back as you can get) whilst your child is safely in another room watching Mr Maker (see T). If the little ~~bugger~~ one does comes into the kitchen whilst you're stuffing your face in the cupboard, do not, I repeat, do not, turn around until all evidence of the chocolate has gone. Once they know where the stash is you’re stuffed! This also applies to crisps, cakes and confiscated packets of Haribos (see H).

D is for Drawing. Children love to draw. It’s a passage of rights for all small children to draw on a freshly painted or wallpapered wall. If you have a light coloured leather sofa then it will be biro-ed on before their third birthday, and let’s face it, it serves you right for having such an impractical colour in the first place. If you do throw away your child’s ~~scribbles~~ artwork then be sure to do it after they go to bed, they get a bit precious about it.

E is for Energy. Children are bundles of energy and they can sometimes be draining on your own resources. If from time to time you really can’t be arsed to play chase, football, hide and seek and other such ~~ball-achingly boring~~ energy exhausting games then invest in a Wii. Revel in the fact that your child has great fine motor skills and won’t get obese whilst jumping up and down like a flea playing ‘Slice and Dice’.

F is Food. A bugbear for most parents. Children’s fussy eating habits can easily be brought into line by two tried and tested methods; bribery and threats. i.e. ‘if you eat all your vegetables you can have an ice cream’ or ‘if you don’t eat your carrots you won’t get any birthday presents’, that sort of thing. Never, ever, give a child spinach, if you do and I hear about it, I’ll have no hesitation in calling Childline.

G is for Grandparents. ~~Offload~~ Encourage your children to spend as much time as possible with their Grandparents whilst they still like them. Once they reach their teenage years they will think they smell of piss and biscuits. Actually they probably will smell of piss and biscuits by then…..

H is for Haribos. These are for grown-ups only, especially the sour ones. If you find a packet in a party bag, confiscate them immediately (see C).

I is for Independence. Encourage children to be more independent at every opportunity. You don’t want your child to be clingy and insecure, not to mention it’s bloody hard work vacuuming with a child attached to your leg.

J is for Jealousy. Try not to fall into the trap of the green eyed monster. It’s all too easy to feel pangs of jealousy when little Tarquin’s Mum brags that her precious boy can sing the French National Anthem and is a grade 7 violinist at only 4, remind yourself that Tarquin has bug eyes, bad breath and a tendency to shit himself in public.

K is for Kissing. Children love to cuddle and kiss their parents and vice versa. However most children are uncomfortable kissing distant relatives and complete strangers. Don’t force your child to kiss someone they barely know unless you don’t particularly like Aunt Freda and your child has a stinking cold… (see S).

L is for Lying. Obviously all children reach a stage in their development when they start to lie. Counteract this by lying back to them. ‘Haribos are not for children’, ‘We haven’t got any chocolate’ and ‘Mummy is only 23’ are all perfectly acceptable examples.

M is for Money. Yup that’s right you won’t have any and when you do your precious little darling will have it off you faster than you can cry ‘Stop Thief!’

N is for Naughty Spot. Thanks to Super Nanny most parents have some variation of the Naughty Spot, however if you find that this approach doesn’t work for your unruly offspring then why not put yourself on the Naughty Spot, preferably with a Gin and Tonic. Remember one minute for every year of your age, if you are over 30 you might as well make it a large G&T.

O is for Over-Sensitive. If you are of a nervous disposition it’s probably better that you don’t become a parent. I recommend sterilisation.

P is for Poo. Every child will have at least one poo incident that should be stored in memory, photographed or filmed if possible and be retold many times once the child reaches puberty. Preferably in front of their friends. Extra points for photographic evidence shown to love interests.

Q is for Quiet. Forget it for the first few years, don’t worry your patience will be rewarded thanks to the marvellous institution that is School.

R is for Rules. Every household needs rules. Children should be made aware of the rules from a very early age. Rules may be changed at any given time. New rules are to be made up as you go along. Rules are only to be broken by yourself.

S is for Snot. Learn to embrace it because it will be around for much of the winter. Consider your garments enhanced by snail trails of snot. Marvel at just how much snot can shoot out of your child’s nose when he sneezes. Measure how long a snot dangle can get to and compare with other mums, be competitive about it. Encourage your child to kiss anyone you don’t like very much.

T is for Television. Should you allow your child to watch television? How much of Mr Tumble should your offspring be subjected to in any given day? Well this depends very much on how much time you want to spend on Twitter. Although for the sake of your own sanity I suggest that you leave the room whilst Mr Maker is on.

U is for Underhand. Parenting is a battle of wills, start early and be as devious and underhanded as possible. Your children will get their own back on you when you get a call at 9.30pm from the local A&E ward asking you to collect a very drunk 14 year old who you thought was at Boy’s Brigade.

V is for Valuables. If you have anything valuable in your home you may as well take it outside now and smash it on the ground, it’s a surprise that it’s lasted this long.

W is for Wine. An essential part of parenting. Taken for medicinal purposes for those days that the little ~~shits~~ darlings have run you ragged and refuse to stay in bed (see B).

X is for X-Rated. If for some bizarre reason you decide to video yourself in the act of lovemaking, don’t leave the tape where your teenager’s friends will find it when they have an impromptu house party the one night of the year you decide to go out to the cinema.

Y is for Yourself. It’s very easy to get so wrapped up in our families that we forget about ourselves. Take time out every day for a bit of ‘you time’, be it a manicure or a 3 hour marathon twitter session, you will feel so much better to have neglected your ~~snotty nosed~~ beautiful child when you have pretty nails and have caught up on all the gossip.

Z is for ZZZZ’s. A distant memory for most of us. I have found that you really don’t need that much sleep to function. By function I mean standing upright. I generally find that speaking in coherent sentences and hand to eye co-ordination are very over-rated. Beside you’ll have plenty of time to sleep when you’re dead.

It's a MAD Life

2011-05-20T10:00:00.003+02:00

It's been a bizarre old week at Casa Very Bored, my beloved Nottingham Forest ~~bottled~~ were brutally robbed of a play-off final place with the ultimate prize being a place in the Premiership. The tears had barely dried and the swearing subsided when I discovered that I had been shortlisted as a finalist in the Blog Post of the Year Category for the annual MAD Blog Awards.

Quite how this came about I couldn't tell you. I paid no-one and I've been perhaps the laziest blogger on the circuit of late, yet somehow, somebody* decided that my lil' old post was worthy of being nominated. Low and behold with a bit of begging from myself other folk went and voted as well and here I am.

I am up against some stiff competition naturally, and my post will probably come, much like my beleaguered football team, hobbling past the post last. Shame-faced and tail between my legs I will declare the competition a fix, sulk for a month and write a post about how I'll Never Blog Again. I will block the eventually winner on twitter and have delicious, delerious dreams about them choking on their soda stream drinks.

In the interest of fair play and sports(wo)manship I'd better show you my rivals.

Baby Budgeting wrote a lovely hommage to her mum.

Metal Mummy's post is a funny if not disgusting story about poo.

The Five F's writes a very poignant and personal poem.

Dance Without Sleeping speaks out about her battle with depression.

Misssy M Misssives outs her husband in the most public of ways and to the relative of indie music royalty!

And then there is little old me. The post was originally written as an attempt to earn my position of Mummy Blogger, I figured if I was to be included in all of these charts and award thingies then I should at least attempt to write about parenting matters every now and again. So I wrote a definitive guide to parenting, in my own tongue-in-cheek style of course... with much alcohol and some swearing!

Parenting: It's as Simple as ABC

All votes will be gratefully accepted.

*whoever it was who originally voted for me is a superstar, a real gem. If I ever find out their identity I will shower them with gifts and eternal love, and maybe if they are really lucky, pour them drinks from my lovely new soda stream.

Would You Want to Know When You're Going to Die?

2011-05-16T13:46:00.003+02:00

There is a new blood test on offer in Spain which measures a person's biological age and predicts how long they will live for. For €500 (or £435) you can find out whether you are likely to snuff it in your 40s or manage to outlive half your family and be gracing nursing homes in your 100s. The test is likely to be on general offer in the UK later in the year.

The test itself doesn't look to see if you have any underlying medical complaints such as heart problems or cancer; it simply predicts how long you will live by looking at the length of a person's telomeres. Telomeres are structures at the tips of our chromosomes. The shorter your telomeres are the more likely you are to die younger, although conversely long telomeres have not been proven to mean that you'll live any longer than average, nor does it mean that you won't contract any life threatening disease that could shorten your life.

For me, I don't I like it. It's technology taken to far and a bit too much meddling in my mind. It's OK if you get a good reading and your score says you'll still be running marathons as an octogenarian, but what if you get a bad score? How blighted will the years you have left be if you're constantly clock watching and self-diagnosing your own demise?

Another worry I have with tests such as these is that they may become mandatory. Mortgage and Life Insurance companies may insist in the future that people undergo these tests, regardless of whether they want to or not. Those with unsatisfactory test results could find themselves in a situation where they are paying over the odds for a policy or be denied one completely on the strength of the test.

I've also no doubt that overnight miracle cures will spring up that promise to lengthen a person's telomeres and offer the promise of longevity of life.

What about you, would you want to know when you're likely to die?

Very Pregnant in Catalunya - The Announcement

2011-05-09T12:21:00.002+02:00

Announcing that you are with child to a gaggle of Catalan mother hens is quite a frightening situation to the uninitiated. To be patted and prodded by a bunch of fast-talking, r-rolling broody mamas can put a slow-talking, non r-rolling English mummy on the back heel and have her waddling for safety.

Whilst there are cries of delight—the Spanish love a pregnant lady almost as much as they love a child, there is also the trio of questions. Always in the same order, always rapidly fired at you barely giving you chance to answer.

Chico o Chica? - (boy or girl?) - God forbid you don't know the answer to this question, you know for reasons such as it's either a) too early in pregnancy to find out, or b) you don't actually want to know. The former will, after much scrutiny of your growing belly, be grudgingly accepted, the latter will have you firmly in the camp of strange foreign woman—again!

Luckily for me I do know the answer and the reply of 'chica' has the mamas dancing with glee and probably weeing their knickers a little bit! One of each sex seems a much prized parental goal. Let's hope the sonographer didn't get it wrong, after all the 12 week scan is very early to find out the sex, I don't think I could cope with the villagers' communal disappointment.

Bien? Bien? (are you well?) - You're not actually allowed to answer this because they have right away slipped nicely into their favourite question.

Muchos vomitos? (a lot of sick?) - My Catalan neighbours are obsessed with sick. It would appear that you're not properly pregnant unless you are spending each and every morning cuddling the porcelain bowl, chucking up the remnants of last night's paella.

My answer of 'no vomitos' always meets with a disappointed frown. Knitted eyebrows questioning 'What, not even a little bit?' Some tutting ensues and then I am largely ignored for a few moments whilst the assembled collective compare their own maternal puking notes, each one aiming to out-do the others.

Just as I'm tempted to slope away someone places what seems to be a consolational arm around my shoulder and gives me a little squeeze, everyone then disperses to go about their business whilst still shaking their heads at my lack of morning sickness.

The next morning one of them will take great care to ask me again if I've been sick, hoping that maybe today I got lucky and my shake of the head receives a shrug of the shoulders. I'm seriously considering lying next time I'm asked, just to see the response. There will probably be some whooping and high-fiving, I may even get a badge. I have a sneaky suspicion that I may be asked for proof, or at least an exact measurement of vomitos in millilitres perhaps with a break down of its contents.

Interestingly, not one single mama has yet asked me how far along I am or when the baby is due. It would appear for now that it's all about the vomit.

Adeu

A Not Very Catalan Fridge

2011-05-01T18:31:00.002+02:00

Mommy's Got A Headache has tagged me with a meme, wanting me to reveal to the world the contents of my fridge. Now I know why Mommy's Got A Headache chose that name, perhaps if she had less alcohol and chocolate in her fridge she mightn't be so dependent on the over-the-counter headache cures... know what I mean... I'm not saying that she's border alcoholic or anything but she's the only person I know who freezes gin, vodka by all means, but gin?

Anyway, she picked on me because she wanted to see some Spanish food stuffs, sadly I think I will disappoint her on that score. I must thank her though because this meme has made me clean my fridge—a job usually reserved for the day prior to a visit from the in-laws, so I'm about 6 weeks early in that respect.

Things that would have been included in the list but are now sadly contents of my bin include:

A jar of anchovies
A squeezy tube of Branston Mustard Pickle—which was neither Branston Pickle or Mustard hence no-one ate it.
Some home-made crumble mix—date of birth unknown
A packet of ready-rolled puff pastry

So, onto the main event—the fridge; the outside adorned with postcards from the exotic and far-flung travels of my in-laws (such destinations include New Zealand, Australia, Gambia, Florida and some what bizarrely Slovenia), the obligatory magnetic letters which for once don't actually say anything, an alligator Florida fridge magnet from our holidays last year, and two random magnetic things explaining in Catalan the recycling scheme and the nutritional info found on food labels. I rather suspect these are only on the fridge because they're magnetic, seeing as I am the only one who does the recycling and I am fully understanding of the system, and no-one but me gives two figs about food labeling.

The fridge door that is forever being peered into...

A sparkling and gleaming inside reveals.... ta da daaaaa....

Top Shelf

Jar of Piccalilli, jar of tahinni, jar of Coleman's horseraddish sauce, jar of low fat mayo, half a jar of home made curry paste (Jamie Oliver's recipe), jar of mini pickled onions—well I am up the duff, opened tin of triturado (tomato passata) and an open carton of cream. Lurking at the back is something for t'husband aquarium.

2nd Shelf

Some greek yoghurts, some bifidus yoghurts, a tub of fresh pineapple, a tub containing some cut up water melon, a punnet of the worst tasting strawberries ever, a pack of butter, a tub of coleslaw, a tub of alli-oli (whoo-hoo something Spanish), a tub of guacamole, a hunk of ginger which I am going to plant outside, a couple of mini chocolate eggs, packet of olives, and finally... not 1, not 2, not 3 but 4 tubs of Philadelphia light cream cheese. I think I may have planned to make a cheese cake and clearly forgot to administer this idea!

3rd Shelf

A frightening array of cheese which includes, processed cheese slices for Joseph when he has a hamburger, slices of Emmental, Laughing Cow light, half a wedge of Edam, some grated cheddar in a tub and then half a pack of cheddar, and 1½ packets of parmesan cheese. Along with this cheese-fest is 3 tubs of jelly, a tub of margarine and 3 cartons of fruit juice—pineapple & grape.

4th Shelf

A whole chicken, 1½ packets of bacon (oh how I miss English bacon...), some chicken marinating in a bowl with some curry paste & greek yoghurt, a hamburger, an almost empty box of Montsant red wine, 3 cans of Estrella cervesa (yay some Catalan things) and a large Britta water filter jug.

Veg Rack

Oh yes Nickie - I have vegetables.... carrots, mushrooms, cauliflower, broccoli, ½ onion, beef tomatoes, cherry tomatoes, cucumber and for some reason a single, solitary new potato.

The Door

My current poison of choice; Fanta Lemon, strawberry jam, eggs, a jar of food for baby fish, orange juice, peach & grape juice, milk, another jug of water and a single, lonely, sad bottle of rosé wine...

Wine! Oh my love, will you wait for me, can you wait 6 months? I know I ask a lot of you but will you... will you still be mine? I still love you, I have always loved you, I will always love you ... just 6 little months...

I'm supposed to tag folk now but if you fancy doing this then go knock yourself out. However, if anyone starts a meme entitled 'what's in your ironing pile' or 'let's have a look at the bottom of your wardrobe' then you can go take a run and jump....

Adeu

My Son Thinks I'm 24 and other Delusions of Childhood

2011-04-14T14:25:00.002+02:00

I was reading Mommy Has A Headache's post about 5 things she wouldn't want her children to find out about her, they mainly consisted of her being fired from catering jobs, should you be considering hiring her to man your burger van this summer. The post got me thinking about the things that I wouldn't want my boy to find out about me. Well, suffice to say there were a lot more than 5, and if I don't want my offspring to know these things about me then I certainly don't want to taint the obviously squeaky clean image that I've built up for myself by sharing these things with you, dear reader. I mean, do you really need to know that I was caught shoplifting a can of hairspray from Superdrug aged 14? Whoops, did that just slip out? Anyway, I figure my boy is already wonderfully delusional and long may he continue to be so.

Amongst the usual childhood beliefs my boy also believes that:

I am 24. He refuses point blank to believe his father when he protests at this and tells him my real age.

That I am pretty and beautiful and very clever.

That t'husband can fix anything. Despite the fact that the mere sight of his toolbox has me looking up divorce lawyers in the Yellow Pages my son thinks that his Daddy has managed, without possessing a modicum of engineering expertise, to mend a lift, an aeroplane and a bus to name but a few. Oddly enough t'husband has done nothing to dispel these beliefs.

"Daddy can fix it!"

That "Mummy is good at cleaning", I'm undecided as whether to be offended or delighted at this woefully inaccurate description of me.

That it's always his Daddy that eats all of his chocolate/biscuits/cakes etc. Funnily enough his Dad thinks that Joseph has an insatiable appetite for chocolate/biscuits/cakes etc... *whistles*

God forbid if he ever found out those truths let alone anything more serious...

There's Drugs in Them There Rice Fields...

2011-04-12T10:25:00.001+02:00

One might imagine that living in a backwater surrounded by rice fields that the community would be crime free and to a large extent; drug free. This is absolutely not the case.

It appears that we live opposite the local drugs baron, this information came to light last Friday as I sat gossiping with all the local mamas at the playground which is adjacent to our apartment block. A couple of local police cars and two Mossos d'Esquada cars pulled up and about 12 policia jumped out and began piling into the house opposite ours.

The local mamas I noticed (besides one who seemed a little sexually excited by the sight of so many men in uniform, even if they did all have their florescent vests on) took this in their stride like it was an everyday occurrence, barely batting an eyelid. Me being the nosy mare that I am managed to wait a full 5 minutes before demanding to know what was going off.

Ah yes, he's the local drug dealer...

Is he?

Yes, everybody knows this.

Why is he only just been arrested and raided?

*shrugs*

I could only draw my own conclusion, namely that clearly the Mossos fancied a day off from their usual duties of mithering innocent motorists on the N340. The entire spectacle lasted a couple of hours and to be fair to my fellow villagers they did start to take an interest, indeed I don't think I have ever seen the playground so full on a Friday evening. I think some people had even nipped off to borrow kids from other villages if they didn't own any themselves. Much communal brushing of streets took place, along with the sudden urge to clean windows. Sadly it seems that the bust was unsuccessful, certainly the man in question is still around and not banged up at Juan Carlos' pleasure.

This isn't an isolated incident though, we have suspected that our neighbours directly below us were also dealing out the Colombian marching powder to their Romanian counterparts, we cleverly deduced this by spotting a note crudely stuck to the communal letter box. It read "pay for your Cocaine - or else" or words to that effect, in Catalan obviously.

I think it may be time to consider a change of address.

When Life Gets in the Way of Blogging

2011-04-05T22:47:00.001+02:00

I've been neglecting my baby, I know I've been away too long when people like @Nickie72 and @mumsgoneto ask you on twitter why you've not written anything recently. It was to twitter I looked tonight for some inspiration to kick-start my blogging. Usually in these circumstances I find a cheeky little meme does the trick but as I've not been writing I've also not been reading any blogs (I know, I know, please forgive me....) and my memory is like a sieve so I can't even remember memes I have been tagged on. Thankfully within seconds of my plight being tweeted some lovely bloggers came to my aid.

@Ladyof theLattes suggested I write a random list. I am currently sitting at my dining table which is covered in random lists, shopping lists, work to do lists, personal to do lists - none of which are particularly getting done I might add, so I figure what's one more list eh?

A Random List of Things That Have Been Happening at Very Bored Towers

1. I've started taking on some freelance writing and social media work. I've been a lot more busy than I'd anticipated, not least because I probably took on more work than I could comfortably manage; still a valuable lesson has been learned about time management and stretching myself too thin.

2. I have inadvertently managed to become part of the committee for the end of term school concert. Lesson not learned it would seem about attending random school meetings because a) I think it will make me look like a caring, respectable mother (only 6 mamas out of 18 attended!) and b) because the meeting might, just might be about the bloody P.E. kit we've been waiting for since September (it wasn't!). Said meeting progressed with the 5 other mamas singing various random Catalan songs at me for my approval (?) whilst occasionally throwing a curve ball by suggesting the kids (aged 4 & 5) sing a Shakira number! Needless to say I was as much help as a chocolate teapot but thankfully Shakira was overruled.

3. I have discovered via the medium of attempting to teach 3 & 4 years old a modicum of English that teaching is not my forte.

4. I have also discovered that once boys reach the age of 5 the average Catalan birthday party changes from 2 hours of unstructured running about to 2 hours of refereeing wrestling and boxing matches. I wonder if I am really bad in wanting some of the kids to win?

5. In days of old I would have made point 2 a 1000+ word blog post, I did try today and failed. My mojo is obviously down the back of the sofa somewhere.

6. I have been enlightened as to how much getting a leather football kicked at your left breast hurts.

7. Google Chrome is a big pile of shit and has on many occasions almost prompted me to hurl my laptop over the balcony.

8. I now know just about everything there is to know about dog whistles (courtesy of Point 1). Go on ask me anything...

9. I have achieved my personal best time in speed eating a bag of peanut M&Ms —my current vice of choice.

0.2 millisecond M&M snorting champion time

10. Erm, that's it for now I guess. Still at least I've written something. Usual witty *cough* service will resume soon.

Married Wives Affairs Clubs?

2011-03-23T10:59:00.006+01:00

Now then internet, listen up and listen good! I am a happily married woman and do not plan on having an affair in the near future. Should I ever consider having an affair I doubt very much that I would have the forethought to sign up to one of the many hundreds of internet affair clubs that have suddenly sprung up over the t'internet, and of which I'm invited to at least 20 or so daily, I'm really not that organised.

You see, I quite like t'husband, he still has his own hair and teeth, makes a mean curry and his feet don't smell, I think I've done alright in the marriage department, I genuinely have no complaints. On the rare occasions that he goes out of town on important ~~fishing~~ business trips I relish having the bed and TV remote to myself and a fart-free evening. I don't suddenly rush to the internet (*cough*) and look to hook up with some random dude who fancies a quick bunk up with a horny middle-aged housewife in cheap lingerie. I've got at least 4 episodes of America's Next Top Model on the Sky planner that need watching.

I appreciate that my email address of 'veryboredhousewife' makes me an easy target, but my boredom comes from living in the back of beyond and having no decent shopping scene. It doesn't stretch to the bedroom department, if it did I might have the email address 'verysexuallyfrustratedhousewifewhosgaggingforit', you get my drift?

So, no I don't want to join your club. No, I don't want to get my revenge back on t'husband. No, I don't want to meet other bored married housewives, nor for that matter—whilst we're on the subject—do I fancy swinging, dogging (have you tried Stan Collymore?), or any other form of sexual pastime with complete strangers from Milton Keynes*. I don't even want to learn three questions that turn women on, although I was sorely tempted in the name of research to click on that. I know what questions would turn me on—'Would you like to go and buy some new shoes?', 'Fancy a trip to New York?' and 'Do you want me to run you a bath while I tidy up?'. I'm willing to bet a crisp €5 note that the questions will differ somewhat...

I'd rather watch Masterchef...

And so finally to the ladies who do join these clubs... have you never heard of divorce?

*I'm sure that members of these clubs come from other areas as well as Milton Keynes.

British Mummy Bloggers' Carnival

2011-03-15T07:00:00.004+01:00

Don your smallest bikini, steal a milk float and strike up the vuvuzuelas - the British Mummy Bloggers' Carnival is in town!

Actually put down that vuvuzuela I've got a headache and erm... you've not tended your garden down below so go and put some big pants on eh, there's a love. Whilst your out there why not pop on the kettle or pop the cork from a bottle of wine depending on your tipple of choice, and then come back and read, read, read until your eyes go a bit skewed and you need a lie down. And give Bernie his bloody milk float back...

I bring you a staggering amount of posts from the world of Mummy (and Daddy) blogging, some funny, some sad. Some informative and some raising very interesting questions. From old stalwarts to newbies and from all corners of the globe. I know that there is something here for everyone and I hope you all discover some fabulous new blogs to follow. Cake seems to feature heavily...

So as Ring-Mistress I shall say - "let's crack on!"

Disclaimer: It was gone 1am when I'd finished compiling this carnival so I cannot be held responsible for any typos, spelling mistakes and grammatical errors. However if I've managed to bugger up a link please shout up, although not at me as I'll be cranky and susceptible to tears and you wouldn't want me dribbling snot all over the place now would you...

First up is Emma from Mommy's got a Headache - She wants to know why we can't somehow magnetise our children to make them easier to round up, her commentators suggest other things to be magnetised.

Next is one of the funniest things I've read in the past fortnight and advice I shall definitely be heeding come my next monthlies. Trish at Mum's Gone To.. has a look at medicinal practices from bygone days.

Emily from Babyrambles lists 11 things that she doesn't miss from her old corporate life, I agree 100% and even have some of my own to add.

Hestia's Larder has broken the rule (the only rule) and not given me a recent link however, given the nature of the post I am going to forgive her and I'm going to put a small wager on it being the link that receives the most hits. Hestia does Burlesque anyone?

Metropolitan Mum fires at Grazia editor Polly Vernon with both barrels, and thoroughly deserved too.

Seems that stay at home Dads are a little thin on the ground in Russia according to English Man in Moscow.

Pants with Names is trying to organise a street party, and secretly hoping someone else takes over the job.

My favourite hairy house The Archers at the Larches actually forgot her children. Can you believe that, well she didn't actually forget them... but almost.

Working London Mummy is discussing the issue of finding the right nanny, although previous ones she's employed sound downright scary to me.

Social Media ~~addict~~ guru Nickie at Typecast ponders whether Sofalising is the new way to talk. I have no idea what she's talking about obviously... *whistles*

Young and Younger is asking that question all of us mothers ask ourselves, is our family complete yet?

Cancer and Baby Equals Chaos wrote a poignant post about change and the way having a family alters you.

Carol at her new blog Dance Without Sleeping invites a guest blogger to share her experience of Meningitis, with some very sage advice.

Scribbling Mum talks about Dunblane and Theresa Riggi and I have to go and give my beautiful son a kiss as he sleeps.

Another bittersweet post, this time from The Alexander Residence where the moon is full and waiting to be explored.

Northern Mum fears she is on the brink of insanity, hmm moon sand and playdoh - perhaps she might just be.

Mymumdom is wondering if she's going crazy because she can't hear voices in her head.

Mummy Squared has written a gorgeous little post about her daughter's 1st birthday.

In a Bun Dance suffers at the hands of the dreaded school Bring and Buy sale. Rather her than me, I get really itchy around other people's cast-offs.

This Mid 30s Life is participating in some nude poetry, and car-washing, and twister...

From Rat Racer to Homeworking Parent - has an exclusive interview with Emma Forbes, I wonder if I could get one with Trev & Simon?

South of the River Mum questions whether we say no too often. Very thought provoking and I'm sure I'm guilty.

Emma in Bromley highlights the issues with Parabens.

Tales from Inside looks at how our friends suddenly split into two tribes once we have children.

Looking for Blue Sky shall go to the ball... with pointy sparkly heels.

Mummy's Little Monkey shares with us some of the things she's learned about babies. Oddly enough, not to be found in any text book.

Soft Thistle is urging us all just to take a minute and be kind to one another.

Tattie Weasle asks why she loves dogs so much. I'm wondering if she has a flat cap to go with her whippet? (Sorry it's late...)

Hot Cross Mum asks if you can be womanly and a mother at the same time.

Laid Back Mum - reminds us of how good we feel when we take a bit of time to doll ourselves up. Advice I desperately need to take.

Mummy & Monkey has been suffering recently and it's taken all her might not to scream at the pharmacist. I know her pain only too well.

Jo-Jo's So Called Life has written a lovely blog post for her son: Dear Thomas.

Pippa at A Mother's Ramblings shares a funny video which I'm sure is against the law. Crimes against cake anyone?

Another funny video from Joanne the Coach and just the right thing to do with a rejection letter. Take that!

Jen at Mum in the Madhouse has come up with some novel ways to help children to write, whilst taking the pressure off trying to be perfect.

Sticking with learning Tasha at WAHM BAM asks how you find the time to devote to developing your children's love of learning.

Mari World's post is entitled T is for Time, something that we all wish we had more of and something that I'm incredibly capable of squandering.

Mummy at the Schoolgate gets a taste of her own medicine.

The Real Supermum writes a frank and open account of her battle with prenatal depression.

Staying with depression Circus Queen asks whether being a mother will help with her personal battle.

New Day, New Lesson asks if evil helps us to appreciate goodness?

Amelie's House has written about World Book day which leaves me a little bit sad that my small corner of the world obviously didn't realise that World Book happened.

Little Legends ponders the age old question of just how much a Mummy Blogger should reveal.

Another blogging question comes from Carly at Mummy's Shoes who asks if we're selling our souls and why bloggers should research the brands they review.

On the other hand Cranky Monkeys In London lists all the products that she's bought as a result of bloggers.

I had to quickly turn Frugal Family's post off, the mere mention of the word 'flylady' brings me out in a nervous rash from my eyebrows right down to my laced-up shoes. For the less slovenly amongst us it probably makes for an excellent read.

Momma on the Rocks has been teaching her son some interesting toilet habits.

Mummy from the Heart wonders whether she's a bad mum for not looking a blogging gift horse (or scooter) in the mouth.

SAHM Loving it - bares her Chicken Noup for the soul - in many ways...(sic)

Sara from Catching the Magic shares her day out at Zealandia with her ridiculously photogenic family and some old birds.

Mellow Mummy is hoping that green fingers run in the family.

Red Ted's Art Blog is challenging us to get crafty for spring.

Tales from Windmill Fields shares some very important things with us.

Ella from Notes From Home tells us some of her favourite childhood memories.

Bloggomy writes her wish list for Mother's Day, and a jolly good list it is too.

Sticking with the Mother's Day theme A Mum and Her Boys list some beautiful quotes to have our mummy hearts gushing.

It Takes A Woman has been baking some lovely cakes with her boy.

Mmmm more cakes, God I am drooling now. This one has a nice name as well although maybe Cherished By Me needs to get herself checked out by Northern Mum's shrink.

Marketing Mummy UK realises that taking business calls at tea time isn't necessarily a good idea.

The next BMB Carnival is being held at Family Friendly Working and because Antonia is a super organised Mumpreneur she probably won't leave it till the last minute to compile a carnival of nigh on 60 blog links.

Right that's it, I'm spent. If your name's not down you're not getting in. Last one out turn the light off.

Adeu

BMB Carnival

2011-03-11T19:33:00.005+01:00

It's my turn to host the British Mummy Carnival on Tuesday 15th March, so if you would like to contribute then send me a link to your post. There's no theme just so long as it's a recent post and not a review or sponsored post.

Please email your links to veryboredhousewife@gmail.com or alternatively leave a link in the comment box by Sunday 13th March.

In the meantime head over the Dance Without Sleeping to catch the current BMB carnival.

Have a great weekend everyone.

Simple Monday Morning Pleasures

2011-03-07T10:06:00.000+01:00

It's not often that anything can raise a smile on a Monday morning, however the sun is shining and I awoke to these little gifts left in my kitchen from my lovely in-laws who arrived last night for a short stay.

Life is good!

Turn The Other Pig's Cheek

2011-03-01T21:42:00.006+01:00

I mentioned on twitter the other day that we'd had our first sample of a much eaten delicacy over here—pig's cheeks. The Spanish love pigs. I don't mean in the sense that they all have pot-bellied pigs as pets (although actually thinking on—the local baker was apparently once spotted by t'husband walking a piglet around the village on a leash, personally as I didn't see this I'm putting it down to an over-active imagination or the effects of too much booze the night before), but in that they love their pork products.

From their sausages and world famous chorizo to jamón serrano and black and white puddings with either onion or rice added. With wafer thin cutlets and heartier chops, tenderloin and joints for roasting (with the crackling sold separately for some reason), pork is the most eaten meat by far in Spain. And I haven't even mentioned the pork scratchings...

The meat aisle of a Spanish supermarket is generally not for the faint hearted—vegetarians you may want to switch off now—alongside the usual scrawny lamb cutlets and nestled in amongst the hamburgers and other minced meat products, you can find such delights as chicken's feet, chicken's blood, sheep's brains, offal of all descriptions and my particular bug bear to look at—tripe. It was only a few years ago that we had to behead and remove the innards from entire chickens and ducks ourselves! However, it's when you get to the pork section that you really find the weird body parts not normally gracing the chilled cabinets of your average Asda or Morrison's back home.

At Christmas large freezers appear in supermarkets stocked with whole or half carcases of pigs (and sheep) sawn straight down the middle from the snout to the tail—all innards still there in place! Lots of little piglets lay snuggled together in foetal positions in deep chillers. A more emotional person would weep and lament their short lives, but not me. Suckling pigs taste bloody delicious and so long as I don't have to prepare them, I'll happily munch away on them until the... erm... cows come home?

One of mine and t'husband's more childish pursuits is to pick up packets of pig face and wave it at each other in the supermarkets cackling "oi pig face!", or threaten to buy the trotters and place them under each others pillows (or is that the other way round?). We often point at the pre-wrapped trays of ears and say "hear, hear!" to one another, clearly we don't get out much!

What we hadn't done until now, is be brave enough to buy one of these bizarre parts of pork that us Brits don't usually touch. That is until last Saturday, starved of inspiration and bored to tears with the normal cuts of meat that Brits will deem normal enough to eat we decided to be adventurous and buy some pigs cheeks or 'galtes' as they are in Catalan. They were an instant hit, so much so that I have decided to cook them again when the in-laws are over next week.*

There is a probably a very good reason why the diagram of pork cuts available in Spain looks like this, with all parts of the pig being game for a good meal:

None of this bad boy is wasted

Compared to the somewhat more conservative British cuts of pork:

Hmm that'll be whole areas of the pig that are not being eaten. Or... more likely, that'll be the parts of the pig that go into sausages and pork pies and minced meat. At least the Spanish are more honest about their cuts and after tasting the absolute delight that are pig's cheeks I am beginning to find myself wondering about how tasty pig's face, trotters, ears etc. might actually be. Maybe one day I'll be brave and order them in a restaurant before I can steel myself to tackling cooking them at home.

In the meantime I am going to sing the praises of pig's cheeks and urge you all to try them, they are really cheap and apparently available at Waitrose (and probably some other supermarkets as well), or you could badger your butcher to save you some and not send them all to the Michelin starred restaurant up the road who'll probably charge in excess of £30 for a dish of them.

Now if only someone would show them how to rear proper bacon...

*I marinaded mine in cider and some fresh herbs for a few hours in the fridge and then dredged in flour, browned off and chucked in casserole dish with some fried onions and mushrooms, the cider & herb mixture and some chicken stock. The dish went into a 160º oven and cooked for 3 hours. Once the 3 hours were up I took the cheeks out of the casserole dish and kept them warm in the oven while I reduced the liquid down until it was a decent thickness for the sauce. I served them with cabbage wrapped black pudding and honey & mustard roasted parsnips & carrots. Absolutely melt in the mouth amazing!

Not All Children Pick Up Second Languages

2011-02-25T10:50:00.003+01:00

If I had a Euro for every time someone said - "oh kids pick up a second language just like that *obligatory click of the fingers* - he'll be fluent in no time" I would be rich. If I didn't fight the urge to slap the very people who say this, oh so bloody quickly, I would probably be in jail or at least doing community service in an orange jump suit.

Let me just put this out there - NOT ALL KIDS PICK UP LANGUAGES QUICKLY - SOME NEVER PICK IT UP. There, I said it. And yes, I am shouting.

After 2 and 1/2 years of being fully immersed Joseph still does not know more than a handful of words in Catalan and those that he does know he pronounces incorrectly. I've just received his 1/2 year school report and on the back page in the notes section the teacher (or someone else probably) has written (in English just in case I couldn't be arsed to read it in Catalan) just how concerned they were that Joseph is going backwards, lacks motivation, doesn't want to get involved in anything and falls asleep in class.

My boy is a bright, intelligent boy who is quick to learn and keen to join in activities at home and with other English children. I'm not deluded—he's no child prodigy but he has excellent Maths skills and is learning to read in English. He can spell all of his peers names and could recite the alphabet before he could say a complete sentence. Words, letters and numbers fascinate him. He would rather sit with a pencil and paper and write words, than he would draw a picture or colour in. It upsets me so much that he's not applying these skills to his work at school, and that because he can't understand the language he's shutting down completely and not even trying.

2 and 1/2 years of spending 5 hours a day being spoken to in, and listening to, Catalan and he still doesn't get it. He can no more converse with his peers today than he could when he first started nursery at 2. On the surface he is a cheerful boy, affectionate with his friends but they want little to do with him—hardly surprising given that they don't understand him or vice versa. He must be missing out though, it can't be fun to be the loner, the boy that no-one want to plays with. To sit in a classroom and just hear the drone of voices and noise that you can't comprehend.

I'm not sure where to go from here, aside from getting some extra tutoring and trying to get him more interested in academic things at home in the hope that he starts to take more interest at school. He can't be the only kid to have difficulty in picking up a second language can he? Right now picking up sticks and moving back to England seems like the only real option, but that's not something we can do immediately and in the meantime the gulf between him and his school-friends is widening.

Review - Speekee TV

2011-02-15T17:23:00.004+01:00

After being approached by the good people (Jim) at Speekee TV—an online Spanish Language Course aimed at young children, I suddenly had a massive pang of guilt. I've documented before about Joseph's slow take up of Catalan and I wondered if it was a good idea to subject him to another language. I decided to persevere for a couple of reasons: Firstly, we live right down in the bottom bit of Catalonia and the language spoken isn't pure Catalan, the locals speak a mixture of Spanish and Catalan often choosing Spanish words over their Catalan counterparts. Secondly, both Catalan and Spanish sound alike and share a lot of pronunciations - something that Joseph struggles with enormously.

At first Joseph was unsure, during the first episode in particular I was having difficulties trying to keep him focused. Maybe it felt a little bit too much like 'school' I'm not sure, but thankfully by the third episode he was much more into it and he reminded me daily when it was time to 'do Spanish'. I did wonder whether he would correct the words that he knew were different - numbers, colours, fruit etc. but he seemed to accept that this was a new and different language.

Speekee TV consists of 10 episodes of immersion-based language tuition. Led by a very cute puppet Speekee and a rather easy on the eye side-kick Jim, each episode focuses on a social scene; the market, the beach, the park etc. using Spanish children and with subtitles in both English and Spanish. Throughout each episode particular attention is made to informal greetings; 'hola', 'adiós', '¿cómo te llamas?' with pauses for your child to repeat phrases or answer questions—"¿y tu?". Each new episode introduces new verbs, nouns and adjectives using extremely catchy songs and visual clues. Aiding Speekee and Jim along are two sock puppets called Lupi and Dino, these talk in very odd voices which Joseph loved and I found rather grating, but they do keep saying "te quiero" (I love you) to each other which we both took as an opportunity for a quick cuddle and smooch. There's a worksheet for each episode with hints and tips for parents in how to get the most out of each exercise.

Speekee TV is fun and very colourful (orange features heavily), emphasis on learning is with repetition and catchy songs which children will love. I definitely feel that Joseph has a slightly sharper ear now towards both Spanish and Catalan after completing the course and he's learnt lots of new words along the way.

The downsides for me were that sometimes the picture quality wasn't always that good and was occasionally a bit blurred and would pixulate, although that could just be my laptop. I also wondered if the episodes aren't just that little bit too long (on average about 18 minutes), especially for really young children—Speekee TV is aimed at children aged from 2-10. However, if Jim ever decides to make a Spanish to English version I shall be snapping it up as it will help immensely in my tutoring of local children to speak English, it's a fantastic learning tool.

The real test though was Joseph's reaction to it, whilst writing this review I replayed the first episode just to make sure I hadn't missed anything, on hearing the start up music he immediately came scuttling downstairs (having switch off Donkey Kong on the Wii no less) and demanded to watch it again. He absolutely loved it. You can't ask for better than that!

Note - whilst no money was paid to me for reviewing this product I did receive temporary free access to the course.

Cheese

2011-02-11T09:46:00.002+01:00

Ever the stereo-typical ex-patter, I miss British food. Stereotypical British ex-patters missing food can, quite succinctly, be put into 4 categories:

1. Marmite lovers

2. Branston Pickle lovers

3. Cheese lovers (those ex-patters choosing to live in France maybe don't suffer this affliction so much)

4. A combination of the above or indeed ALL of the above.

Now I do love Marmite, hell I've tried to court them all romantic like in a thoroughly transparent way in order to secure myself a few freebies, but to no avail. But Marmite can be bought into the country without the Gestapo-esque check-in staff of Ryanair/Jet2/EasyJet* delete as applicable, confiscating it— not so cheese. Branston Pickle we bulk-buy every winter (along with English Mustard & HP Sauce) when t'husband or his business partner take turns in driving their vans back to Blightly for the annual Baked Bean Run—seriously beans cost a Euro a tin over here and we get through shed loads of them for the breakfasts in our Guest House.

One of my first ever posts on this very blog was about cheese, cheddar to be exact and the removal of the mature type from my local supermarket. Clearly the power of my blog won the day and the manager of this particular branch of Mercadona got wind of my pontificating and promptly returned said Irish cheddar (not English?) back onto the shelves. Or maybe someone had just made an administrative error and ordered mild cheddar by mistake. One of the two...

But the memory of Christmas 2009 will always strike ice into my heart and reduce me to a quivering wreck. For that blighted winter an outbreak of Foot & Mouth in the UK led to check-in staff being rather more vigilant than usual about the contents of suitcases of Costas bound passengers.

Those absolute bastards at Jet 2 at Leeds/Bradford airport.... sorry, I need a minute to compose myself.... well.... let's say the conversation went a little bit like this:

Super-Bitch Check-In Person From Hell - "Have you packed this case yourself?"

In-laws carrying precious cargo of cheese - "Of course."

Super-Bitch who should burn for all eternity - "Are you carrying any sharp knives or weapons?"

In-laws not in possession of anything remotely dangerous - "erm... no."

Super-Bitch whose exact features I have modelled into a voodoo doll and decorated with a thousand pins - "What about any diary or meat products?"

In-laws who I love dearly but are unable to lie - "oh ... well.... we do have this small truckel of Nottingham's finest Stilton, and some Seriously Strong Cheddar and....*trails off*"

Super-Bitch who's just scored lucky and bagged herself a tasty Christmas bounty - "I'm sorry due to Foot & Mouth disease Spanish authorities won't allow you take any cheese into the country, you'll have to hand them over."

What. The. Fuck?

What exactly do the Spanish authorities think I'm going to do with my treasured and absolutely expecting, nay needing, round of Cropwell Bishop eh? Head up to the nearest goat farmer's gaff and drop crumbs of it around his land's perimeter? Row a boat out to one of those remote little islands cast adrift in the Delta of the Ebro that bull farmers keep their young bulls on until they are ready to run the Correbous, and catapult pieces of cheddar at their heads?

No, I was going to put them on my biscuits, and English biscuits at that, you know Jacob's cream crackers and those amazing Hovis digestive ones that are just made for Stilton, maybe even a water wafer. They would have probably been washed down with some of Spain's finest red wine, you know for a truly bi-cultural experience.

We received the devastating news via phone call mid afternoon, the in-laws had landed at Barcelona airport and were queueing to pick up their hire car.

In-laws who I love but really should learn to keep their traps shut - "We've had the cheese confiscated!"

T'husband - "eh?"

In-laws who I love but really, really need to learn how to spin a yarn - "Well, you know, they asked if we had any cheese in our suitcase..."

Me (listening in on the wonderment that is Skype) - "no... no... no... no... no... no... no... what the Stilton? no.. no.. no.. no... even the Seriously Strong? no.. no... no... no.. .no... no... It can't be so.... What about the Sant Agur... but that's not even bloody British?" dissolving into floods of tears.

It was a cheese free Christmas - not something I ever want to repeat again.

This post was written for the BMB carnival over at Bringing Up Charlie, the subject being 'passions', wonder if you can guess what mine is?

Mummy Blogging for Dummies

2011-02-08T07:21:00.005+01:00

From the makers of Presidency for Dummies, Jihad for Dummies and Forensics for Dummies comes a brand new title. Ladies hold onto your hats and sharpen your elbows because coming to a bookstore near you is... *drumroll*... Mom Blogging for Dummies. Because clearly what is needed in the world is a step by step guide on how to make your blog look exactly like every other 'Mom blog' on the planet.

I've been privy to a sneak preview and I can announce that the chapters go a little something like this*

1. How to write the ubiquitous toilet training post to announce your Mom Blogging arrival**

2. How to write a meme, with 7 things no-one wants to know about you***

3. How to crawl up the arse of bigger named bloggers

4. How to over-decorate your blog with sparkly bling

5. How to win that all important Nutella gig

6. How to host an over-complicated giveaway

7. How to whinge because you're not high enough on any chart, despite only blogging for a month

8. How to court PR's and then complain because you've got too many reviews to write up

9. How to beat yourself around the head with a big stick when you think of something original to write that doesn't involve a McLinky.

~~10.~~ ~~How to write interesting content.~~

10. How to sell your soul.

I think it will be an instant hit.

*I have made these chapters up but time will tell how close I was...
**Obviously a delve around the VBinC archives will throw up at least two such posts
***There may be a couple of these knocking around as well...

Guest Post - Adventures in Estrogen

2011-02-07T07:14:00.013+01:00

Every now and again you come across a blog that is different, very out there and daring. Breaking the mould in blogging is very difficult to achieve, you need fresh ideas and a ballsy approach and Lady Estrogen has these in spades. Her tag line over at Adventures in Estrogen is Bring it. Bitch it. Blog it and she certainly does, a heady mixture of her own and other like-minded women's guest posts who write no holds barred accounts of, well, anything really but as her own 'about me' page says:

"I try not to have too much of a potty mouth, but if the mood suits it, I will use it. If it offends you, sorry - perhaps this isn't the blog for you. I also write A LOT about sex, not in a porno way, but more like a 'this is what happened to me' kind of way - so if words like Dildo, Vagina, Penis, Orgasm, Cum, Condom, Masturbate offend you, then this DEFINITELY isn't the blog for you."

I asked her on Friday night via the wonderment that is twitter if she'd do a Guest Post for me. She came back immediately and said she'd love to, and what kind of post would I like? I replied,

Oh. My. Lord! I spat my Sunday morning tea out all over the bed covers just reading the title of her post— not to mention being somewhat educated. So sit back, enjoy, and then go and check out her blog and follow her. She's brilliant but not for the faint hearted!

* * * * *

To Squirt or Not To Squirt

Although I have gone through most of my post-pubescent life being extremely liberal about all things sex-related, it has been only recently that the concept of ‘squirting’ has become a common topic. Now, when I say common, it’s more like going from it never being discussed to being the topic of conversation on three separate occasions in the last couple months... for me, that classifies it as common.

A close friend of mine had a guy ask her at a bar, “Do you squirt?” Of course, she was utterly offended at the sheer class of this asshole that could only be likened to that of a Jersey Shore boy, but then upon relaying this story to me, she asked me...

“So... Do you?”

“Umm... not that I’m aware of! You?”

“Never! How does that work?”

So we put on our investigative thinking caps on and did some research. Apparently, every woman has the capacity to squirt when they have a G-spot orgasm. Oh really? So upon learning that tidbit of knowledge, I asked my husband, “Is it a turn on when a woman squirts?” to which he replied, “I think it would freak me out a little if I didn’t know to expect it, but I know a lot of guys think it’s hot.”

My curiosity got the better of me and I found a video online... but it wasn’t porn; it was an instructional video on how to make a woman have a G-spot orgasm and squirt. It was very “professional” and the guy who was demonstrating was, how should I say it? Very, very good at his technique! The girl was in complete ecstasy and at one point she was just convulsing concurrently because, as the instructor mentions, once it starts, the female body can generate multiple orgasms as if it was like starting a motor and then it runs on its own. Where the fuck do I sign up for that?

“You put your two fingers up like this and the other 2 out like that. Then go up and down, not in and out. It helps to place your other hand on top of her pelvic area.”

I must confess that this “instructional” video had me crossing my legs a bit. I brought in the video to show my husband... in bed. There we were – a married couple watching an instructional sex video on a laptop... and getting turned on. We tried for a little while, but according to the instructor we were missing a key element – grape seed oil.

I bought some this week on my usual grocery run.

Hot diggity. Gitty'up!

By popular request - http://www.redtube.com/15878

Are You A Doer or a Thinker?

2011-02-04T22:11:00.000+01:00

I think that life is made up of people that can basically be put into 4 cateogories: those who dream, those who do, those who don't dream and those who don't.

To elaborate further...

Those who dream.... the good men and women of this earth who are stuck in lives that they want to improve, not necessarily in monitory terms but in bettering themselves, they dream of a career (in writing?) they think, maybe unwisely, that there is more for them, waiting just around the corner. Keep on keeping on.. your ship will come in.

Those who do... they know they have a talent, they realise it and have the confidence and/or bravery to face down their obstacles and put themselves out there. They don't daydream—they plan. They have objectives and goals and they— those clever people, by and large achieve them.

The people that don't dream.... who have no aspirations, no goals. Content with what they have. Secure in themselves, they don't need to put themselves out there, they have nothing to prove. Why rise above your station and set yourself up for a fall?

Those who don't... and don't want anyone else to either. Those who attempt to bring everyone else down to their level. So insecure that they need to belittle everyone else's achievements.

I know that I definitely don't subscribe to the last tribe, but the other three? Hell! Pick a day? Pick a moment? I am all of these people.

Where do you draw your inspiration, what drives you? Are you a dreamer or a doer?

Spanish Wines You Should Be Drinking

2011-02-03T09:03:00.002+01:00

I'm guesting today over at Knackered Mothers' Wine Club, discussing some belting reds that you should sample instead of reaching automatically for the Rioja when you fancy a robust Spanish number. Please go check it out.

Writing Heroes - are you stuck forever with the same ones?

2011-01-28T21:28:00.003+01:00

There are books written that I salivate over, not necessarily for their storyline although that has to please as well, but for their wordmanship. My favourite first paragraph of a book ever is from Vladivar Nabokov's Lolita:

LOLITA, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue making a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo.Lee.Ta.

I like this because it makes you do it too, it makes you say 'Lo. Lee. Ta.' Even to the point of putting the book down to do it. Seriously powerful. One small paragraph in and I am hooked.

Other authors have had the quite amazing ability to change the way I daydream. Two such writers spring to mind when I think of this, travelling to work on two buses each way used to afford me a lot of reading and daydreaming time, and the two would often mingle. From as opposite ends of the spectrum as literature could spring upon me: D H Lawrence (good Nottingham lad) and Irvine Welsh would both have me daydreaming in the style and dialect of whatever novel of theirs I was reading. From the heaving-bosomed Georgian (?) middle classes that Lawrence wrote of to the beer swilling, heroin chasing Leith anti-heroes that Welsh so brilliantly characterised.

I have read many, many books, most I have completely forgotten. Those chic-lits where the clumsy, but inwardly brilliant heroine gets the chaps of her dreams whilst nimbly climbing the greasy pole of the fashion magazine that she works for, the what I call 'airport novel' in that you only buy them at the airport or only read them on holiday because you've read all your books and are now reading your travelling companion's. Thrillers and chillers with much the same plot and usually an ending you can see a mile off. Forgettable.

Only a few remain. Only a small percentage of books really impress me that much that they become ingrained in my brain. Iain Banks' The Wasp Factory will always be one of those books. So different, so bizarre, so twisted and the ending so far from what I was expecting. I think between us we own all of Banks' work with many duplicates, but The Wasp Factory is the one I would return to again and again. Oddly enough The Wasp Factory is the only Iain Banks book we no longer have, both mine and t'husband's copies stolen by our respective friends. I kind of don't mind (I do actually but I pretend not to) because it's that kind of book, it says a lot about a book if someone won't return it or takes it without your permission. That's a strong book.

Then there are the books from your youth. Are You There God It's Me Margaret? (Judy Blume), oh Judy did you realise, could you actually imagine that your heavily Americanised book would be such a passage of rights for a 13 year old girl from Middle England? Before that, in more innocent times before hormones dictated my reading material. Flat Stanley (Jeff Brown)—a book I bought when I discovered I was carrying a boy. A book that we still haven't read because I don't think at 4½ he's quite ready for it, but I loved it so much I needed to buy it for him.

Books that you had to read, but brilliant books that shaped your political awareness and persuasion at a tender age. To Kill A Mocking Bird (Harper Lee) was a syllabus must read for GSCE English Literature students, to the man or woman who selected that book; I salute you! For Of Mice and Men (John Steinbeck), I remember getting my first A paper, (I was not an A grade student - too much time spent smoking and fooling about), I remember how astounded I was, writing about the book was so easy, it felt so natural but to get an A?

Books have and will continue to carve a path through my life. My husband is a reader, my best friends all read. I can't get along with a person who says they don't read. Why don't you read? What glorious things you've missed out on. Sometimes you'll hear a person say "oh I've never read a book" and they say it with pride, I have to walk away, I want to slap them. Read a book, get lost in the words. Books let your imagination set the scene in a way that a movie robs you of. Books take you to worlds that you've never dreamt of.

But... oh how there is always a but! I have a theory about books. Much like music we are heavily influenced by the written word whilst young—late teens to early twenties. The style, subject, authors etc., we decide so young what we really like, but here's the thing... have you read a book that moved you as much as one of your favourites that you read when you were young? I've read some fantastic literary classics to be, great books, recommend to friends books, worthy contenders for the top 100 books you should read lists, but (it's there again) they can't hold a candle to books that shaped me. Much like no album will topple The Stone Roses from it's all time ever No. 1 in my life album, will any book I ever read upend The Wasp Factory, will an author manage to slide in at number 5 and displace To Kill A Mocking Bird? I'm not sure they will.

Who are your writing heroes and are they recent finds?

5 Celebrities I'd Love to Punch

2011-01-21T20:21:00.005+01:00

I've seen a few of these around the blogosphere starting over at Metal Mummy, I love to hate most celebrities and love to share a bit of bile every now and again so this is right up my street! I've tried my hardest not to repeat ones found here, here, here and here— they've probably got a harder right hook then me anyway, but there may be some duplications, let's face it some slebs need more than one slap.*

Sadly I can only have 5, which has made it incredibly hard to narrow down to the five I most want to punch, but I've dithered and thought, rethought and adjusted and conferred with Twitterverse and can now bring to you Very Bored in Catalunya's list of 5 celebrities she'd like to inflict physical pain upon.

1. Kerry Katona**

Seriously there must be lots of rocks large enough for this sap on society to crawl under so we never have to hear about her mother/cocaine addition/yo-yo diet/shite boyfriends/numerous pregnancies/bankruptcies ever again. Why are people interested? Clearly enough are for ITV to keep peddling out money for bored film crews to follow her sad, twatty life

Mum's gone to Chavland

2. Pixie/Peaches Geldof

The day I can tell the difference between these two arse-wipes will be the same day I gauge my eyes out with a rusty spoon. Both absolute media whores who do nothing but spend their Daddy's money and get pissed a lot. Despite being brought up in probably the most bo-ho household known to man these pair of clowns still feel the need to go and shock. And as for them being models, if they didn't have famous parents then no designer would look twice at their ugly mugs! *retracts claws*

Do you know who our Dad is?

3. Paris Hilton

With your pinched nose stuck so fucking far up your own arse and your stupid little armpit dog. What purpose do you serve? Your mother and father must be so very proud of you rolling out of nightclubs drunk, selling footage of yourself giving oral sex and getting banged up. You're like a uptown dung beetle rolling along on the shit of life, pampered and shallow and stupidly, stupidly ignorant.

A face just asking for a slap

4. Mr & Mrs Will Smith

Now these pair haven't always needed a good right hand, only recently have they turned themselves from good celebrities to bad. And it's not about them but about their offspring. I could say something along the lines of how badly I feel for the children being thrust into stardom at such tender ages, and why can't they just let them be children until they turn 18 blah de blah, but whilst I do feel this the actually reason I want to slap them is not for enforcing showbiz on their kids, but for enforcing their showbiz kids on us. I hate, hate, hate child stars. They make me want to vomit. I do not want to hear squeaky pre-pubescent voices grating their ways through crappy-far-too-old-for-them songs. I don't want to see super-cute hair-cutted actors with perfect teeth at aged 9 win academy awards. No. Please God, stop it, stop them now before the Beckhams get any ideas. Look what happened to the Jacksons.

They were fine before they bred...

5. Jimmy Carr

I'm not entirely sure this man is human. He is certainly so unable to move any part of his upper body he must definitely have a pole shoved up his ass, in fact I think he may be a left over puppet from Thunderbirds. The stiffest man on TV. He is also staggeringly unfunny and has what must be the crappiest hairstyle since Max Headroom hit the screens. Apparently he was a virgin until 27—I wasn't surprised, having sex with him must be like being humped by an ironing board telling shite gags.

I can't even laugh 'em into bed...

Also rans include Micky Rourke, Ricky Gervais, Jeremy Kyle and Frankie Boyle.

* My number 1 choice would have been Katie Price but she features heavily on most lists.

**For non UK or Irish folk Kerry Katona was married to Brian McFadden from Westlife (for US readers - crap Irish boyband who once recorded with Maria Carey), who is now with Delta Gudrun I believe (for Aussie readers). If you've not heard of Brian McFadden or Westlife consider yourself very fortunate and go about your business.

Twitter Tactics

2011-01-20T11:52:00.002+01:00

Firstly, this isn't one of those 'how to use twitter' posts, I don't give a flying fuck about etiquette, use twitter whatever way you want to. What I want to know is what your way is. I noticed the other day that @LondonCityMum was ~~whinging~~ mentioning the fact that she was being followed by lots of designers of baby-clothes and she wasn't interested so could they politely be on their way, or words to that effect. She also said that she'd be highly unlikely to follow anyone who said they were 'completely insane' on their bio. @Sardinetin joined in, or rather I think egged her on to reveal other keywords that would drive the usually lovely *cough, splutter* @LondonCityMum to immediately block the poor inferior tweeter.

Clearly the woman is hard to please, but she has allowed 737 people to follow her so what credentials must these fine tweeters possess?

This got me thinking, I am somewhat anally retentive about things like this, I like my numbers to match up. At the moment they don't and it makes my neck itch when I see it.

I do generally try to follow back, if I don't then by and large, I block. Spanish Estate Agents take note—not interested. But every now and again someone follows you who you aren't sure about, 'I'll just wait and see what they're all about' I tell myself and routinely I go through them all via Friend or Follow and check out their latest tweets to decide whether I want to follow back, if not then they get blocked.

Very occasionally someone unfollows me - yeah I know, how very dare they! My first response is an utterly childish one of immediately unfollowing back. I do like to analyse these things though—why have they unfollowed me? Quite often I don't actually even recognise the tweeter who has unfollowed, so far dos it's not someone I've ever communicated with, completely understandable. Sometimes it's a tweeter that I do recognise and I realise that we've got nothing in common, so again a legitimate reason to unfollow. On rare occasions it someone that I've tweeted with regularly, I've had two unfollows that I'm genuinely puzzled about, but hey if they don't want to follow me that is their prerogative and I certainly won't call them out about it.

So who do I follow? It's probably easier to list who I don't follow or allow to follow me:

Religious Nuts
Gun-Toting Republicans
Gurus of any description
Life Coaches
Anyone who has already got over 2000 followers
Businesses who only ever tweet sales pitches
Tweeters who never have conversations—either just tweet monologues of their lives or RT's of blog posts.
Spain Based Estate Agents
Large corporate companies—although I'll make an exception for Marmite & Twiglets —what does a girl have to do to get you to follow/sponsor/send me a lifetime's supply of...
Tweeters who aren't followed by anyone I know
Celebrities - although I did once follow John Prescott—he was a crap tweeter though

Generally speaking I will follow anyone who is being followed by a tweeter I trust, especially if they are from the blogging arena or are British expats.

I've only unfollowed/blocked a few people in my time and that was because they were too political or just tweeted competitions all the time. More recently I've unfollowed two tweeters who did nothing but put really, really crap jokes in my timeline. They didn't converse with anyone, just told really shit jokes.

So what gets up your nose, who do you block and why (no names please let's keep it general)?

Mid-Life Crisis

2011-01-19T10:34:00.002+01:00

I think I am having a mid-life crisis. Just those word 'mid-life' as in middle-aged puts me in a head spin and makes me feel physically sick. Where the fuck did my youth go? Or my 30's for that matter—lost in a haze of cheapish Spanish wine and the endless monotony of life? I wonder constantly where I would be in my former career had I not left to come to Spain. I am terrified that in 10½ months time I will have turned 40 and done nothing of note with my life, to have not pushed myself.

I need a taskmaster, I am one of those people that strives under stress. I am a procrastinator, I need someone to crack the whip (metaphorically speaking), I need deadlines, goals, something to strive for. I need to work, proper work, work that has timescales and end results. To that end I have signed up to a couple of freelance sites, the jobs seem to range from the extremely dodgy to the bizarrely weird, the pay ranges from shit to the 'are you taking the piss?' but every now and again something interesting pops up that I know I can give my full attention to. I doubt the money I earn will make a vast difference to our lives in terms of finances, but I think that getting back into a 'work' frame of mind will help put my yearning to go back to England on the back burner. And ultimately to give me the courage to be my own taskmaster.

What I really want to do is write. I have a story in my head, it's been there for 10 years. There are certain scenes that I have played over and perfected in my mind so many times that I know them word for word, yet I have put nothing down on paper (or indeed hard drive). A combination of procrastination and fear of rejection have held me back—but no more I tell you! The thought that I would go to all that effort and time to write something that people didn't like has put me off for too long. It's also the main reason that I am so silent about my blog with people in real life. Embarrassed that they will think it's rubbish, 'she can't write', 'gosh how boring is that' etc.

I have decided to use my mid-life crisis to good effect. A catalysis for self-improvement. This is my last year of being in my 30's, I want it to be the year I look back on and say that I achieved something. A year that doesn't just blend in with all the rest, notable only for the low notes that were beyond my control. A year of highs. A year of doing, not thinking. A year that I will remember for all the good things I've done. A year that I can be proud of my blogging and writing and say, nay shout; 'I did that!'

Failing that I'll just trade t'husband in for a younger model and buy a sports car.

Hugh's Fish Fight

2011-01-17T13:42:00.002+01:00

Last week's telly had me reeling, firstly I marvelled at the series Human Planet on BBC1 and the communities such as the Polynesian ones that started the craze of surfing, not as sport but as a way of combatting the waves and catching their prey. I held my breath watching whale catchers and shark singers, almost lost ways of life that depend on the sea. I don't have an issue with a whole village climbing aboard 5 boats to harpoon one bewildered whale - that whale will serve the community well, feed them for weeks and no part of the whale will go to waste, the village will only kill 6 whales for food in this way in any given year. Sustainable fishing in every sense of the word.

If that wasn't enough I was pleasantly surprised that the BBC and C4 had obviously got their scheduling spot on, right after the wonderful Human Planet show was Hugh Whittingly's (of River Cottage fame) Fish Fight program on C4. It highlighted the salmon farming industry, an industry that on the face of it you'd assume was sustainable, but considering it takes 5 kilos of wild fish to breed 1 kilo of farmed salmon you quickly realise this isn't the case. Organic salmon farming fared much better but obviously comes at a premium price which a lot of people just simply cannot justify paying in the current financial climate.

More worrying however and much easier to solve was the issue of 'discarding'. Every year around half the fish caught in our waters is thrown back, usually dead, because of fishing quotas.

DISCARDS AT SEA

Around half of the fish caught by fishermen in the North Sea are unnecessarily thrown back into the ocean dead.

The problem is that in a mixed fishery where many different fish live together, fishermen cannot control the species that they catch.

Fishing for one species often means catching another, and if people don’t want them or fishermen are not allowed to land them, the only option is to throw them overboard. The vast majority of these discarded fish will die.

Because discards are not monitored, it is difficult to know exactly how many fish are being thrown away. The EU estimates that in the North Sea, discards are between 40% and 60% of the total catch. Many of these fish are species that have fallen out of fashion: we can help to prevent their discard just by rediscovering our taste for them.

Others are prime cod, haddock, plaice and other popular food species that are “over-quota”. The quota system is intended to protect fish stocks by setting limits on how many fish of a certain species should be caught.

Fishermen are not allowed to land any over-quota fish; if they accidentally catch them – which they can’t help but do - there is no choice but to throw them overboard before they reach the docks. (taken from www.fishfight.net)

Please go on to the site and pledge your support, a simple job taking a few seconds to add your name to the petition*. Also click onto the facebook page and 'like' and 'follow' on twitter. This is a ridiculous practice and needs to stop before we obliterate all the fish in the ocean. Other ways to help include reconsidering which fish you buy, trying more sustainable fish for a change and opting for organic and line caught alternatives if you can afford them.

Hugh's Fish Fight

Fish Fight Facebook Page

@hughsfishfight

*The policy on discarding is a EU directive so if you're in anywhere in the EU please sign the petition.

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Feeling a Bit Pegged Out

2011-01-13T07:49:00.003+01:00

Thankfully in my little corner of the world the term 'Yummy Mummy' or whatever the equivalent in Catalan would be—mama deliciós according to google translate—hasn't surfaced it's pretty little quaffered head yet. The trend is definitely 'Slummy Mummy' which is just fine with me, I absolutely rock the 'just rolled out of bed' look. Never mind 'just stepped out of the salon', I much prefer the 'didn't have time to step into the shower' look and by and large it never raises an unplucked eyebrow.

There have been several occasions though when my appearance has brought about a chuckle amongst the collected Mamas and Iaias, remember the sunburnt cheeks back last February? I may also have been known to wear odd shoes when collecting my son, being the 'Foreign Woman' does kind of let you off the hook with a lot of things, they probably think it's some bizarre English fashion to wear one green Birkenstock and one white one, I've done it so often they can't think it's a pure accident. Maybe they think that we're really poor and that's why I've worn a skirt with a massive split up the back of it two days running. Poor or a slut, I think I'd prefer the latter.

Yesterday however I managed to pull off a whole new look, brace yourselves for it being huge this spring/summer (ooh, can I be the first one to say SS11, like I know something about fashion....can I, can I?). I went to collect Joseph at lunchtime with pegs on my cardigan. Not one but both of my cardigan lapels were sporting a plastic peg—one red, one yellow, dangling down like some sort of paper weight for clothes, to guard against the wind maybe? I was oblivious to my trend-setting ways until I noticed a couple of the mama's puzzled faces looking in my direction, eventually Ferran's mama came over and discreetly tugged at one of the pegs, the yellow one if I remember rightly and quick as a flash I removed the offending items. Of course the cardigan in question was without pockets so with cheeks burning scarlet I had to hold the pegs in my hand (because no self-respecting English mother leaves the house without her trusty duo of clothes pegs) until Joseph came skipping out of school, last as usual.

Pegs as clothes accessories—you heard it here first in fashionable Southern Catalonia, it's where it's all happening, or maybe not.

Big Momma Challenge 2011

2011-01-12T11:01:00.002+01:00

This week was supposed to be the start of my New Year diet, someone forgot to tell the fridge that though, or maybe those naughty shopping items just threw themselves into the trolley whilst my back was turned comparing lettuces—who knows? Anyway I am blaming it on the fact that you can't go from shoving tank loads of pork pie and pate down your neck to complete cold turkey (well not cold turkey per se, I actually like a drop of cold turkey, with lashing of mayo naturally...), in the diet stakes you need to come down slowly. My alcohol intake halved (this week it's halved again, can you see me shaking?) and a few leftover chocolates may have passed my lips but all in all I didn't go overboard but didn't exactly follow the South Beach Diet—whatever that is.

The result was a 0.8kilo loss—although I probably just farted before I got on the scales.

So far this week I am being much more disciplined, no carbs at evening meal although tonight Joseph has requested 'pgetti' but I'll do wholemeal and give myself a small portion. No chocolate and only a modicum of cheese has passed through my digestive system and, as stated earlier, no alcohol as yet has touched my lips, I aim to get to Friday. I've also dusted off a Davina workout DVD and got so far as to actually do it rather than just put it back on the shelf. Downside to this is that I can now only walk about with my legs poker straight and my feet turned out which does have a couple of disadvantages; namely I look a complete muppet and stairs are impossible, but hopefully they will have eased off enough tomorrow for me to put myself through the whole terrible business again. *I will have buns of steel*.

I hope everyone else on the Big Momma Challenge has had a good week if not then don't fret, this week will be better.

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Meggings - The Metrosexual Must Have

2011-01-05T07:54:00.022+01:00

T'husband is a pioneer in the fashion world - who knew? Those internet fashion gurus over at ASOS* have declared this season's must have item for men are meggings—oh yes, leggings for men. My super fashion-conscious spouse is bang on trend this autumn/winter (or are we now winter/spring?), often stepping out in his meggings, layered fashionably under his drop-crotched fishing apparel (he really should wear a belt).

'check my bulging... calves'

He has a variety of colours, well OK, he has two—cream and navy and absolutely swears by them from October to April, citing that just because he's out in all weathers, it doesn't mean that cutting edge fashion should be shunned, "high fashion on the high seas... or the River Ebro" he says whilst sashaying around with his man-bag and flat cap—ever the Yorkshireman. He often models them for my delectation, bringing a bit of the sultry Paris catwalk to the bedroom of the Southern Catalonia. Ladies, I can tell you, it works for me, wink, wink.

Meggings are available in hundreds of colours and fabrics, from satin sheens, sparkly sequins to jumbo corduroy. You can dress them up for a night on the town, or down for that 'just popping down the local to watch the match' look. Wondering what shoes to wear? The beauty of meggings is that all footwear works, thick socks and combat boots through to casual summer holiday flip-flops, there are no hard and fast rules.

Look a tosser in any footwear

'Just popping to Tesco's love, do you want anything?'

Of course what t'husband and indeed probably a whole host of blokes who have to work outdoors through the winter know, is that these ludicrous things are actually called Long Johns, available for about a tenner a pair from M&S and other such department stores. And they look a damn sight better like this:

'...knew I shouldn't have had the lentil soup for lunch'

And even better layered, not as ASOS suggest under some drop-crotch shorts, but under some full length, crotch in the right place, trousers. Serious boys, don't do this, you will regret it.

Sadly, despite my begging and pleading, t'husband flatly refused to model his Long Johns, happily for you ladies I found a half decent replacement.

*Thank you to Abbie & Rachel for bringing these monstrosities to my attention.

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3 Reasons I Shouldn't Be Allowed Near A Kitchen

2011-01-04T08:01:00.004+01:00

I've only been back in the country for less than 24 hours but it seems that me and the kitchen have not got off to an auspicious start this 2011.

Firstly and for reasons completely unknown to myself at the time, I thought I could save a bit of time on the morning we were due to fly back to England for Christmas by not washing-up. "I know" I thought conspiratorially "I can just chuck 'em in the dishwasher". Obviously I didn't think that 10 days of being in the dishwasher would result in the few pots that would have taken no more than 10 minutes to wash, dry and put away, would be covered in a fluffy white mould on our return. Hmmm, odd that eh?

The second reason took a little longer to find - whilst preparing our evening meal (low fat lemon chicken & vegetables for the Big Momma Challenge) I discovered a small Joseph sized piece of salmon defrosting in the microwave. The same piece, I suddenly remembered, that I had taken out of the freezer some 11 days ago. My memory doesn't actually recall what I did feed my son that day but it certainly wasn't this particular piece of fish.

Alas, a Salmon like this one died in vain.

Thirdly, because these things always come in threes don't they, our kettle has died. A minutes silence has taken place and a new shiny one has been purchased,* but is being driven over** with various other bits of ours next week by t'husband's business partner. In the meantime we (or should I say I) have had to resort to boiling a pan of water on the hob, like what they did back in the olden days. This of course works marvellously (if not a little slowly) until you decide to put the saucepan on the hob, with lid on to speed up the boiling process, but forget to actually put any water inside.

Yep, today I have burnt a saucepan of nothing, created a factory of cultures in my dishwasher and manufactured biological weapons in my microwave. Tomorrow I'm not setting foot in the place, that's if I'm still alive.

* purchased I might add with my Christmas money, I really have become that sad that I bought myself a kettle for Christmas.

** seriously, trying to buy a kettle in Spain - forget it!

Growlers & Stilton

2011-01-03T16:23:00.004+01:00

I'm back.... **shrills somewhat manically**

Oh yes, bigger and better than before, well bigger anyway we'll have to see about the better bit, I rather suspect I'll be treating you all to the same inane nonsense I did last year, and the year before...

Back to bigger. Hmmm, what can I say, an over indulgence in my mother-in-law's very yummy homemade country pate, my body weight in Stilton (Cropwell Bishop if you please, only the finest Stilton my hometown of Nottingham has to offer - all cheques and truckels gratefully received), an overdose of Twiglets and a fair few portions of Growler (pork pie to those not aware of the term growler) and of course a vineyard or two of wine have left me somewhat rounder and a whole lot girthier.

Thankfully my lovely bloggy friend notSupermum has come to my rescue and relaunched her Big Momma Challenge. I shall jump aboard the good ship and try to stay afloat for as long as possible before I fall off the wagon in spectacular style, to be found dribbling cheese at the fridge door and necking Sauvignon Blanc straight from the bottle.

I've decided not to try and set myself any targets, firstly I never reach them and secondly we are trying in earnest for another baby so this diet will only last so long (fingers crossed), for the moment I would just like my chin(s) to recede and to be able to fit back into my clothes, oh and to not actually look as though I were already 6 months preggers would be a bonus as well - damn carbs!

If you want to join in then head on over to notSupermum's and find out all about it. If you're already slim then piss off and go and gloat elsewhere.

Adeu

Christmas Cava Cheer

2010-12-15T12:44:00.003+01:00

Cava gets a bad name in the UK, usually the cheap fizz trotted out at promotional events is immediately accused of being Cava and gets poured into the nearest pot plant. I want to spread a bit of Cava (pronounced ca-ba - soft b) love this Christmas by pointing you all in the direction of some truly decent bottles of Cava that are well worth gracing your posh flutes this Yuletide. Cava is made in the exact same traditional method as Champagne and has been aged for at least 9 months, and considering a fabulous bottle of Cava costs much the same as a run of the mill bottle of Champagne, it's a must for your Christmas shopping trolley.

Cava is Catalonia's most famous wine and the majority of it is made in a small town called Sant Sadurni in the Penedès region, just 20 minutes south of Barcelona. The two biggest Cava houses in the region are Freixenet and Cordorníu. Cava is usually a blend of three grapes; Macabeo, Parellada and Xarel-lo but can often be found with Chardonnay mixed in there as well.

First rule of thumb is price, if you buy a cheap bottle for £2 it's not going to be any good, you get what you pay for. Secondly, a lot of the supermarkets have had big Cava houses make bottles exclusively for them so don't automatically exclude the supermarket own brand. The third and best rule is - drink it! Cava isn't meant to be kept for long periods of time, so whack it in the fridge and open at your earliest convenience.

I have painstakingly scanned the wine aisles of all the major supermarkets to bring to your attention some of the best Cava out there.

Asda

Asda Extra Special Vintage Cava £4.98

At less than a fiver this bottle has won awards a-plenty, including Silver at the International Wine Challenge 2009, should be good for serving with some canapés or as a welcome drink at your Christmas house party.

Cordorníu Cava Brut Rosado £11.98

A bit more money for your fizz but you're paying for the power house name of Cordorníu and for the pinkness. Made with Monastrell, Garnacha and Trepat this would be a fab wine to serve with a prawn cocktail or smoked salmon starter.

Tesco

Cordorníu Vintage Cava £5.99 (usually £12.99)

This best seller is currently for sale at less than half price until 04/01/11, what better reason to stick a few extra in trolley for gifts and to pop on New Year's Eve.

Freixenet Especial Rosado Cava £6.49 (usually £12.99)

Not my favourite pink Cava but I certainly wouldn't complain at this price (which is cheaper than we can buy it out here). I would happily slurp this just because there is a 'y' in the day.

Sainsbury's

Clos Monistrol Vintage Cava £11.99

Given that most of the supermarkets seem to have half price offers on the big label Cavas then this does seem expensive in comparison. Sainsbury's suggest that you try it with mince pies and who am I to argue, if I could get mince pies out here I'd happily test that theory.

Sainsbury's Taste The Difference Cava £6.99

Sadly Sainsbury's are somewhat lacking in a description of this Cava, I would like to know who they get to make it for them, but I guess it doesn't really matter. It's tastes very good and is at a nice price point.

Waitrose

Waitrose Cava Brut, £6.64

Exclusively made for Waitrose by Castillo Perelada this will be an excellent Cava at a fantastic price. Shame the label manages to make it look cheap though.

Waitrose in Partnership Cava, £8.54

Again made by Castillo Perelada this bottle is nearly £2 more expensive but looks a lot classier, I'm sure the extra money will be well worth it for a special occasion.

Freixenet Elyssia Gran Cuvee £14.24

Purely for showing off this one, the 15 months ageing is unnecessary in my humble Cava drinking opinion as Cava is best drunk young and lively, but if you want to impress and push the boat out then this will not disappoint.

Sadly my two favourite Cavas don't seem to be on sale, you might if you're lucky come across them in independent wine merchants, if you do then pick up a bottle and treat yourselves.

Juvé y Camps

Raventós i Blanc

Happy supping. Adeu

Predicting The Future

2010-12-14T11:57:00.004+01:00

2011 is just a stone's throw away; a new year to ponder what surprises are in store for us. Well there must be something in the air in our little village amongst the muddied rice fields (aside from chicken shit), because dear reader, the donkey has gone all mystic and has come up with some predictions for the coming year.

La Casa Very Bored

T'husband will remain unable to locate the bathroom cleaning products.

I will have beaten both Joseph's and t'husband's score at Frisbee Dog on the Wii by May.

There will have been at least 4 plumbing failures by September.

No-one will win the lottery.

Some kind company will take pity on me and sponsor me to attend CyberMummy11 (yeah, yeah - cheap shot...).

Politics & World News

Vince Cable will spontaneously combust live in parliament in April, it will be the most downloaded youtube video ever.

The Conservative-Lib-Dem coalition will finally collapse in June following an argument between Cameron & Clegg as to which colour tie to wear for President Sarkozy's 'coming out' party.

The editor of the Daily Express will wet himself daily with excitement at having a new Princess to write about and will limit himself to just one Diana story a week.

In February Milan Manderic will buy out Spain and complete half of the unfinished apartment blocks before deciding to sell her off and buy Portugal instead, by November he will have moved onto Greece.

In March Italy's Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi will sensationally go a full month without being caught with his pants down.

Sarah Palin will launch a new summer fragrance called Something I Trod In; it will probably smell of chicken shit as well.

Sport

Because the year ends in a 1; Spurs will win the Champions League and we'll never hear the bloody end of it. Chas 'n' Dave will come out of retirement and release a medley of annoying Cockney songs around the old Joanna with Lord Sugar.

picture from www.chasndave.net

David Beckham will launch a multi-million pound bid to bring the World Tiddlywinks Championship to England in 2020, backed heavily by several past-it sport stars including Frank Bruno and Eric Bristow.

England will lose the bid for the 2020 World Tiddlywinks Championship to Uzbekistan.

Sorry my lovely Australian blogging buddies but England will win the Ashes.

Some American baseball team will win the World Series

Music

Justin Beiber will finally stop trending on twitter in July, after a career-fatal restyling sees him lose that swept fridge look and develop some bum fluff. Teenage girls the world over will rip up their posters and turn their attention to One Direction as they launch their new covers of Westlife covers album.

Michael Jackson will release another posthumous album of shite songs that were never worth releasing whilst he was alive - oh wait... hang on... that may have already happened.

In November the Black Eyed Peas will release a track that doesn't make me turn my radio off immediately and declare "who buys this shit?"

Teenager Cher Lloyd will prove everyone wrong and a have a platinum selling album in which she raps over such classics as The Nolans' I'm In The Mood For Dancing, R.E.M's What's The Frequency Kenneth, and Elton John and Kiki Dee's Don't Go Breaking My Heart. In a complete U-turn I will be referring to her as the 'Pride of the Midlands'.

The Mystic Donkey is available for private readings (which consists of reading supermarket own brand coffee grinds and sniffing beds of manured straw), an incredibly vague prediction will be given free with every comment but a charge of €10 will be levied for a more in-depth personal one.

Bleeting and Braying

2010-12-13T11:11:00.003+01:00

The shy and retiring lady from Baltimore has been bleeting - this apparently is a cross between blogging and tweeting, a thought that is too long for a tweet but too short for a blog. She has tagged me to come up with some bleets of my own, but as everyone knows donkeys don't bleat they bray, still any excuse for a rant or two eh. I'm narky and bad tempered this Monday morn due to staying up late Dirty Dancing, the watching thereof not the partaking in, good Lord, I'd slip a disk a something, so it feels apt to relieve myself of some bile and bray like the knackered, bad tempered mule that I am.

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Whilst shopping the other day in my local supermarket I set off the alarm walking through the doors because the checkout lady hadn't removed the security tag off an item of shopping. What was this item of shopping? An expensive hair product? A luxurious moisturiser? A packet of re-mortgage your home Gillette razor blades? A bottle of gin? No. It was in fact a packet of 3 cream of chicken cup-a-soups. Are times are so hard for the average Catalan in El Crisis that he taken to half-inching powdered soups by the truck load? I doubt it somehow.

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Christmas Presents; yes I know I've left it late but seriously Leapfrog, why the hell have you flooded the market with pink Leapster Explorers and only put out a handful of the either gender-friendly green. I have searched every toy shop known to man and everyone has sold out. Except... Play.com however, if you think that just because you're the only retailer with good sense to buy an equal number of the pink and green gives you license to charge £30 more for the product than anyone else then you can kiss my lily-white arse. I will buy my boy pink!

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Speaking of Christmas presents, why am I unable to think of what I would like other people to buy me. If I can't get my act together than I will just receive a load of old tat like I do every year. Bloody hell, it's not like I've got loads of stuff.

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ANyone who haS been inTeracting witH Me this week on twitTer will HAVe Noticed mY tweetS LookinG A LitTle bit Like This. To Be FAir on rare occASions I MAY tweet whilSt under THe inFLuenCe of CataLonia'S finesT white wines (like most FridAy nights), but for once wine hAS nothinG To Do with My inability to type in The correct letter caSe. No, My onLY 4 montH old laptop has Decided To plAY silly BeggArs and I now have to Spend a fucKinG inordinate time re-writing AND editinG everyTHinG I Type.

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Of course I cannot find the receipt anywhere, nor have I kept any emails detailing the ordering and buying of the bloody thing from Dixons because I am a useless moron. Unless my Nectar statement can be used as proof of purchase, I am going to have to send it to a HP repair centre when back in the UK and because it's Xmas it's unlikely that they will be able to fix it and return it in such a tight timescale.

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The wind is blowing the wrong way this morning and the whole village smells of chicken shit. Actually that could have been a tweet, I may yet share this with the twitterverse.

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Does anyone else feel like they are back in the 80's, only 20 years older and 20lbs heavier? Civil unrest, student riots, industrial action, Tories, tosser comedians using cheap gags, shit chart music, shoulder pads, royal wedding tat... All we need is a re-run of Dallas and we're back there.

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Carpets - oh how I miss thee. This could also have been a tweet!

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Right that's my load unburdened, if you fancy having a go then be my guest, my keyboard is playing up too much for me to start linking folk.

A Little Something for the Weekend

2010-12-11T09:53:00.001+01:00

A short history film for those, who like me, are often found at the mercy of a certain Irishman and his flying machines.