Mummy's Rant

Mumbles... a headland on the southern coast of Wales, and also indistinct speech. I have trouble hearing things, particularly when I'm not wearing my glasses, but there's something about a mumble that makes me grumble. You know that thing when you have to ask someone to repeat what they say? Once is permissible, twice is awkward, thrice appears to be rude and four times (because once, twice, thrice are the only words of their type and anything else is just picturesque) and you risk looking stupid. There are a number of mumbles in popular music, and I love the alternative lyrics, or mondegreens... here goes. REM's The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite If you call Michael Stipe, is it because you've tried to wake her? Will he try to wake her? Is it Cheryl Baker, or is it Jamaica? The true lyrics are "Call me when you try to wake her" which doesn't make much more sense than the alternatives. But for someone whose career peaked in the late 1980s, she has achi

As a mother of two, I can confidently add peace keeper to my resume. In fact, should the UN ever need an ambassador of inter-familial management, I'm their girl. I've mastered the art of sotte voce too, with the ability to inject varying levels of threat into it whilst maintaining the same low level. I can also do shouting. I do my level best to tolerate the less pleasant characteristics in people. In fact, I've written a little poem about it - some positive channelling. Rudeness, inconsideration,  Laziness, procrastination,  Incompetence, aggressive stance, I'll give them all a fighting chance. Nosiness and nastiness, And sly underhandedness. Back biter or total flake, But there's something I won't take. Lie about me, or my acts, Slander, libel, skew the facts, Defamation, sabotage, Amending, bending, truth massage, To my face, behind my back, However you choose to spread that cac, I'm smart, I'm clever and I'm wise

By 2050, the sea will contain more plastic than fish by weight. Social media carries plenty of images of animals struggling to survive from ingesting or becoming enmeshed in this pollutant. Unless you fancy eating fizzy drink bottle fingers or carrier bag cakes, we need to take a stand. And before it's too late. The average family food shop includes a surprising quantity of plastic - not all will be apparent immediately as we use things gradually, but here's a list of what you could be bringing home that comes in plastic containers: Bread Spreads Biscuits Sweets Crisps Oils   Vegetables Fruit Frozen food Milk Carbonated drinks Juice Shampoo Conditioner Soap Toothpaste Toilet rolls Flowers Washing liquids Cleaning products Kitchen rolls Coffee Tea Chocolate bars In fact, aside from loose items, the only thing not plastic wrapped in yesterday's shop was eggs. Even then, there were plastic

When did Easter becomes commercialised? As a child, Easter Sunday I'd join my parents for breakfast - boiled eggs, or googy eggs as we called them in my house. Invariably I'd crack mine to discover an empty shell, dad already having eaten one and turned it upside down as a joke. One particular Easter my parents prepped an egg hunt in our garden - I don't recall how many there were, or even if the dog found more than me, but I had fun . Roll on a few decades, and the expectations of Easter are considerably heightened. I've just been to do the Easter shop and it was eggspensive. First off, there's the school gifts. Each of my children has three class teachers, and there's an hierarchy to be considered: form tutor, classroom assistant and support tutor. Then there's headteachers and key staff. I do draw the line at the gardeners, dinner ladies and cleaners - it's not that I don't appreciate the work they do to feed my daughters every school day an

Hey, I'm not talking about a ripped stomach, a slab of firmness that swells into womanly hips. I'm talking a multi-pack of cheese and onion crisps. You know the ones, they're advertised by a football pundit with sticky out ears. There's something weird about the British relationship with obesity. We've adopted American marketing strategies with supersize this and bumper size that. Then we're warned by the media in large-font capitals: "Obesity UK:It's Worse than Feared"(Daily Mail) "Hidden Calories Fuelling Obesity" (The Telegraph)  "Stop Your Kids From Eating Crisps" (Daily Mirror)  It's enough to drive you to food. For a brief spell during my first year at university, I worked in McDonalds. They do something really clever by the way - they make it warmer near the till so when you order and they say "Would you like a drink with that?" you've reached a keen thirst and say yes: it's where they

So for perhaps the eighth time this year, I've started a diet. Today is Day 2 on my journey towards my dream figure and believe me, that's an achievement in itself. It's not a coincidence that the first three letters are DIE. Trying to lose the weight is killing me. I've tried SlimFast, cabbage soup, the Atkins, the 5 to 2, WeightWatchers, the grapefruit diet. I don't need celebrity endorsement, if it's going to fight the fat, I'll give it a go. The most successful diets for me show results FAST. If I get to Day 3 (if I make it that far) and haven't noticed a difference in the snugness of clothes or the digital scales being kinder to me, I get despondent and then I stuff my face with anything and everything I can lay my hands on. I'm using Diet Fuel - a vanilla-flavoured shake - and exercise to achieve my weight loss this time round. I've access to a gym as anyone who's read my previous blogs may be aware. I've had a PT session wi

I don't drink. It's not a religious thing, nor a lifestyle choice. I just don't particularly like the taste of alcohol. I seem to have developed some kind of allergy to it - headaches and vomiting are the main symptoms - so it's easier to avoid it altogether. It's not that I haven't drunk. I think it's fair to say I've persevered over the years, trying to find the right tipple. But as these forays into fermentation have resulted in more than a few memorable, and a couple not so memorable occasions, I tend to give it a miss. One fantastic summer when I was in my teens, a group of us would spend the evenings sitting on the grass outside a local hostelry. My favourite drink at that time was Pernod and Black. Armed with a pint of cider, a pint of lager and some spare glasses, we would create Snakebite and Black with a Pernod twist, and have a jolly (and frugal) time sharing. I've always loved the taste of aniseed, but I have to say, it's far bett

For the first time in pretty much a year, my children have slept in past stupid o'clock. All thanks to British Summer Time and the clocks springing forward. I wasn't aware they had achieved this as I stumbled around our kitchen executing chores with the efficiency of the working mother. Our clocks still read the old time so it wasn't until I switched on my vowel-phone that I was aware of the miracle. As household timekeeper (by which I mean the one who harangues the family until they're out the door, and has taken to bringing deadlines forward by 15 minutes just to get to dates more or less on time), it falls to me to change the clocks. I'd forgotten just how many we have. The longer, lighter skies bring their own challenges. It's this time of the year that we rediscover how ineffective black-out curtains are. We'll have a few mornings of panic, when we think we've overslept because it's so bright outside. But we're also heading towards the B

Mental health problems can be a killer... literally. Anger, anxiety, bipolar disorder, depression, hypomania, loneliness, OCD, phobias, stress, there's an antonym for most letters of the alphabet. There's probably medication and therapy for the vast majority of the A-Z spectrum too. If you had to describe mental heath illness as an affliction of the senses, how would you do it? A throat-ripping scream, reminiscent of a Munch painting of the same name? A searing pain throughout your head and body that rendered you immobile? A cacophony that left you disorientated and frightened, flinching at any and everything? An all-consuming darkness or deep scoring across a surface? The ripeness of purification? Mental heath illness affects people in many different ways. It can be caused by any number of factors, and what affects you may seem trivial to someone else. Never, ever, utter the words "pull yourself together" or "you'll be OK" to someone who is

It's funny how hearing a specific song can transport you to a time, place and company from your past. Take Smells Like Teen Spirit - Nevermind was a seminal album for me, reminiscent of having passed my driving test and driving my first car (a navy blue mini christened Sebastian after the lead singer of Skid Row), my first proper boyfriend (who I won't name) and my eager steps into adulthood (the last two are NOT related by the way). James' Sit Down, always played (several times) at any after-lesson gathering of more than four boarders at our all-girls' school, played no fewer than five times at our sixth form prom. I can practically guarantee that still none of them knows more than the chorus. Then there's I Believe in a Thing Called Love - the birth of man rock sung by the gorgeous Justin, a genre like the best bits of Queen, Kiss and Kate Bush rolled together - a time when I met my husband, father of my children who will never be seen in a Lycra jumpsuit. I

When I was younger, I got on better with boys. I was at an all girls' school from the age of seven until I left post A-levels - a convent school at that (no smuttiness, please) - but the straight-forward say-it-as-it-is nature of boys appealed more than the cliquishness and bitching of my female peers. I wasn't a tart, I was an honourary lad, with the "gang" name of Keith (a passing reference to The Prodigy although I didn't have facial studs or a Mohican then, and I don't have them now). As I got older, my circle changed and with the exception of my husband, my friends are all women. They don't have much in common except me, but they are amazing, a force majeure every one of them. Meet them... The Old Timer We've known each other for more than half our lives. We bonded over Crispbreads and Chaucer. Our lives have run similar courses, at more or less the same time, even when we've been out of touch. She's the one people think is my sister,

It's a strange phenomenon, dieting. No other time do you have the ah... sod it! approach when things go a little astray. If you're driving your car when the vehicle in front throws up a stone which chips your windscreen, do you stop the car, get out and take a shoe to it, smashing it too smithereens? No, you bemoan the damage and thank a greater being that it's out of the MOT-failure radius. If you're applying your makeup and sneeze, and end up rocking the panda look, do you slather lipstick and eye shadow on 'til you resemble a Picasso? No, you carefully remove the excess with a cotton wool bud and carry on. So why is it, when you break a diet, you throw your toys out the pram and binge, binge, binge? When you step off the scales, those soul-crushing, hope-bashing scales, with the newly affirmed knowledge that despite increased exercise and self-deprivation, you've gained instead of lost, does temptation win? Why is it that if you sneak a chip or two

I've seen them at the school gates and I've envied them. I've wanted to be like them. They drop off their children, congregate by their fleet of beautiful cars organising coffee dates/post gym lunches/drinks with the girls and never inviting me. They ski in winter and head to their other home, usually in the south of France or Florida, for the summer holiday. I'm not part of the clique. Because I'm so not a yummy mummy. The brigade operates to a strict hierarchy: Turnout - a beautifully turn out is essential. Marks are awarded for full makeup, with points deducted for sloppy application. A blow-dried coiffure is preferred, although neatly tied back in a colour-coordinated band is acceptable if you're off to the gym, but MUST be accompanied by designer gym attire and a commitment to hot yoga. Designer clothes should be recognisable but not label emblazoned and jewellery should be ostentatious enough to raise questions of whether or not it's a real diamo

I'm aging disgracefully, it would appear. I'm only 43 but I feel I'm falling apart. The worst thing by far is my hair. When I was younger, I had thick, glossy locks, in a stunning array of colours. If you looked it up on a Loreal Colour Chart, it would be a unique combination of French Roast, Crushed Garnet, Espresso, Hot Toffee and Sparkling Amber. My locks are still thick, and still an array of colours. Now however, it's more dove grey, silver grey, gun grey, pearl grey and midnight grey. It's threaded throughout my hair so there's no high or low light that can address the tresses - it's a full block colour job that's required. I knew it was bad when my 4-year old said (yes, a from-the-mouth-of-babes moment): "Mummy, your hair is beautiful, but why do you have that grey band at the top?" That was weeks ago, and frankly I'm past the point of styling it out - I can no longer say I'm rocking an Ombre. My hairdresser Ian can accur

My brain doesn't like to be quiet. Most of the time, it's working away consciously as well as subconsciously. It particularly likes to be active when I'm trying to sleep, analysing events from the immediate and long-term past. It's a pest. I consider myself extremely lucky. Can you even begin to imagine how difficult life would be if you had suffered a catastrophic brain injury? Normally, I like to post self-deprecating, tongue-in-cheek content but today I'm getting serious. Bear with... This post has been inspired by a BBC programme I watched during last night's insomnia, entitled My Injured Brain . It also draws on painful personal experience. On 22 May, it will be 20 years since my dad survived a fall which almost killed him. He survived, but life changed with immediate effect. He suffered a subdural haemorrhage, a brain bleed that has profoundly affected his independence, mobility, cognitive ability, strength, and senses. He also shattered his

Ike and Tina had it wrong. It doesn't take two - it takes just one. One person to believe in you, one opportunity to achieve your dreams, one moment in the spotlight. If you need convincing, read on. Elizabeth I: move over Scary, Ginger, Baby, Posh and Sporty, she's the original girl power babe Madonna, Prince, Adele, Drake, Moby... the mono-moniker is on-trend and increasingly being adopted by formerly two-tagged celebs Coco Chanel: legendary designer who transformed fashion, famous singleton Elvis Presley (OK, I know he had a twin brother, but Jesse was sadly stillborn): only child and holder of a number of world records Sure, there are myriad pairings, groups and mobs that have their place in history, but frankly name checking them doesn't fit with my theme.  My point is this - it isn't necessary to have many, sometimes all you need is one. One chance, one more time, one vision, one night in Bangkok, one minute warning. And when it's The One,

Breaking up is hard to do. Realising it's time to leave is brutal... days, weeks, months even, of hanging on in there, hoping it will get better. Living through this process leaves you emotionally bruised and the collateral damage to self esteem is widespread, no matter how long you've known it's time to part ways. You are entitled to grieve for any relationship and here's my take on the seven stages you're likely to go through, and suggestions on how to survive them.  I like to call it the seven steps to salvation.  Step 1 - WHY? You'll tie yourself in knots wanting to determine why this has happened, and who's to blame? Welcome to irrationality. Anticipate continued over analysis of who said and did what and why, with the odd sprinkling of clarity - the first step is a boomerang of relief and disbelief. It's usually at this stage you become boring, wanting to discuss the subject endlessly with anyone and everyone, obsessing about

I want my children to remember their childhood fondly, and I want to make every day as special as I can. Now, every family has its ups and downs (doesn't it?), but one day that should be like no other is a birthday. I'm too old to enjoy birthdays - one step closer to retirement is one step closer to death after all - but there's great excitement in our house as we approach micro-me's 5th and mini-me's 8th. The first challenge is getting over the shock. Where has the time gone? Did I really make these incredible girls? Who the hell left me in charge of them? But to be fair, that's pretty much a daily inner convo for me, usually accompanied by Whose great idea was it to have children? The second challenge is to set a theme. As a professional creative, I like to capture an idea and run with it. That is more pleasure than challenge - but persuading my children to settle on a single idea and not change it every second sentence is like nailing jelly to a wall. H

I've popped my Pilates cherry. For years, I've wanted to give it a try and I'm thrilled to say I've done it. What I hadn't anticipated was how intimate Pilates could be. The most delightful lady led the class - a diminutive Italian who made me feel like Shrek in comparison - very hands on. As we engaged our core she, with the help of hand gestures, showed us which (ahem) internal muscles were being used. Once I was fully engaged (I knew those pelvic floor exercises would come in useful for more than being stuck in traffic), my chest open and my shoulders back, making a shape a Flamenco dancer would envy, we began. I'm not overly confident and as the only newbie in the class (I could feel the others groan at the thought I might slow them down), I felt I was best at the back. One disadvantage was that, once on my mat, I couldn't see what I was supposed to be doing unless I moved my head out of position. Another was that, every which way I turned I was trea

Now then, now then, this won't be a bad taste blog, but it will be about food... and the consequences. I've always been a feeder. I get great pleasure from feeding anyone that steps foot into my home. The trouble is, I'm also an eater. Since puberty, I've battled my weight. I'm not meant to be skinny and I'm not built for speed - that's my position on the matter and I'm sticking to it. I've decided to swap my serotonin source from chocolate to exercise. Not only will this be better for my figure, but I have it on very good authority that the more I exercise, the more I can eat. So squeezed into Lycra and looking a bit like a badly made sausage roll, I've taken advantage of my dear friend's gym membership and taken the plunge. I've not been in a gym since I worked for a certain Dragon of Scottish descent. Even then, I was firmly behind the counter. My point? This is a huge step. Dear lord, why would anyone think that people who cle

I'm not a Buddhist (Roman Catholic actually), but I do believe in Karma. I'm not suggesting a Jules-type "great vengeance and furious anger", but I'm firmly of the opinion that if you're prepared to wait, the deeds and misdeeds you're served will be visited upon the perpetrator. I've seen some cracking revenge tactics in my time. I elaborate here only to demonstrate how original they were, and their replication in this blog in no way constitutes my endorsement of any of these methods as a way of getting even, or for any other reason. Recipe 1 Ingredients: deep pile carpet (preferably light coloured), water, mustard cress seeds Process: liberally douse carpet with water. Sow seeds. Put central heating on max. Leave. Recipe 2 Ingredients: car, fish food flavouring Process: locate car air intake, add fish food flavouring. Leave. Recipe 3 Ingredients: car, brake fluid, paint brush Process: load paint brush with brake fluid. Be

I'm doing some life laundry. And I'd recommend it. There's something cathartic about binning off the waste - and I don't mean recycling - ridding yourself of the detritus you've accumulated in life. There's one sure-fire way of working out what's worth keeping: what value does it add to your life? Here's some badly-drawn flow diagrams to help you apply this process for a quick and oh-so-satisfying declutter. Clothes Knick-knacks People I've gone through the grot and it's ready for the tip. It's been a satisfying day.

This isn't happening, Dale. We're not here. It's just a bad dream. It's two years now since my first visit to the planet Mongo  and my encounter with the evil Emperor Bring Your Uterus. The Ruler of the Universe saw fit to bestow tumours on my ovaries and so, one laparoscopy and a bilateral salpingo-oophorectomy later, and Flush was alive! To misquote Prince Vultan, it's one hell of a planet the menopause comes from. Mine's medical, but irrespective, the symptoms are merciless. I'm in my early 40s and have pretty much a full house of symptoms: insomnia; fatigue; irritability; night sweats; but by far the worst are the hot flushes. I'm not alone - around 75% of women suffer - and actually, my family suffers too. I can be found peering through the window at family gatherings, as I stand outside barefoot and partially clad in all weathers, trying to cool down. My husband will be in several layers, huddled under a 25 Tog duvet, while I'm laying o