Holidaying abroad - will it be worth it in the end?

With two days left of our Welsh holiday this summer, I was cooped up in Merlin's soft play centre just off the Haverfordwest bypass, with rain lashing down outside, children sweaty and hyperactive, and I took advantage of the free wifi to look at holidays in the sun for next summer.

Five minutes later, quite unexpectedly, I had actually booked a holiday, and not for next summer, but for the next half-term holiday.

For admirable but annoying environmental reasons, Tom hasn't allowed us to leave the country (by aeroplane at least) for seven years.  So these were the hasty actions of a woman on the edge - an environmental rebel.  And in just two months' time we would be leaving on a jet plane!

I then had to break the news to Tom, who was at that moment squeezing through a tunnel  full of dirty coloured balls, five metres above my head, being jeered at by a bunch of eight year olds, while in pursuit of Dolly.

Once he was safely back down on ground level and drinking a Fruit Shoot, I nervously told him that I had just booked us all a holiday to Mallorca.

He took it surprisingly well, after all, I had spent a few rainy summers regularly pointing out the unfairness of inflicting his self-denying principle on the rest of us - plus I think the Fruit Shoot had gone to his head, and he would have agreed to anything.

So we leave this Wednesday, and now I feel like my head is going to explode with all the things that I've got to do, coupled with the worry that Gove might fine us for daring to take our kids out of school for a couple of days.

International travel - and school rules, come to that - and the passport application process, thinking about it - have all changed a lot in seven years, particularly when you opt to fly with a budget airline. Gone are the days when you would simply book your holiday and get sent a ticket in the post, and pack whatever the heck sized bag you wanted with virtually anything in it.

You now have to do EVERYTHING yourself.  They don't even check you in at the airport any more - you have to do it online and print your own boarding passes, insurance documents, flight confirmation, car hire vouchers, accommodation vouchers, car parking vouchers, toilet vouchers... I'm half expecting that we're going to have to fly the bloody plane as well.

You seriously need to have your wits about you, particularly if you are taking hand luggage only.  In hindsight we should have paid the extra £60 to have a much larger suitcase in the hold, but I couldn't get over the fact that it would have cost more for my suitcase to travel than for me - so we're stuck with these miniature bags.

I've spent most of the day worrying about things like making sure all finger and toe nails are cut (no scissors allowed on flight), finding a lightweight hand bag that I can squash into my mini suitcase, buying zipped 20cm x 20cm freezer bags (heaven forbid if the bag doesn't have a zip) and tiny shampoo and toothpaste, and powdered Calpol. The whole experience is an uncomfortable mixture of irritating and surreal.

We're going to look like a family of fat giants, wearing dozens of layers of clothes at the airport (in order to keep below the 10kg weight restrictions on the bags) and carrying our tiny bags.

And there's a good chance we are going to have a really smelly week with one towel and a tiny bottle of shampoo for the whole family, plus Tom and I have no choice but to share a deodorant.  Honestly, anyone would think that they don't want us to leave the country.

Still, the excitement of digging out sun hats and flip flops, and the smell of the sun cream as I squeeze it into several 100ml plastic bottles from Primark, on this dark and wet October afternoon in Blighty, is almost too much for me.

As long as the sun shines, it will be worth it. I just hope we don't spend the week hankering after our old and trusted (and logistically straightforward) friend, Wales.

My musical career hangs in the balance...

Tom is on guitar

My husband Tom is a very talented musician, and he plays guitar and keyboard (sometimes simultaneously) in a band. 

The band is mainly made up of other dads from Betty and Dolly's school, who are also very talented. And I am their self-appointed manager, because it makes me sound important and musical.

However, I know absolutely nothing about music, apart from that I like anything produced in the eighties/early nineties ... and James Blunt (although Tom has told me that I should never admit to this). 

Despite not having a musical bone in my body, I did write them a song once.  But this came about because I told them that all their songs were quite depressing and dark, and so they told me to go off and write them a happy song. 

I very quickly realised that writing about turmoil and tragedy is much easier, and my song turned out to be the most depressing of all. They were kind enough to put some music to it and they even performed it a couple of times in the early days, once in my sitting room, and once at the school fete. 

Being their manager involves listening to them rehearse in my sitting room every Tuesday night, drinking beer, throwing the odd wasabi pea their way, updating their Facebook and Twitter pages, and animatedly mouthing along to the songs, while fantasising that I am actually the lead singer. 

I once told them that I love singing, but that I am totally tone deaf. At that time they were desperate for a female singer, and so told me that anyone can sing with a bit of practice, and persuaded me to give it a shot. So after half a bottle of wine, I had a go at singing along.  I was never invited to sing with them again. 

But recently they set me the task of getting them a gig.  And after an awkward conversation with a pub landlord about what sort of band they were (I didn't know), I managed to get them a gig in a tapas bar.

And it turned out to be a great success, and I of course tried to take all the credit.  Now feeling like I had earned my title of manager, at the end of the night while they were packing up, I went and sat with them, and said: 

'So guys, how do you think it went?' And 'What do you think you could have done better?'

I then congratulated them, and gave them each a high five. Tom later said I sounded like a football manager doing a post-match debrief in the changing rooms.

Anyway since that night, the band seem to be taking me a little more seriously. And I am now even getting copied in on their email conversations about recording dates, and future gigs, and needing a new drummer.... so, if you know of anyone...

Breast Cancer Awareness Month: help save lives

Breast cancer is the most commonly diagnosed cancer in the UK, and every month 1000 women die from the disease.  I know quite a few ladies who have been diagnosed, and undergone treatment, and mastectomies, and reconstructive surgery, and one amazing lady who died.

I am terrified of getting breast cancer, so terrified that I very rarely check myself for the signs, for fear of finding something.  And on the odd occasion that I have checked, it has been a very quick and approximate prod around while in the shower.

My approach is completely wrong and irresponsible, but I know that I am not alone.  Which is why Breast Cancer Awareness Month and the campaigns that Breakthrough Breast Cancer are currently running are so important.

They want to remind women that knowing their own bodies could save their lives. We just need to follow TLC: Touch, Look, Check. The earlier breast cancer is found the better the chances of beating it – which is why it is vital that women make regular checks.

You can also get involved this month by joining in with their first-ever Great Pink Bake Off (which is this Friday 18th October), or by purchasing one of the fantastic exclusive pink products from leading brands that include AVON, M&S, ghd and many more.

Breakthrough Breast Cancer's work has never been more important. They are leading the way in discovering new treatments, improving diagnosis and identifying ways to prevent breast cancer from developing at all.

Please take a look at their website, to see how you can raise awareness, raise money for vital research, and help save lives.

Coming out!

The view from here

A friend recently asked me why exactly I keep my location a secret on this blog, and at the very least I could perhaps mention which county I live in.

And I guess she is right.  Herefordshire is quite big, and so I don't think any potential stalker would be able to track me down with that still quite vague bit of information.

So there you have it, I live in Herefordshire - with the cattle, the lovely cider, and the rolling hills.

Tom and I moved here from London exactly ten years ago, and although we have never regretted it, I do sometimes miss city living.

But, it is all go here this week - because we have h.Energy - Sustainable Herefordshire Week - something which I am very proud to be working for.  

There are over 120 events all around the county: open eco homes, community food projects, loads of events for kids, renewable energy advice, pub quizzes, nature walks, a giant water-powered cuckoo clock and lots more!

A friend of mine wrote a great piece about h.Energy for the Guardian this week.

So if you live nearby, do check out some of the events - this week Herefordshire is the place to be!

The modern couple, working in the countryside...

Yesterday, with the kids safely installed in school and our rural internet on the blink again, Tom and I decided to be very modern, and do a bit of work from our favourite cafe in town.

Amazingly (for it was market day and so very busy) there was a space between two cars right outside the cafe. Tom confidently pulled up alongside the car he was going to park behind, and told me that if there was one thing he could do in this world, it was reverse park.

I was quick to tell him that he was not close enough to the parked car, to be able to reverse in tight next to the kerb.  He laughed at me and told me I was deliberately trying to put him off, and again told me of his reverse parking expertise.

So he dramatically, and a little bit cockily, began backing into the space.  He got half way in and suddenly stopped, announcing that the space was too small.  I told him it wasn't.  He asked me to get out and watch he didn't bash the car behind.

Meanwhile the 17 year old boy-racer who works in the butchers shop opposite was standing outside having a fag, and staring.

Tom finally got into the space without hitting any cars, and as proud as punch, he turned the engine off.  But he was a good metre from the kerb.  And he was genuinely surprised when I pointed this out to him.

So he turned the engine back on, and after a lot of to-ing and fro-ing, and holding up lorries and farm vehicles, he once again turned the engine off, convinced he had executed the perfect reverse park manoeuvre.  He was exactly parallel with the kerb, but was now a metre and a half away from it.

The boy-racer was still standing there, but now he had his boss next to him, both smirking.

Feeling that our family honour was at stake, I shouted through the window for Tom to get out and that I would park the bloody car myself.

I jumped in, revved the engine in a boy-racer-esque manner (to show the butchers that I knew what I was doing) and hastily accelerated out of the space.

As I was doing so, I loudly scraped the side of our car against a nearby post. And as if I hadn't noticed, Tom called through the window, telling me I'd just scraped the car, a little too breezily for my liking.

By then, queues of cars had gathered in both directions. I yelled at Tom to get in - he uselessly called out: 'What? Into the car?'   A farmer then approached, carrying a sheepdog under his arm, and asked if we needed help.

We were both crippled with embarrassment at this point.  In his haste to get in quickly, Tom sat on my iPad.

I (accidentally) did a little wheel spin as I drove off far away from that space, and the post I had just scraped, and the gawping butchers.  We went to the big empty car park instead (where we parked with ease) to assess the damage.  Then we decided to drive home.

Sushi birthday cake envy, and mummy failure

When this photo of a sushi birthday cake popped up on my Facebook timeline, I was completely blown away, but also a bit gutted.

My friend made this cake, at her son's request, for his seventh birthday - a seven year old even knowing what sushi is, let alone 'loving it' is an extraordinary thing in itself.

I thought my kids had sophisticated palettes for liking olives and pesto.

Anyway, Lizzie, my sushi caking-making friend, told me it took her six months to think about but, amazingly, only about two hours to make - which included skinning turkish delight bars for tuna, chopping the tops off macaroons for the rice, and cutting a kinder egg in half with a warm knife and filling it with melted chocolate for the soy sauce.  Who would have thought?

Unsurprisingly, birthday boy was very happy, and insisted on eating the cake with the chopsticks!

But for me, seeing this creation has made me feel particularly inferior, because although I have always enjoyed a bit of a cake challenge, for Dolly's last birthday I was feeling a bit lazy, and really let things slip.

Despite Dolly asking for a rabbit cake, I took decisions into my own hands and ordered a personalised ricepaper cake topper of Ben and Holly from eBay.  I convinced myself that she would marvel at seeing her name and age printed above Gaston's head, and the rabbit idea would be forgotten.

But the night before her birthday, I opened up the envelope containing the topper, and was horrified to discover that they had printed the wrong age.  And not only that, but also it was way too big for the cake that I had just got out of the oven.

Despite my best efforts with scissors and icing pens to rectify the situation, the cake looked a mess.  But I clung to the hope that a four-year-old wouldn't notice the cock-ups, or the fact that it wasn't a rabbit, and be thrilled with it.

When Dolly saw the cake, she was literally speechless, and not in a good way.  And I have lived with the guilt ever since.  Every so often she quietly says to me: 'But I just wanted a rabbit cake for my birthday.'

So when I see creations such as this masterpiece, it makes me inch ever closer to feeling like a bit of a failure.

The Big Feastival 2013

Last weekend we went to Jamie Oliver's Big Feastival, which was held on Alex James' farm in the Cotswolds.

We take Betty and Dolly to Jamie's Italian quite a lot, and so they knew all about Jamie and his fabulous food (particularly the polenta chips), and were very excited about going to his 'festibal.'

There was a field dedicated to families/kids called Little Dudes Den, and they had craft activities, trampolines, drama workshops, food-making, story-telling, painting, singing, and most importantly, the vintage funfair!

Thanks to my girls, I became very familiar with the Swing Seats and the Big Wheel - and although terrified as we swung around right at the top waiting for people to get on at the bottom, my children giggling at my pathetic-ness, I secretly really enjoyed it.

But my absolute favourite thing had to be the old London Taxi which had been converted into a photo booth.   You had to make yourself look really silly using the big box of dressing up clothes, silly glasses, wigs, masks etc, then jump into the cab, pull some poses while the camera snapped you three times, and then you were presented with the photos immediately!  I might even consider having a 40th party just so that I can hire this taxi!

Jools Oliver had her fabulous Little Bird collection on sale, and in the afternoon they put on a very cute show, where lots of little people modeled the latest collection. And Jools' two eldest daughters Poppy and Daisy presented her with a cake to mark Little Bird's first birthday.

During the day we ate lots of yummy food, including truly delicious meatballs from street food truck The Bowler, and Alex's cheese, we drank Doom Bar, and we listened to music.

The sun shone, we escorted the girls around in a trolley, and we all had a really great time!

Starting school: the end of an era

We dropped off our youngest daughter Dolly for her first day at primary school this morning.

She was really excited to be going, as was her sister, who is about to start in Year 2.  And yesterday I was also pretty thrilled about the prospect of not having to listen to them wind each other up, squabble, and yell at each other.  Today though, I am an emotional wreck. The mixture of freedom and empty nest syndrome is really disorienting.

Until now I have been able to distract myself by concentrating on practical matters. I tried so hard to make Dolly look presentable for her first day.  Last night, I even had fleeting thoughts about getting the ironing board out.  

Off she proudly tottered, toothpaste splattered all over her sweatshirt, a dress that was far too short (she must have suddenly grown without me noticing) and looking a bit creased.

Laden down with her book bag, PE kit and lunch box, which she insisted on carrying herself, she went and sat herself down on a classroom mat with her name on it.  She was looking at the interactive whiteboard as if to say, well come on then, let’s get on with it.

Tom and I were feeling teary and strange, so we went and treated ourselves to a big fry-up and cappuccino.

On the way home Tom wanted to go to the school to see if Dolly was ok, but I managed to stop him – the teachers would think he was nuts, and Dolly wouldn’t thank him for it.

I have spent the last seven years, since my eldest was born, looking after my babies: cooking, crafting, tidying, laughing, crying, lunching, and dragging them round Sainsburys.

So this really does feel like the end of an era, and if there was ever a time that I felt broody, it is right now…

This post was written for BabyCentre.

The world’s worst game of hide and seek

Hunting for Dolly’s comforter has become an almost daily nightmare. There is a particular tone of voice that gets used for ‘I can’t find Rabbit' ('Ducky' in Betty's case), which chills both Tom and I to the bone. There is something absolutely excruciating about looking for what is effectively a rag, but also so precious to my children that they can’t bear to be without it, though not quite precious enough for them to keep safe.

Last night’s search for Rabbit was particularly fraught since it was the second time it had happened.  Betty’s school play had been due to start (she was supposed to be a medieval villager but looked more like a Turkish fortune teller) at the precise moment when the first rabbit loss had taken place. We managed to find it in time, but all I could think about, while sitting there trying to make sense of Betty’s headgear, and conceal my sweat patches, was a cool glass of cider.

When we got home from the school, Tom waltzed off to Tai Chi and I was confronted with yet another loss of the rabbit - and it was well past the girls' bedtime.  Desperate for some peace, I frantically searched the house and garden.   I still hadn’t had my cider, I was hot and tired, and it all became too much for me, so I decided to burst into tears. Soon Dolly joined in.

For a while Betty tried to keep the peace. She offered to draw some pictures of the rabbit and make some posters to stick on trees to see if anyone had seen it, offering a reward.  I momentarily stopped crying to give her a hug, and tell her gently that I didn’t think that this would help, then I started crying again, which made Betty cry.

I was about to phone Tom and tell him to haul himself away from his yin yang fish sequence and get home and help me, when I suddenly unearthed the rabbit from under a red cushion, where Dolly had left it for safekeeping after the first rabbit hunt. We laughed through our tears, so it was a nice moment, but my god was it hard-won.

Later that evening Tom was about to get into bed when he started yelling about cramp so bad that it ‘felt like a torn muscle’. As I watched him hopping around the room, grimacing like a fatally wounded frog, I heard a little voice through the monitor saying: ‘I can’t find Ducky.’

Dolly takes on Emeli Sande

I have been listening to Emeli Sande's album a lot in the car recently, and Dolly never fails to give me a running commentary on what she thinks of her, from the back seat.

Here are a few examples:

Emeli:   How you ever gonna find the sea?

Dolly:    That's easy - I have found the sea lots of times!

Emeli:   I'll move the mountains for you
Dolly:    That's very naughty of her to move mountains, isn't it Mummy. She shouldn't be doing that.

Emeli:   I'll be your river

Dolly:    She can't be a river, she's a lady. Why does she think she is a river? Silly lady!

Emeli:   I'll be your clown

Dolly:    I don't like clowns

Emeli:   I wanna sing, I wanna shout, I wanna scream til the words dry out

Dolly:   But she is singing. And she's shouting too. Why does she think she's not?

Emeli:   At night we're waking up the neighbours...

Dolly:    That's not very nice - poor neighbours - they must be tired

Emeli:   Then we're breaking all the rules

Dolly:    It's very naughty that she's breaking all the rules - I don't break the rules, I am good

I fear for Emeli Sande if she were ever to meet Dolly...

Rapunzel turns four

Rapunzel on the stepping stones

Dolly celebrated her fourth birthday on Monday.

The day before she matter-of-factly told me: 'Mum, you didn't hide my shiny balloons in a very sensible place did you?'  And then casually sauntered off, singing Emeli Sande's latest song.

She was absolutely right.  In a fluster, I had absent-mindedly hid her birthday balloons in the toy cupboard.

She spent the day itself in a Rapunzel dress and long plait, a present from Grandpa, which she proudly wore all day.

Her outfit was very in keeping with the castle that we visited to celebrate her birthday.  And when we came across a Rapunzel-type tower that you could actually climb, it was just the best thing in the world.  She dangled her plait through the bars of the window and yelled to her prince (me) below.

After a very action-packed day, that night, while I was putting her to bed, I went through all the things we had done; a smoked salmon breakfast, a picnic lunch in the grounds of a 'fairytale' castle, a visit to granny, party games, a birthday tea, and lots of presents.

I asked her what her favourite part of the day was, and she replied: 'Seeing my chickens.'  (Tom told me later that watching Rapunzel carefully carrying a chicken around the garden 'made him redefine cute'.)

And the fabulous personalised book I had got made for her: 'Dolly The Pirate Princess' lay unwanted and cast aside in the corner of her bedroom: 'I hate pirates Mum, why did you get me this?'

Living with Dolly, one has to develop a hard shell and have nerves of steel.

Our wonderful daughter Dolly, is a strong-willed, hilarious, generous, sometimes very naughty, and gorgeous, four-year-old.

Dolly, you continue to rock our world, and we love you so very very much.  Happy fourth birthday!

'You will never be as good as me'

Betty playing

This morning I was in the shower, happily contemplating what I was going to have for breakfast, when Betty came bounding in and said: 'Come on Mummy, hurry up, I've GOT to give you your piano lesson before school.'

'But what about breakfast?' I pleaded.  'No time,' she replied with total seriousness.

Last night Betty was appalled to learn that unlike her very talented Dad, I didn't know a single note on the piano, and apart from Chopsticks (which I distinctly remember Betty being pretty impressed with when she was two, although she will not admit to it now) I am clueless.

So she sat me down after dinner, and told me that she was going to teach me.  'Can't you just play to me while I like stuff on Instagram?' I asked.  She looked appalled.

She then whipped out a piano lesson book and told me that because of my lack of knowledge, we would have to start right from the beginning.  'I finished this book AGES ago,' she informed me.

In her teacher voice, she explained a bit of the theory, and bamboozled me with talk of minims, fermatas and mordents. I nodded in agreement at it all, but didn't have a clue what she was talking about.  I felt pretty unnerved when she told me that she would test my theory in a couple of weeks time.

Then we got started with the actual playing.  Betty told me to sit with my back straight and find Middle C.  'Middle what?'

After a slightly shaky start, and a lot of encouragement from my very determined six-year-old, we soon got going.  And within half an hour she had me proudly belting out tunes with my right hand, using C, D, E, F, and G.   I can now play Jelly On A Plate, and Mary Had A Little lamb.

She told me that even though I got stuck on some of the notes, I had been 'fantastic' and 'brilliant' in my first lesson and that soon I might be good enough to hold a little concert for Daddy and Dolly.   But she also told me that no amount of lessons or practice would ever make me as good as her.  And I don't doubt her for a second.

Viva Spanish singing!

Last summer was a complete wash-out, but it didn't stop us from doing a heck of a lot of camping in Wales, in our newly acquired bell tent.

Looking back, I think we must have been completely mad.  But I clearly remember a conversation Tom and I had right at the end of the summer holidays.  It was 3 o'clock in the morning, the wind was beating our tent like a sail, the rain thrashed down and we had soggy duvets.  We decided that the next year we would definitely go further afield and find some sun.  

With Betty learning Spanish at school, and loving it, she was adamant that we must go to Spain.  And who were we to argue?  So this year we are taking our beloved bell tent and getting the overnight ferry to Santander.  This will be Dolly's first time abroad (if you don't count Wales) and Betty's second time.  There will be much excitement when our ship sets sail.

In addition to Betty learning Spanish at school, we are also lucky enough to have a friend, Caroline Nelson, who is a completely inspirational teacher specialising in teaching children Spanish between the ages of 3 and 8 - perfect for Dolly and Betty.

She has given us two books with CDs that she has written and produced - Viva, Sing Spanish!  And my girls absolutely LOVE them.  Most mornings we have Caroline and her beautiful singing voice blasting out of the stereo and my girls wholeheartedly singing along.

They have so far learnt greetings, common questions, counting, colours, animals, days of the week, months and the weather. I have found it quite astounding how much they have both picked up.  And I, someone who can't speak a word of any language (apart from counting to five in Welsh), have also become rather good.

Caroline says: 'Singing in a foreign language is a fantastic way of learning single words and whole phrases in context. The combination of custom written songs and catchy tunes means that your child will learn quickly and easily.'  And I can certainly vouch for that. Please do check out Caroline's website - she comes with a huge recommendation from us. 

http://www.espanaviva.biz/books.html

I am really excited about trying out my newly acquired Spanish skills in Spain this summer.  It will be so nice to actually have some basic conversation, rather than doing my usual ignorant Brit act and getting annoyed when foreigners don't speak English...

Were you in intensive care with your baby?

My friend (who is a writer and poet) had a deeply emotional experience in an intensive care unit with her grandson Josh, and is asking other parents and grandparents to share their own experiences. She intends to publish a book so any ideas for contributions are very welcome.

Here's her story:

In September last year my son and his wife had twin boys who were born prematurely.  Both were doing fine for the first week. Then, quite suddenly, Josh - the first born - choked on his milk and arrested.  He was revived and taken into intensive care.  We took turns sitting with him – he seemed to be hanging on to life by a thread.  No fight in him.

The nurses said, “talk to him”. They said the same to the other parents and grandparents who were sitting by their incubators – but none of us knew what to say. We were all demented with worry – and the dimly lit, high-tech IC environment with its incessant ‘beeps’ and alarms, seemed to render us speechless.  When our own words dried up, we tried reading children’s books to Josh - but they seemed inappropriate. 

We practically lived in this “no-comfort” zone for several spirit-sapping weeks until, at last, Josh was well enough to be taken home.

When we’d all recovered a bit my daughter suggested that we - me and my three daughters - produce a book of stories and poems to provide comfort to parents and grandparents who have to spend time on IC wards. That’s what we are doing - and we intend to publish.  

If you have spent time with a baby in intensive care, please send us your story. Tell us what kept you sane; how you kept hope alive; what you said or read to your babies or wished you had read or said to your babies; how you managed to celebrate a life that might, slip away at any moment. 

We really want to hear from you.

Please send to - Shirley Garner : shir1951@aol.com

Betty's first ever sleepover

Items needed for a sleepover

Betty has been talking about going on a sleepover for as long as I can remember, and I have always nervously laughed it off, telling her that she had to wait until she was six (an age that seemed so old, when she was two).

She was six in November, and so a few weeks ago she went on her first ever sleepover. There was quite a lot of preparation involved, and Tom reckons he overheard Betty and her friend conferring about a giant midnight lollipop.

On the morning of the sleepover, Betty and I packed her little overnight bag together. I (uncharacteristically) ironed her best pyjamas, gave her flannel a good wash, and supplied her with a new toothbrush. I gave her a pep talk about manners, and reminded her to wipe her bottom properly (at which she was appalled), wash her hands with soap, and put her pyjamas on the right way round.

Betty asked if she could take some sweets for a midnight feast, and I had to give this considerable thought. Would her friend’s mum think me a bad mother, knowingly allowing my child to eat sweets in bed? Or would she think that I was fun and cool and exciting? I decided to let Betty take the sweets.

We were all set. And then Betty suddenly got a little teary and said: “I am just not sure how many kisses I should give you when we say goodbye, because I won’t be able to kiss you at bedtime.”

I welled up and swallowed hard, telling Betty that I had suddenly got something stuck in my eye and my throat. I then told her that if she wanted to come home at any point she could just ring me and I would come straight over.

Betty quickly perked up when she saw her friend, and cheerily waved me goodbye, almost forgetting to give me a kiss at all.

The house felt very strange and quiet that night. I phoned Betty at bedtime, but she was too busy watching a film to speak to me.

However, although she had a wonderful time, I learned that she had had a bit of a cry before she went to sleep. It broke my heart to think of her feeling sad and me not being there, but I was also reassured to think that she might actually have missed us.

The new Button birds

As I sit here with my glass of wine, I have a warm fuzzy feeling at the thought of our new young sprightly hens all tucked up in their coup.

Scrubbed floors and perch, fresh wood shavings, cosy nesting boxes and the most nutritious hen food that money can buy awaited our four new additions to the Button family today.

I must admit, I didn't get on well with our last lot of chickens. They had an evil glint in their eyes, and seemed to have it in for me from day one. And I couldn't bear to be within ten metres of them. 

Now suddenly our new batch can do no wrong in my eyes. And I see myself as the 'mother hen', or perhaps 'broody hen'. 

We each have our own hen, which we chose from the 'chicken shop'. We told the girls they could choose whichever hen they liked. But interestingly they both opted for the bog standard, considerably cheaper, Warrens. I think they felt a huge sense of loyalty to our last lot of chickens who were also Warrens, and whom they loved very much. 

However Tom and I were like kids in a sweet shop, and there was no way we were going for boring Warrens. 

I chose a beautiful silver Suffolk whom I have named Snowdrop. A pretty name for a fine bird. And Tom has named his hen, also a Suffolk, Ethel (a name we considered for Dolly). 

Betty has named her chicken 'Pecky Becky', and Dolly has named hers 'Super Chicken to the Rescue', or 'Super Chicken' for short. 

And while the Warrens were pretty cheap, the Suffolks were bloody expensive. Our proper country friends would be appalled if they ever found out how much we had spent. They are more for getting their poultry for 25p a piece, and bidding in incomprehensible loud animated speak at the local farmers market - an experience that absolutely terrified me the one and only time I went along to try and buy a duck. 

Anyway I do hope that the four little ladies are getting on well, during their first night together, and that they aren't too cold or frightened in their new surroundings...

Princess Sodor Island and the royal family

Dolly casting a spell

On Fridays, Tom looks after Dolly and I get to work uninterrupted.  At lunchtime we always go to the 'slidey bench cafe' which is a cafe at a renovated mill (which has slidey benches).

Yesterday we were all on our way to the cafe and Dolly had decided that we were all members of a royal family. I was 'Queen', Tom was 'Prince' and Dolly was 'Princess Sodor Island'.

We walked along the pavement to the cafe with Princess Sodor Island sporting her pink fairy princess dress, her woolly tights, her clip-cloppy sparkly shoes, and her battery powered talking wand.  But despite icy winds, she refused to put her coat on, informing me: "Princesses definitely don't ever wear coats, Queen."  I charged on ahead while Prince and Princess clopped along slowly in the cold drizzle.

At the cafe, it turned out that Dolly's mission was to turn everyone into frogs.  She started with a lady sitting alone and quietly reading her book.  She waved the electronic wand in the lady's face and shouted "Ha ha, I have turned you into a frog, Mrs Frog!"  Mrs Frog studiously ignored Princess Sodor Island.  She then turned her attention, and her wand, to the mill's tour guide, who offered an embarrassed 'ribbit' while Dolly stared at him.

I tried to get Dolly to sit next to us and behave herself while Tom and I had a conversation about our weekend plans. After about three seconds of this, Princess Sodor Island butted in angrily: "Queens do not talk. They are just supposed to sit there and eat chocolate," before zapping me with her wand.

This kind of thing continued throughout lunch, with the princess haranguing the waitresses and customers as well as me and Tom, but looking far too cute for anyone to muster any cross words (although I suspect Mrs Frog was close to storming out).

At home she casually changed back to her usual clothes and told me off for calling her Princess Sodor Island - the game was evidently over.   I left Tom attempting to follow Dolly's incredibly complicated-sounding instructions to a game of shopkeepers and returned to the office, where I saw the pink fairy princess dress and clip-cloppy shoes in a little heap on the floor next to my chair.

Tom's homemade soups: the bane of my life

Before I go into a rant, I should point out that Tom is an amazing cook, and creates all sorts of wonderful, mainly mince-based, delights.

But unfortunately, he does have a bit of a soup-making fetish. And when I hear the words: “I think I’ll just go and make a nice soup” my heart sinks. 

These are the reasons why: 

• His concoctions usually involve using anything and EVERYTHING he finds in the fridge – normally vital ingredients I have ear-marked for other meals. Nothing is safe.

• He somehow manages to leave splat soup-matter (from where he has used the hand-held blender) over every single wall, surface, and floor, but is adamant that the splats don’t exist, and that it’s all in my head. 

• Large vessels of soups then take up all the space in the fridge, leaving no room for anything else. (Although at this point there isn’t anything else because it is now all in the soups). 

• Our children don’t even like soup, so this means I make daily trips to the shops to replenish stocks so that I am able to make them a non-soup meal. 

• I am often not able to stomach his ‘creative’ combinations. 

• Tom and I disagree on what the consistency of a soup should be. He likes very watery, and I like a consistency not that dissimilar to that of baby purees. 

• So sadly, I don’t like his soups either. 

• Even he admits that sometimes his soups taste pretty foul. 

• Still doesn’t stop him though. 

Having said all this, he does make a pretty mean mushroom soup (I had to add this in, to save his feelings).

Selfish mum act: that'll teach me

Betty's school was closed again today, due to the snow.  And so with another article about Dexter to write, and a serious case of cabin fever, I told her we were going to have a day of work together.

After two hours of sitting in Caffe Nero, with me doing some colouring-in and Betty playing games on my iPad, talk turned to our lunch options.

Betty told me she wanted Jaffa Cakes for lunch.

"I think because you have been so good all morning,  I will take you for a very special Thai lunch to mine and daddy's favourite restaurant," I told her.

I sat there battling with my conscience.  Betty had never had Thai food before, and it was pretty unlikely that she would like it.  But I was really really in the mood for it, and decided nothing else would do.

So we entered the restaurant, and the waiter raised an eyebrow at my little companion.  "My daughter has a very sophisticated palate," I told him defiantly.  "In fact, she loves Thai food, she has it all the time". Well she loves olives and pickled onions, I reasoned to myself.

In a moment of dizzy excitement at being in my favourite restaurant, I ordered my two favourite main dishes, plus rice and prawn crackers. If all else failed Betty would definitely eat the rice and crackers.

The waiter raised another eyebrow at the volume of food I had, in effect, ordered for myself. The food arrived and I optimistically dished out Betty's share of noodles and curry. This still left an awful lot for me - six year olds don't eat huge portions.

Betty took one mouthful of noodles and told me they were disgusting. She then plumped for a prawn cracker which she told me tasted of fish and made her feel sick. And the rice was too sticky, and the curry too spicy.

"Ow, my mouth is really really stinging," she cried just as the smirking waiter walked past. "Well drink some orange juice then," I loud-whispered through gritted teeth.

"The orange juice tastes of lemons," she told me.

So feeling really stupid, and not wanting to get another raised eyebrow from the waiter, I ploughed my way through two meals, very very slowly.

The one saving grace was the decorative carrot carved into a rose shape, which thankfully kept Betty amused while I force fed myself. She took photos from various angles, nibbled it, took more photos, and then carefully wrapped it up in a napkin so that she could take it home and show Tom.

Without the distraction of the carrot, Betty then politely asked me why my face was so red, and when we were leaving.

And when we eventually walked out of the restaurant, me barely able to move and feeling like I was going to hurl, a hungry Betty said: "Can we go for lunch at Pizza Express now?"

SOS: snowed in with a sick child

Dolly in the snow

Before having children, I loved the snow. Not only did it mean days off school/college and even work, it also meant a lot of fun.

However my love of snow quickly evaporated the moment my first daughter was born. She arrived in late November, in a winter with freezing temperatures and lots of snow. I felt really vulnerable with a newborn baby, and worried about not being able to get out in an emergency.

This year, I tried to put to one side my fears of getting snowed in. Against my better judgment I found myself joining my girls in calling for a load of the white stuff to be dumped on us. What fun it would be with my girls – we had our sledges at the ready.

And sure enough, last Friday we woke up to thick blankets of snow everywhere, and that all-important school closure announcement.

All wrapped up we set about making snowmen, eating snow, and sledging. However, after lobbing a few snowballs around, Dolly quickly became tearful and whingey.

This was her first proper experience of snow and I wondered whether she just didn’t like it. On closer inspection, however, I discovered that she had a very high fever and was doubled up with tummy cramps.

At that point, I decided to start panicking. What if it was something REALLY serious, and I couldn’t get her to hospital? What if an ambulance wouldn’t make it through the snowy lanes in time? What if the air ambulance was too busy rescuing people from the mountains to help us?

Breaking my no-updates resolution, I put out an SOS message on Facebook: ‘Snowed in with a very sick child – help!’  continue reading...

Dexter Mayhew: the crush, and the unbearable tragedy

While dumping off a load of old toys and clothes at our local charity shop early last December, I stumbled upon a tattered looking DVD, with a man and woman kissing on the front cover.

I hastily bought it, figuring it might save me from having to watch Apocalypse Now later that night – something Tom had threatened earlier.  But realistically I imagined that even if I did manage to persuade my husband to watch a rom-com, we would get about 15 minutes in and end up falling asleep.

Just over a month later I have now watched this film eleven times, and even Tom has watched it four times (although probably not through choice, and he has started to give me odd looks at my continued persistence with it). 

Almost every scene is either heart-stopping, tear-jerking, or goose-bump-inducing. But it was the Paris scene, where Dexter and Emma finally fall into each others' arms, which was probably one of the best moments of my life (bar marrying my husband and the birth of my children, of course). And then the almost unbearable tragedy happens, for which I will never forgive the writer.  Why couldn't Em and Dex just have a baby or three and live happily ever after?  Why?

This film has taken over my life.  This is mainly down to it being an amazing love story which leaves you alternately weeping, drooling, and screaming at the screen.  But also because I have a bit of a crush on the main character, Dexter Mayhew.  The other main character, Emma (Anne Hathaway) isn't bad either.

I haven't had a crush like this since my Nick Berry fixation when I was 14 years old. I am now 38 and have an obsession with a fictional character from a film. At least Nick Berry was a real person.

A friend of mine pointed out that Dexter and Tom are pretty similar in looks and sound - that melt-your-heart public schoolboy hair and accent. I also think perhaps this love story reminds me of mine and Tom's journey, before we had our  'Paris moment' - which for us happened in Pizza Express in Paddington. Before this, Tom and I spent years being best friends, with lots of missed opportunities, just like Emma and Dexter. How on earth Tom and I didn't realise our love for each other, way back when, as he fed me chicken McNuggets dipped in barbecue sauce, sitting in Budgens car park in West London, I will never know.

During a typical day, it's not unusual for me to watch the film (sometimes on loop if it's the night of Tom's Tai Chi class), listen to the soundtrack and the unabridged audio book, and gaze at photos of Dexter on Google images.

I play the soundtrack while cooking the kids' dinner or hanging out the washing. This way I can replay the film in my head while gazing tearfully through wet clothes and steaming carrots. I am often met with shouts of "TURN IT DOWN!" from my exasperated family, while they try to eat their breakfast.

Towards the end of the film Dexter opens up a café/deli between Archway and Highgate - this is an area I know particularly well, and I was positively thrilled that Dex and I have probably pounded the same pavements. I thought about going off to find this deli in the hope that Dexter might be there.  I could tell him how sorry I am for his loss and give him a big hug.  And with his knee-weakening handsome grin and that voice, he might serve me a latte and a chocolate brownie. But then I have to remind myself that neither the deli nor the characters are real.

It is the character and not the actor that I am in love with (sorry Jim Sturgess). Having said this, I have undertaken a bit of Jim Sturgess Twitter-stalking, and I have just ordered another film where he is the lead role - just in case there's another film out there which I might be able to obsess over. 

But I fear I am setting myself up for disappointment. There will never be another One Day - and it is without doubt the best fifty pence I have ever spent.

When Tom hosted a play-date...

I found myself in a rather strange situation the other day - my girlfriends were all working and I hooked up with a couple of their enlightened Dads-at-home partners.

I can't call it a play-date, because that phrase was banned. I can call it a playfest, because my 3-year-old has never been so entertained within the auspices of a friend's house, for free.

"Was he trying to win some prize for most amazing 'gathering' ever?" I enquired (innocently) as we ricocheted between dough making, cookie cutting, fancy dress and fire building...

The quizzical look I received said it all - "what is it that mum's do when they meet up?" Good bloody question. Natter mainly, obviously. I was itching to share with them the details of my rather bizarre lesbian dream (they possibly would have enjoyed that) but the opportunity just didn't arise.

It was jobs allocation from the outset, of the "you build the fire while I reduce the pizza topping" variety...  It left me feeling a bit spare partish - I'm not used to feeling so useless! (one even brought home-made soup to share)

As one 21st Dad managed the culinary side of things, his comrade in arms fielded potty training accidents (unruffledly) between dressing up WITH the children (I've never actually even thought of doing that) and making wolf noises outside their Wendy house (to squeals of laughter and enjoyment).

I took rather too many pictures.

Thankfully I did get a bit of natter in when Elsie popped home for a light lunch (provided by super-hero/husband, Tom), although not time enough to get down to the nitty gritty of the dream... she was off back to her desk before I knew it and I was left trying to contribute to a conversation about bicycle tyre punctures (seriously).

"Would you be talking about us girls if I wasn't around?" I postured, jokingly. "No, that really is the domain of sad women," came the riposte. "Oh"

Next week it's my turn to host and I've been googling mad ideas for what exactly 3 three-year-olds can do in three hours...I even thought about hiring a circus act in.  I then considered bribing my other half to swap days with me so he could enjoy these heady days of creativity and cavalier fun.

But I've decided to jump in with both feet and grasp this opportunity to learn from the Mars inhabiters, they've got hanging out covered.

This is a guest post from my friend Jules.  

[Jules - after you all left Tom had a large whisky and then went to bed!] 

Thrills and spills

Betty ice-skating with granddad

During that weird and slightly flat period between New Year and going back to school, Betty and I went on a last minute jaunt to London, to stay with my dad.

Although I was sick of the sight of dirty half-inflated Father Christmases, and mulled wine, I took Betty to the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park.

I knew that she would love it, but I had no idea quite how much.

The first thing we did was go down an ice slide in the Magical Ice Kingdom, and we spent the rest of the afternoon with numb bottoms.  Particularly me - I got stuck and so was sitting on ice (without a mat) for far longer than I should have been.  (It brought back awful memories of the helter skelter incident in Cardiff a few years ago).

We also went on the penguin bumper cars, the big wheel, and the roller coaster.  I hadn't been on a roller coaster of this description for at least twenty years, and Betty had never been on one.  And having just terrified myself on the big wheel (where I made Betty and I practically hold our breath all the way round, so as not to rock the carriage), I had no intentions of going on it.  But at Betty's insistence I gave in and bought us a ticket, thinking it might make me feel young again.

However, I had forgotten that awful feeling in the pit of your stomach as the carriage reaches the top of the vertical mile-long drop on the other side.  I just wanted to cry.  I closed my eyes, bravely asked Betty if she was ok, and off we hurtled downwards at breakneck speed.  Once at the bottom I was terrified that, firstly, I was going to be sick, and secondly, that Betty would be inconsolable.  But she was giggling heartily and saying: 'What is wrong with you Mummy? Can we go on again?'

'No, it's time to go back to granddad's house now' I told her hastily, and I marched her out of there, grabbing a £4.50 cup of mulled wine as we went - which I downed.

The following day we all went ice-skating on the South Bank.  And thank goodness my dad was with us to take charge of Betty.  She was like a very determined, high-speed, out-of-control octopus flailing around on that ice.  But there was just no stopping her.  She dragged my dad round and round and round, and credit to her (and him) she got really rather good by the end of the session.

Meanwhile I crawled around the edge, clinging onto the sides and trying to take photos of the heartwarming sight of my daughter with my dad.  The one time I got adventurous and left the side to go it alone, I fell flat on my face.  I sat on the ice, feeling I would look far too undignified if I tried to get myself up, and so waited for someone, anyone, to scoop me up.

So it turns out that my gentle and delicate daughter is a bit of a daredevil and likes all things dangerous and fast - I was most definitely the same at her age.   And having been forced back into these activities, after 25 years,  despite my fears and inabilities, I could quite get used to it, and have already organised another ice-skating trip...

New Year, new me!

Christmas is over for another year.

No more feeling obliged to eat cheese and Christmas pudding til you feel like you are actually going to explode; no more over-excited kids all hyped up on chocolate Father Christmases and jelly beans; and no more maulting Christmas trees and dog-eared cards littering the shelves.

Feeling ready to take on 2013, this is what I have done so far, in an attempt to strive for a better, more glamorous me:

I have bought myself a new scarf (and from John Lewis, not Primark, what's more).

I have downloaded a ‘Lose Weight Now’ hypnosis app.  The session is only 60 minutes long but I have yet to get to the end of it – I am normally asleep within ten minutes of turning it on.  I am a bit in love with the hypnotist’s East London voice - think Alfie Moon.  One reviewer of this app complained that he sounded like a fishmonger.  Well, what the heck is wrong with that?

I am currently doing a liver cleanse programme – which includes taking pills, and eating lots of walnuts and beetroot, washed down with freshly squeezed lemon juice.  This makes me wee a heck of a lot, which also makes me feel like I am losing weight.

I have treated myself to my favourite perfume – the last time I treated myself to this was over ten years ago, and I got the last squirt out of it this morning.  Does perfume have a shelf life I wonder.

In addition to all of this, I am going to go blonde, shave my legs more often, learn Spanish, abstain from crisp and Dairylea sandwiches, and stop writing inane status updates on Facebook.

Oh, and lose a stone of course.

Happy New Year everyone!

Dolly on tour

When I gaily accepted an invitation for Dolly and I to visit the Nickelodeon studios in Camden, I didn't consider for a second the implications of taking a three-year-old to London and back in one day.  A ten hour round trip, door to door.

It wasn't until the night before that mild panic began to set in.  Dolly, the girl I have been too scared to take to the supermarket at times, can be a stroppy and wayward little madam.  And taking her on four different trains, six different tubes, and a lot of standing around on cold platforms suddenly seemed like a recipe for disaster.

I downloaded a load of child-friendly apps onto my phone, removing most of my own apps in order to make room.  I even considered taking along my beloved iPad.  But having the responsibility of a child and an iPad at once on a long journey was too much for me to bear.

So at 7.30am yesterday morning, having had several drops of Rescue Remedy, and armed with snacks, sweets, chocolate, stickers, colouring books, stories, and my phone, Dolly and I headed for the train station.

Five hours and an oddly painless train ride later, we made it to the studios.  Dolly was in her element chatting with worm puppets, Arnie and Barnie, on their Bedtime Story TV set, and eating chocolate cupcakes, taking it all in her stride.  And I had the pleasure of meeting the gorgeous Konnie Huq (former Blue Peter presenter) who was reading the story for that particular episode.

Dolly didn't complain once for the entire day, and at times she had  serious reason to.  She was dragged along crowded platforms, thrown through closing tube doors, bashed in the face with handbags,  and had to sit next to a very drunk and angry man who was on the wrong train.

But the thing that really touched me, was the amount of people she made laugh or smile on our travels, with her honest and very loud opinions on everyone around us.  And while strangers chatted and laughed with her, I sat there terrified about what might come out of her mouth next. Luckily she only mentioned my 'boobies' three times between London and Reading.

She kept the entire platform at Newport entertained, while we waited for our connecting train, in the icy snow - singing Christmas carols in her new outlandish rabbit hat that she had chosen from a stall in Camden (for which she had managed to negotiate a huge discount  for being 'cute').

Dolly was a delightful travelling companion, and I was blown away by her stamina and joyous spirit.  I could perhaps have done with a sleep during the train journey back, but Dolly was too busy telling me 'jokes' and covering my boobs with stickers.

Happy 6th birthday my rainbow fairy

Decorated by Betty

Six years ago I started writing this blog - a blog that was inspired by my brand new baby Betty.

And baby Betty wore nothing but blues and greens, and was always in a pair of dungarees, bashing her toy tractors and train sets around.

Betty has just celebrated her sixth birthday - a birthday full of rainbows, fairies, princesses, glitter and pink fluff.

When anyone asked her what she wanted for her birthday her stock reply was: "Anything girly and princessy."

I bought her a beautiful new dress for her to wear on her birthday, but because it was mainly blue, she rejected it in favour of her old, sightly grubby, torn princess dress, telling me: "Don't worry Mummy, I will wear the dress you bought me after school on Monday."

I spent weeks in the run-up to the big day researching rainbow cakes on the internet - the pressure was on, and I felt a bit scared that it might not be up to scratch.  However, I think that Betty may have sensed my fear, and just two days before, she informed me that she would be making her own cake this year and all I had to do was be on hand to do a bit of mixing and oven duties.

I was impressed with her very definite ideas on how she was going to decorate it, and this was the result - and she is right, it is far better than anything I could have done.

Betty also requested that I decorate the house like a rainbow, which again put the fear into  me.  But on the morning of her birthday she squealed with delight at the rainbow coloured strips cut from crepe paper hanging from every single doorway, while the rest of us got annoyed at getting a mouthful of rainbowness every time we walked through a door.  She later said: "You are going to keep these up til Christmas aren't you?"

Happy birthday my gorgeous, delightful (most of the time), funny and bright little fairy rainbow pink princess - your mummy, daddy and little sister all ADORE you! XXXX

An open letter to Uncle Bob

Dear Uncle Bob

What the hell have you gone and done now?

The last time you were in the UK you were my rock. You listened, you offered your words of wisdom, and you helped me move heavy furniture around. And, as always, you made me laugh out loud - sometimes laughing with you, and sometimes at you!

We lunched together on your birthday (although at the time I didn't realise it was your birthday). And we fiercely argued about something. But we quickly cleared the air, and tucked into our pie and chips, in that dodgy pub in Leominster, the rain belting down outside.

You had just turned sixty-seven, and I thought you were looking really sprightly.  I loved your enthusiasm for your new 'expensive-looking' pumps, that you found for £10.

I still wear the fake red Crocs you sent me almost six years ago (in fact I am wearing them right now) - they are two sizes too big, but I have always been loyal to them, but only in the house, where no-one else can see me.

I feel so sad that recently I let the little wooden bird cage (with mechanical flashing, chirping bird) go to a charity shop - I would love to have that cage and bird back right now. It always brought a smile to my face, and made me think of you and your slightly eccentric and whacky ways.

But, we still have all sorts of reminders here: the dodgy orange outfits for my girls (which reside in their dressing up box and are brought out at Halloween), the plastic bunny rabbit that changes colour, the beautiful wooden hair pieces,  the dominoes, and the incredible personalised money box that you made out of a coconut shell for Betty when she was a baby - and you changed the spelling of her name because you thought it looked prettier your way!

Your voice is like a foghorn - for this reason I once remember leaving you in the car while I went into the supermarket - because I didn't like the attention you drew. 

You are brutally honest and you have no filter whatsoever - hence the argument we had on your birthday.  Although looking back you were probably absolutely right.

You don't like the way I cook sausages, and you tell me when I am looking fat.

You often speak a lot of sense, but also a lot of  nonsense.  You have a big heart, and you will work your butt off to help out.  You are a very loveable character - although you would scoff if I told you that to your face - I now desperately wish that I had the chance to.  

I loved receiving your incomprehensible one-line emails - but you told me off for being crap with my responses, and I was, and for that I will never forgive myself.

I wish with all my heart that I could email you right now, but it's too late.  

It seems incomprehensible that I will never see you again.  I (like the rest of the family) am in total shock about your untimely and sudden death.

Rest in peace Uncle Bob - I will miss you dearly, and our banter, and your foghorn voice, and your eccentricities, and your kindness.

My children substituted for trees

Picture taken on my bike ride to buy wine

Last weekend Tom took Betty and Dolly to see the in-laws.

This meant that for the first time ever, I was on my own, at home, all weekend long (you can read more here).

I was positively thrilled at the prospect of having a bit of peace and quiet and not having to wipe floors, pick things up, cook,  and wash-up (I only used one plate all weekend).

But it turns out, that after watching a few too many repeats of Will and Grace, and drinking copious amounts of tea, by 10am I really missed my family, and was thoroughly bored.

To alleviate the boredom, I decided to go on a virtuous bike ride, on Tom's electric bike, to buy a bottle of wine (for later) from the shop three miles away.

I have never dared go on this electric bike before - it has always scared the hell out of me.  But it was incredible, and I was particularly pleased that I was able to escape at lightning speed from a dog who normally bites my ankles as I ride past on my ordinary bike.  This made me feel extremely smug.

And without my children around to photograph,  I had to stop many times on the bike to take photos of trees instead.

The secret mission

As soon as a massively grinning Betty got off the school bus yesterday, she told me that she had a big, big secret, involving her and her friend Sam, and that I would never know what it was.

Within seconds she had offered up all the details of 'a secret mission,' though I have been sworn to secrecy, and am not at liberty to divulge the details here. I can however reveal some of the preparations. 

Last night Betty packed three rucksacks full of provisions. I witnessed ice blocks being removed from the freezer. Biscuits, chocolate mousse, waterproofs, a sleeping bag, slippers, a toothbrush, a towel, a head torch, toilet roll, sunglasses, four pairs of socks, and an umbrella were all packed. And a couple of her teddies. 

At one point she asked me for Sam’s phone number - she wanted to remind him to bring his head torch.

While I was putting her to bed, she casually asked me if I thought she would be able to unlock the front door by herself in the middle of the night. Noting my worried look, she kept saying to me: ‘Don't worry mummy, it’s fine, it's all planned.’ But not taking any chances, when I locked the door later that night, I hid the key.

It took quite a long time to persuade Betty that I really didn't think Sam would be waiting for her at the school gate at midnight, and that they had to come up with an alternative. I’m wondering what Betty and Sam’s plan will be when she gets home from school today. 

The whole episode has reminded me of the time when, aged about eight years old, I got cross with my mum and set off for London, Dick Whittington style, with some provisions tied up in a spotty handkerchief on a stick. I made it to the end of the garden - my mum took a photo of me sitting on the wall, eating a biscuit, and looking sulky.

Update: when Betty returned home from school that afternoon, she told me defiantly that her and Sam were sticking to the original plan, and that it was 'really really in real life' this time.

Extreme camping on a hilltop in Wales

A wet camping trip

At 3.30am this morning, Tom and I lay wide awake on top of a very stormy hill overlooking the sea. Dolly and Betty slept on, oblivious to the driving rain and gale force winds whipping our tent around like a sail.

There was a tense discussion between Tom and I about what would happen if the tent got struck by lightning. I pointed out that we were exposed on top of a hill in a pointy bell tent with a metal pole in the middle.

We decided to de-camp as quickly as we could, there and then. I gently shook Betty awake and told her she had to get up.  "It's the middle of the night, and I am only five, let me sleep," she mumbled. I knew that Dolly would be furious at being woken up, so I gave that job to Tom.

Once both girls were safely inside the car and happily eating crisps, Tom and I, both in pyjamas, head torches and serious expressions, embarked on our dangerous and extreme mission of dismantling the tent.

In this high state of emergency, I had to let go of my obsession of categorising everything and packing it all away neatly in its rightful home.  Sweating cheese and sausages were thrown into the wash bag, and unwashed cutlery and pans were shoved into Dolly's suitcase.

The normally straightforward job of folding up the tent became quite an ordeal as the wind got underneath it and threatened to blow the whole thing into the sky. Tom was in full action hero mode, and managed to hold it in place long enough to be able to gather it up, and cram it, soaking wet into the boot of the car.

Having successfully piled everything into the car in an impressive 20 minutes flat, we headed for home.  I sat uneasy in my seat, updating my Facebook friends of our ordeal, and not quite coping with the fact that things were not packed in an orderly fashion.  In the back of the car, Betty and Dolly had fallen asleep.  And it was all Tom could do to stop himself from saying 'I told you so', having strongly suggested that we de-camp a day earlier, after hearing severe weather warnings.

Duckie lives on... (just)

Betty serenading Duckie

As some of you may remember, Duckie is the soft toy that Betty has had since she was born.

And at five years old (almost six) she is STILL besotted with her duck.

Duckie, at one point, did go into semi-retirement, where he was put to sleep in a lovely little cradle in her bedroom.   He was left there untouched, and although a little sad, we all breathed a massive sigh of relief.

But just a few days later, Betty buckled, and Duckie sprang back onto the scene with a vengeance.

She has now transformed her wardrobe into 'his bedroom'.  And although she doesn't seem to mind her own bedroom becoming an absolute tip, if you dare move anything out of place in Duckie's bedroom she goes crazy - and he has a heck a lot of accessories, pictures, toys, and food in there.

But poor Duckie is threadbare, smelly, grey, and his worn wings and legs have all fallen off at least once.  I have been renamed 'the vet' by Betty because I have to keep fixing him.  And I am no great seamstress, so you can imagine the state he is in.

I have no doubt Betty would cut off her own arm for Duckie.  In fact she would probably happily cut off my arm (and Tom's and Dolly's for that matter)  if it meant Duckie being happy.

I fear the day when Duckie disintegrates into nothing...