My hate of animals has made me a vegetarian

I have never been a big meat-eater, particularly meats that resemble the actual animal, like joints with bones.  A thick slice of bloody beef amongst my roast potatoes and carrots literally turns my stomach.  I would find it just as appetising to walk up to a mooing muddy cow standing on the hillside and bite a chunk out of its side.

My dislike of eating animals isn't because I have any deep affection for them. It’s actually the opposite. I would rather eat food that hasn't scratched or bitten me, or chased me, or barked loudly at me, or broken my leg.  Vegetables are much safer by comparison.

And in the wake of the whole cockerel killer-attack incident, I have now gone from avoiding animals to positively disliking them, particularly poultry - I do not want them anywhere near me (certainly not inside me), dead or alive.

This leaves a bit of a problem, because although we promptly got rid of vicious 'Cocky' (affectionately renamed by Betty when she realised 'Buttercup', her cute fluffy yellow chick, turned out to be a he) we still have four hens left, all of which the other Buttons totally adore.  In my rational head I know that they won't attack me, but they still terrify me, so much so that I tried to take one of them on with my crutch the other day when she pecked at some grass a little too close to where I was standing frozen to the spot.

I later announced that I wanted to move back to London, and my mum told me: 'Your poor children, not having a hardy countryside-loving woman for a mother.'

In light of my chicken aversion, I did wonder whether Pinterest were having a cruel laugh at my expense recently when they sent me an email entitled: 'Mouth-watering chicken recipes'.  UK pinners might be 'cluckers for chicken recipes' but this one ain't.  I am actually thrilled that I now genuinely dislike the taste of chicken - it feels like sweet revenge.

Interestingly, the leg breakage incident has also forced Betty into announcing that she too is now a vegetarian.  But for her it's on the grounds that she feels 'so so sorry for cute lovely animals who are killed and then eaten.'

She blatantly doesn't believe that her cockerel is now living happily on a farm somewhere, and she still eyes me suspiciously while saying 'I would be heartbroken if I ever found out that Cocky was dead.'

A small part of me feels bad that I got the next door neighbour to kill and eat Betty's pet, particularly when she makes me listen to tortured love songs she has written for him.  But then I remember that I am still hobbling around on crutches, I can't drive, it takes me three hours to make lunch, my house is a mess, and I have put on about three stone... and all because of him.

So Betty and I will continue to reject meat for our opposing reasons, but one thing we do agree on is that our vegetarianism sort of excludes pigs, because as Betty pointed out 'they just taste too nice.'

A slow but happy existence

It's been five weeks since Betty's beloved pet chicken tried to kill me. Which means I am now half way to possibly being able to ditch the crutches, drive the car, and resume some sort of normality.

But actually, the last few weeks, though very unpleasant and frustrating at times, have been far better than I could have ever imagined. 

I have had copious amounts of tea made for me by my lovely visitors, while we sit in my kitchen, eat cake, and I regale them with stories of my vicious fight with the cockerel, and my marriage proposal to the paramedic (who gave me lots of gas and air and morphine), and the fact I now have a metal rod in my leg and feel like a bit of a hero.

I have been brought homemade cookies, curries, Chocolate Oranges, wine, scones (with jam and cream) olives, ginger cake, laxatives, flowers, biscuits, magazines, Revels, pies, homeopathy remedies, soup, Fruit Pastilles, and lasagnes. 

And the kindness has even extended to friends cleaning my house from top to bottom, while I lay on my bed eating chocolate and watching a rom com on Netflix, being whisked away to Pizza Express, and to the pub.

Having a broken leg also forces you into a very slow existence, which I'm beginning to think is really rather nice. When else would you get away with taking a blissful hour to have a shower and brush your teeth? 

So although I cannot wait to be able to leave the house at will, and walk down the stairs without fear of breaking my neck, it has most certainly not been all bad...

All About Me

One of my fave bloggers Nappy Valley Girl has tagged me to answer some questions about myself.

Here goes:

1.  What's for dinner tonight?

Sausage stew, a la Tom Button (currently the one doing everything around here due to my broken leg).

2.  Do you read a daily newspaper?

No, not unless you count Buzzfeed.

3.  If you could take off on a no-expense spared holiday next week, where would you go?

Pretty much anywhere you don't have to wear wellies, and change out of muddy clothes every five seconds, and run away from angry chickens.

4.  What was your favourite book as a child?

The Bears' Picnic, by Jan and Stan Berenstain.

5.   who is your favourite author as an adult?

David Nicholls, because he wrote the fabulous One Day, and introduced me to the gorgeous Dexter Mayhew.

6.  Do you buy your underwear at M&S?

Yes - I have a mad splurge in M&S every five years or so.

7.  What's your dream career and do you wish you'd done it?

When a careers advisor came to our school and got us to take a questionnaire to determine our ideal career, mine came up as train driver!   However I was adamant I wanted to be a news reader on BBC1 - mainly because my drama teacher told me I had a good speaking voice, and this coupled with the fact that I wanted to be famous, seemed like the obvious choice.

8.  Do you ever google people you meet afterwards? (And not for work reasons).

Yes! I sometimes even start googling them on my phone while still in their company.  I was in hospital last week and out of sheer boredom I googled all the other patients on my ward (as their names were written above their heads), and also some of the doctors and nurses.

9.  What was the last thing you saw at the theatre?

Rapunzel, and before that Ben and Holly, and before that Jack and the Beanstalk... (jeez)

10. Do you use Pinterest, and if so, do you get the point?

I use Pinterest very occasionally, like when my kids set me impossible challenges such as making a multi-coloured, three tier, flashing Disney Princess birthday cake - for this purpose it is very useful to get ideas.  Other than that I haven't got a clue what it's for.

11. What's been your proudest moment as a parent so far?

I'm pretty proud of my girls right now - they are waiting on me hand and foot.


I am now going to think of some questions of my own and tag some bloggers...

My husband is Superman

Tom is pretty much having to do everything at the moment. It is very frustrating for me and totally knackering for him.

These are things I have said to him in the last 24 hours:

• Have you checked the mouse traps?
• Are you keeping the surfaces clean?
• Please can I have a bowl of Weetabix?
• It's so important to stay on top of the washing.
• Have I got any clean pyjamas?
• Can you switch the telly on for me please?
• Shall we write a shopping list together?
• Can you carry me up the stairs?
• Do you think I've lost weight?
• Have the girls brushed their teeth?
• When did they last have a bath?
• This is delicious.
• Are you sure it's cooked properly?
• Can you get me a clean towel?
• Do you think it's ok to drink gin with morphine?
• Shall I teach you how to use the steam mop?
• Please can I have a cup of tea?
• Can you move that pile of dirty laundry out of my path?
• What's that smell?
• Would you mind shaving my legs?
• Tidy as you go - that's my motto
• Don't forget to pick up my prescription from the surgery 
• Have you checked the post?
• Can you buy me some Arnica?
• Thanks so much for hoovering
• Are you ok?
• Can you wrap my leg in clingfilm?

He is being absolutely amazing, and hasn't once complained.  What a guy!

Using crutches: it's not all bad

I am trying to get the hang of my crutches, but it's not coming that naturally. I clumsily topple this way and that, I accidentally forget to keep my broken leg off the ground and wince in pain, and my hands hurt.

But there are some definite advantages to being on crutches:

• You can use them rather effectively to bat away objects left in your path, such as Lego and doll's houses.
• Your children stop nagging you for food every five seconds, because they know you're currently pretty useless - you can barely go to the toilet on your own, let alone make them endless snacks.
• In fact the children very quickly learn that for anything to happen around here they have to become your slave, and fetch you everything from clean socks, to chocolate, to your next morphine fix.
• And they even bring you croissants in bed, occasionally.
• Crutches also provide hours of entertainment for the kids who love playing with them. When I was little I always dreamed of breaking a leg so that I could have my own crutches.
• You can make the handles look pretty with a huge array of different coloured comfy covers to choose from on eBay. 
• You build up serious arm muscle and those bingo wings finally become a thing of the past.  No more having to half-heartedly weight-lift baked bean tins once a fortnight.

If only I'd had them on me when the cockerel decided to attack - bastard wouldn't have stood a chance.

Hospitalised by our pet cockerel

As I walked down our lane to meet my girls from the school bus the other day I was severely attacked by our cockerel. 

This is the cockerel who was lovingly hatched in the girls' playhouse last Summer, and started life as a gorgeous fluffy yellow chick who we all adored, and who has featured many times on my Instagram feed.

The attack was so crazed and vicious, I think the bird was intent on actually trying to kill me. He attacked me the entire length of our lane, while I flailed and kicked and screamed blue murder, desperately trying to protect myself.

In the struggle, I eventually slipped on some mud and fell back onto my left leg and hit the ground.  When I frantically tried to get up I realised the bottom half of my leg was swinging around, completely broken and disconnected from the top half of my leg and the cockerel was now angrily circling me as I lay helpless on the ground. 

At that very moment both my husband and my neighbour appeared on the scene, having heard my screams.  And the cockerel calmly clucked off as if nothing had happened, happily pecking at some snowdrops as he went, leaving me sitting in mud and chicken shit, in a mangled, traumatised, and excruciatingly painful mess. 

At that point the school bus arrived, Betty took in the somewhat tense scene and went over to the cockerel to make sure it was OK.

Next the ambulance arrived and the paramedics gave me reassurances, and held my hand, and cut my clothes and shoes off me. The very funny paramedic kindly pointed out that the shoes were cheap so it didn't really matter. 

I got through an entire cylinder of gas and air before they'd even got me into the ambulance. I went from wanting to be shot in the head to stop the pain, to cracking jokes about poultry and roast dinners. 

As we pulled away in the ambulance the cockerel saw us off with several chirpy cock-a-doodle-doos, and I sobbed and laughed and swore and then passed out. There was a lot of emotion in that ambulance as we whizzed through the Herefordshire countryside.

The only thing I remember when I arrived at the hospital is one of the porters making a joke about KFC, which made me laugh, and then cry. 

The next day I had a lengthy operation to straighten the leg and had metal pins inserted through my bones because it was so mashed up. 

I later asked the farmer who lives next door to us to put the cockerel through a very slow and painful death. He just texted to tell me that the deed has been done and that he tasted delicious. 

I am still in hospital and writing this post on my phone.  I'm learning how to use crutches, drinking lots of tea, and making the most of the morphine, but am missing my children terribly. 

I just hope they don't give me a hard time about ordering the execution of their beloved pet chicken...

When two dads try to organise a play date

Below is an email conversation between Tom and another dad at school:

Other dad: Would Dolly like to come over to play with Jacob after school on Wednesday?

Tom: Dolly would love to, thank you. What time?

Other dad: Great. We will collect her from school and feed her. Can you collect her at 5.45pm? Is there anything she doesn't eat?

Tom: Sounds perfect, thank you! In theory Dolly will eat anything, in practice she eats sausages.

Other dad: Sausages it is then.

24 hours later...

Other dad: Does she eat anything with sausages? Potatoes, carrots, peas, sweet corn etc?

Tom: Dolly should eat pretty much anything that is put in front of her.

Other dad: Ok

Tom: As long as it's sausages...

Other dad: Should I just give her a plate of sausages then?

Tom: No just kidding! Give her anything. Please don't go to any trouble though - there is a danger she might not eat it and then I would feel awful...

Other dad: What sort of sausages does she like?

And so it continues...

Herefordshire life... and dreaming of those summer days

I have been in bed with flu for the last few days, so what better way to spend my time than hankering after summer days and being a pest on Instagram...

Betty and Dolly enjoying Herefordshire life

Back down to school with a bump

During the holidays any kind of sensible routine went completely out of the window. In fact, the girls bouncing off their bedroom walls and squealing in a Christmas-induced tinsel frenzy til ten o'clock every night seemed a small price to pay for all the blissful lie-ins we were getting.

However, when it was time to go back to school, they understandably found it hard to settle back into the routine of lights out and sleep at 7.30pm. But when they came home after their first day back and said that they had both been told by teachers that they looked shattered, I decided I needed to take action and forego the lie-ins. Heaven forbid the school thinking that we are awful neglectful parents for having knackered, dopey children, who stay up all night watching Disney films and eating crap.

So on Tuesday night, at 6pm, I hid the clocks and marched them upstairs telling them it was already practically the middle of the night. 'But we've only just had supper,' they protested. They were tucked up by 6.30pm and as I left the room I told them that if they went straight to sleep without getting out of bed or exchanging insults, they would get a treat in their lunch box the following morning.

My chocoholic, sugar-addict daughter Betty took this bribe very seriously indeed, and after about two minutes of her gently but intensively persuading Dolly that she must do as I said, they both pretty much went straight to sleep.

And not only did they sleep all night, but the following morning Betty appeared at my bedside at 7am, fully dressed, bright eyed and bushy tailed and asking: 'So, can I have two treats for being so good?'

Dolly was a bit cross that Betty had got dressed so efficiently. In response, Dolly decided to take 20 minutes to get one leg into her tights and then have a meltdown.

The following night, not long after I had given them the same treat-in-lunchbox bribe and left the room, Dolly called down to me and, proud as can be, she told me that she was already dressed in her uniform and ready for school.

I had already settled on the sofa with a glass of wine and Alan Partridge on Netflix, and so decided that it probably wouldn't do her any harm to sleep in her school uniform all night, and it would in fact save me a battle in the morning. So I let it go, and carried on with Alan.

This morning though, Betty was beside herself with annoyance that Dolly had got dressed before her - a whole 12 hours before her in fact. Who would have thought that a miniature imitation Milky Way could hold this much weight? And who knows where it will end?
 
In the meantime, my children may now be awake in class but I wonder what the school would have to say about them sleeping in their uniform and eating chocolate from Aldi for lunch every single day?

Hands off my phone!

Dolly's Instagram photo

Recently I have been on a bit of an emotional rollercoaster due to family members borrowing my phone. My beloved phone.

First off was Tom who, while eating apple cake and custard the other night, inexplicably asked to look at it.

He never looks at my phone, even when I want him to, so I can only assume that he purposefully borrowed it in order to drop it into his custard (though he claimed later that it was an accident). 

I scooped my terrified phone out of the custard and ran into the bathroom, where I sucked the custard out of the charging sockets and speaker holes – basically performing mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.  Fortunately my emergency response was effective and my phone still worked. 

Then the other night it got borrowed again. When I checked my Instagram account the next morning, I noticed a very arty picture of the bedroom that I didn’t remember taking. Intrigued, I scrolled down and there was another picture, this time a nicely-framed shot of Dolly’s rabbit comforter, and I realised who the mystery photographer was. 

Somehow, my four-year-old daughter had taken two photos with my phone and uploaded them to my Instagram account. She’d even added a frame and an effect to one of the photos (above).

The pictures proved to be popular and they gained several likes, and Dolly even netted me a few extra followers too.  No disrespect to Dolly, but it does make one wonder about the judgement of some of my followers...

No to the Cream Horn (poem)

Cream horn, cream horn, why are you so bleak?
You think your cream's fantastic, and your cone is really neat
With your faux-French style you believe that you're the best
But every time I see you I start to get depressed.

You make me sigh so much, you're not even a proper cake:
Your pastry's made from cardboard and your cream is clearly fake.
Everything about you is either dismal or synthetic -
What you need to understand is that, to me, you are pathetic.

Some might mourn the disappearance of this old-school confection;
Though you can be found in market towns too destitute to mention,
It was so long since I'd seen you that I thought that you were dead;
But one awful day I noticed you on 2 for 1 in Greggs.

From now on when I see you I'll be sure to cross the road,
And warn the shoppers round me to beware your creamy load.
You think you're like an ice cream, a sweet treat for the thrifty
You should go back to where you came from, back to 1950.

Letter to Grandma

This is an open letter to my grandmother, who sadly passed away three weeks ago today.

Dear Grandma

My amazing grandmother

Your great granddaughters, Betty and Dolly, are missing you so much. I am too. Dolly has cried a lot and keeps asking to see photos - there are many with you two gazing adoringly at each other. You both had a very special bond, and I know that the fact you always called her a 'little bugger' was a term of great affection.

Betty is showing her grief in a different way and is trying to be brave. She is concentrating on comforting her little sister. But just before bed the other night, I saw her thoughtfully looking at the candle we have had burning for you, and close to tears, she quietly said 'goodbye grandma.' It broke my heart. You two were also very close - you and granddad were her first visitors at the hospital when she was born, after all. And you both admirably braved the snow and ice to attend her first birthday.

Both girls always loved coming to visit you. And when we'd arrive you would always have a duster in your hand and the ironing board out, and needless to say, your house was spotless. This made me feel very nervous with two small children in tow. And while I was almost blowing a gasket, I was always amazed at how calm you appeared when the girls dropped cake crumbs throughout your house and then trod them into the carpet, and smeared chocolate into the cushions, and left jam fingerprints on the wall. But you always put me at my ease and refused to let me get the vacuum cleaner out. And then off we'd go, laden with Dolly Mixtures and Turkish Delight in the pink boxes, and you'd tell me off for having a filthy car. I would love to know what you did after we left - I am guessing you were up til midnight straightening things out. As granddad always said: 'If I had a brass button on my bottom she'd polish it.'

Grandma, you were truly brilliant... when I think of you...

I think of the lady who made the most perfect Victoria sandwich, and the best roast dinners. I had my first taste of sherry at your house, while you and mum were having a tipple before our roast lamb one day. And after lunch you and I would sit down and excitedly swap our Mills and Boon books with each other. We would talk about our favourite bits, and you would tell me about Rock Hudson. I think I was about eight at the time, and thought you were so cool. And my Sindys were the most well kitted out dolls in the history of mankind, thanks to you.

The speed at which you would knit while watching the telly was incredible, and you'd stay up all night knitting yourself a cardigan because you wanted to wear it the next day. You once knitted me a school jumper which wasn't quite the regulation shade of bottle green - at first I was mortified about having to wear it, but grew to love it in the end.

You had a wicked sense of humour, and we would heartily cackle together about the same things. You always looked immaculate, and were Marks and Spencer's best customer. You were fiercely independent, still cleaning your windows and weeding between your paving stones at 93.

You loved sunbathing, and your figurines, and yellow primroses, and Princess Diana, and Corrie, and you pretended to love cBeebies (for the sake of my children). You got me hooked on Viennetta and mint jelly. You made truly magnificent trifles and mince pies, and regularly force fed me angel cake, but you were a painfully fussy eater, often taking your own cheese sandwiches if we went out for lunch.

You often remarked on how much Tom looks like Elvis and how I'd got myself a real catch. And you completely adored and doted on Betty and Dolly. And you always asked after my mum who I know you were very close to. When you last saw her your smile lit up the room.

You were an amazing, funny, kind, loving lady and you touched us all. We all love you so much, and I am so glad that you and I held each other tightly not so long ago and told each other so.

You were such a big and important part of our lives, and you will be sorely missed. We send love, light and happiness to you always.

Things I hate about Christmas

a depressing Christmas scene

I am listing below my grievances related to the ever-expanding festive period:

• Mince pies being sold in September, with a best before date of 25th October (two whole months before the big day itself).

• People who buy mince pies in September, eat them, and remark on how festive they are feeling.

• Shop-bought nativity costumes - tea towels, old sheets, tinsel, and dressing gowns are what nativities are all about, not spending a small fortune on an elaborate sheep costume in Sainsbury's.

• Fake Santas - I have never seen a convincing Santa in a grotto. So when your child meets a skinny man (sometimes woman) dressed in red and wearing trainers, with no charisma, a blonde ponytail sticking out from under a cheap synthetic wig, who then hands them a crap present (which you've paid £5 for), it makes them ask a lot of questions, and completely shatters the magic.

• Christmas cards - writing and sending cards is both time consuming and expensive. If you want to write a heartfelt festive letter (or email) to dear friends and family telling them of your news, then that's lovely. But merely scrawling your name on a tasteless M&S card and sending it to someone that you see every day, or haven't seen for thirty years come to that, just for the sake of it, is totally pointless. I realise I now won't receive any Christmas cards this year and I'll have to buy a load to send to myself from imaginary people otherwise my house will look bare and people will ask awkward questions.

• Unwanted presents - my house is already filled to the brim with crap that I don't know what to do with, so I would really prefer not to add to it. So please think before you buy me that mini food processor (intended for a family of one) - will I actually find a use for it? Or will it kick around in the back of the cupboard, taking up valuable space while housing a few mice, before I feel an acceptable period of time has passed when I can cart it off to the charity shop?

• The giant inflatable Father Christmas that pops up outside the garden centre on the way into Hereford, in mid October. Every time we drive past it, it has either deflated and lies in an ugly, muddy, depressing heap on the ground, or the looming monstrosity gets the children really excited because they think Christmas is just around the corner.

• Christmas trees that start appearing in the windows of houses in November - I genuinely don't understand how the owners don't get sick of the sight of them - all those baubles, and gaudy tinsel.

• And even worse, Christmas trees that are still up in February.

• Receiving emails that are signed off with 'Wishing you a very happy Christmas' from the beginning of November.

• Christmas shoppers in the January sales.

• The question 'What are you doing for Christmas?' asked in July.

• Feeling obliged to put on two stone.

I might sound like a miserable old cow, but these things really get me down. I absolutely LOVE Christmas. I love taking the kids to the nativity service in Hereford cathedral on Christmas Eve, marvelling at the Christmas lights on Regent Street, buying them little stocking fillers that I know will make them chortle, making the Christmas pudding and sipping on mulled wine, seeing the kids with tea towels strapped to their heads, watching their little faces as they discover the presents under the tree, making decorations, eating pigs in blankets, singing carols around the piano, lighting the advent candle, leaving Father Christmas a glass of sherry and a satsuma, and playing with new toys and games. But for us, none of this takes place until we are well and truly into December.

So I really resent the fact that all around us, Christmas now seems to take up 25% of the entire year. Apart from anything else it gets in the way of my Easter preparations, which I like to begin in August.

Photo source: flickr/Po'Jay

Birthday/rugby mania, and Betty's big day

After a six month countdown, and a weekend of birthday treats and celebrations, Betty finally turned seven today! 

She was gutted that she had to go to school on her birthday. But as I packed her off this morning with the 24 cupcakes for her class, I was secretly relieved to be having a few hours' respite from birthday mania.

On Saturday we took the girls ice-skating at the Winter Wonderland in Cardiff. We thought it would be fun to take the train, until we realised that there was a major rugby match taking place at the Millennium Stadium later that day. The train was jam-packed, and we were told that unless we got the 3.55pm train back again, we would have little chance of getting home.

So Betty's birthday day out took place at very high speed. We had lunch on the go, while jogging to the ice-skating rink from Cardiff Central, pushing our way through the pissed Wales supporters, and dissuading the girls from wanting a Welsh dragon tattooed on their cheek.

After an hour on the ice, being bashed in the ankles and sent flying by Dolly and her penguin support, and trying to protect Betty from a fast but out-of-control woman who seemed to be tailing us for the entire session, we hung up our skates.

Betty and I then had a quick go on a fair ride, which spun us over the rooftops of Cardiff. It was exhilarating but terrifying, and I am always amazed at Betty, who freaks out over a pimple on her knee, but is totally unfazed by being shot 60 metes into the sky on a plastic swing with her mum screaming in her ear.

We then had to race back to the station before the rugby match finished. We made it just in time, and saw just one confused rugby fan wandering up and down the platform.

Having recovered from our day trip, my next task was to start thinking about the 'amazing' Disney Princess birthday cake that Betty had requested. I enlisted Dolly's help, and yesterday we pored over photos on the internet for inspiration. Thank goodness for Pinterest, is all I can say. Three tiers (and tears), 14 eggs, and a few minor disagreements with Dolly over the design later, we were done.

Betty, I do hope you like the cake and that it meets your expectations, and is better than the cake you said you wanted from Sainsbury's just an hour after I had spent an entire day making you one at home.

Happy birthday my darling, beautiful, clever, funny girl. Your love of Disney Princesses, and astronomy, and the workings of the human body, and rainbows, and gel pens, and joined up writing, makes you very unique and brilliant indeed, and we love you very very much.

Getting lost down memory lane (in London)

Betty on the escalator 

We went on a fleeting trip to London last weekend, just for one night. I liked the idea of casually jumping in the car on a Saturday morning with our toothbrushes, and making our way there, as though it were just twenty minutes down the road. Pretending it is that easy really comforts me and helps expand my mental horizons beyond sheep and mud. 

In reality though, the journey takes four hours, the kids get bored, fight over the iPad, and punch each other, while I bark at them, Tom sighs and we eventually turn the radio up loud enough to drown them out. However, as soon as we hit the A40 traffic on the outskirts of London, and started seeing signs for the North Circular, as always, my stress levels begin to lift. 

The thick smell of car fumes, the rows of short flickering street lights near Heathrow, the old Hoover building, and picking up Magic FM on the radio... All reminders for me that we were entering one of the best cities in the world, and returning to the scene of some of my happiest memories. 

As we wove our way through the narrow streets of West London, Tom and I excitedly pointed out familiar landmarks; the house I lived in when I was 23, Tom's favourite sausage roll shop, our favourite Thai takeway, and a big tree that is still causing the pavement to erupt next to the launderette. In part the conversation was designed to demonstrate to the girls just how well their parents knew this great city, but in the back of the car Dolly had found a plastic spoon and Betty wanted it. 

These days, as soon as we get into London, I am always itching to get straight on the tube. The familiar worn blue velvety seats, the yellow sticky poles, the adverts for holidays in the countryside and perfume, and most importantly, the people. I try to imagine who they are, what exciting things they might have done that morning, and where they are going. In Hereford this game of people watching is far harder, because pretty much everywhere you go, you know everyone and where they are going. 

As an adult, traveling by tube means either staring at your book, or your nails, or trying not to get caught staring at the person sitting opposite you. Heaven forbid if you make eye contact with someone, or raise a slight smile.

With children on a tube however, it becomes a totally different experience.  People were happily offering up their seats for my girls, and chatting to them. One guy gave Dolly a hanky to wipe her nose, while someone else stopped Betty going flying as the train screeched to a halt in a station. 

And this friendliness towards children isn't just restricted to the tube. People were still friendly on the escalators, on the streets, in the shops, everywhere. 

It was also so blissful and urban, and such a contrast to the routine out here in the sticks, that I confidently strode off in completely the wrong direction when we came out of the tube station and we quickly got lost. For quite a long time I pretended to know where I was going because it was too much for my pride to look like a tourist, and I would rather have ended up in Epping Forest or Dorking than get out an A to Z, or ask for directions.

Eventually, however, Dolly started to grow suspicious (it was growing dark by then, and we could almost see fields) so Tom asked a friendly man in a hat where exactly we were. It turned out that he didn’t know either, but luckily we managed to find another tube station before too long and we piled back onto another train. 

It wasn’t quite so friendly this time and the novelty was starting to wear off a bit for Betty and Dolly. Pretty soon we were all getting upset and shouty and people were giving us looks. I wanted to turn around and say, hey, we’re not a bunch of chav hicks, I used to live next door to George Martin, but by then the bubble had burst. 

It was a lovely weekend though. Such a great place to visit, and I still sort of consider myself a Londoner even though I live miles from the smoke. London is still mine, all mine, even if I look like a clueless tourist sometimes...

Urgent Appeal: Philippines Typhoon

Save the Children have put out an urgent appeal to help families who have been affected by the devastating typhoon in the Philippines, who need urgent, life-saving supplies.

195mph winds have struck populated areas, forcing families to flee their homes, and putting lives at risk.

Please help by donating to their Philippines Typhoon Appeal.  A donation of £50 could provide four families with clean and safe water and soap for a month.

Please give what you can to help children through this terrifying time.

A seven-year-old's birthday wish list

It's Betty's seventh birthday in just over a week, and boy don't we know it.  She has been doing a countdown since May, and every single day informs us of how many days there are to go.  I just hope that when the big day arrives it's not going to be a massive anti-climax - I am seriously feeling the pressure right now.

While browsing the aisles in Sainsbury's yesterday, I had a little moment of nostalgia.  Those days of her being over the moon at receiving a sticker book, or a pot of glitter from a supermarket are long gone.  Having said this, I do take heart in the fact that she has requested a couple of surprisingly simple (cheap!) items this year.

Here is Betty's birthday wish list (at the time of going to press, anyway):

• Box of Strawberry Fields Tic Tacs - she can make one box last about two months!  Dolly, on the other hand, makes one box last two minutes.

• Disney Princess Belle dress - she requests a Disney Princess dress for every birthday - it's become a Betty tradition.

• Ruby Ducks printed dress - as readers of this blog know, Betty loves her duck, probably even more than she loves us - so for her this dress is PERFECT.

• Ruby Floral printed dress - in fact, the Joules range of girls' dresses is so lovely, she would probably want every single one of them.  

• Pink 'grown-up' camera - for the last few months she has been using an old camera of mine, which has a big crack across the screen - but she has demonstrated her love of picture taking, and is actually quite good.

• Disney Beauty and the Beast DVD - I was thrilled to find this in a Charity Shop the other day!

• Gel Pens - the girl is obsessed with gel pens.

• iPad - jeez.

• Tube of Jelly Beans - that's more like it.

• Book about astronomy and space - after all the girly, pink, princess requests, she threw us a curve ball with this one! 

Thanks to Joules for sponsoring this post! 

I broke Gove's rule, and my children benefited

We recently went on holiday to Mallorca, and to save ourselves a heck of a lot of money, we went three days before the girls broke up for half-term.

The delightful Michael Gove says that by taking your kids out of school for a few days during term-time for a family holiday will harm their education.  And so he has imposed a ridiculous new rule on us. Bollocks!

For the sake of missing a few days from school, my children were exposed to a whole wealth of new experiences - which they would never be able to get at school.

It was the first time we've been abroad as a family, and everything was new.  My girls experienced an airport for the very first time.  They learnt about aviation, and had the thrill of taking off into the sky and being above the clouds. They saw a bizarre circular rainbow. They got to go into the cockpit, and meet a real life (extremely handsome) pilot. They got to see almost the entire length of England and France from above - the millions of green fields and 'toy houses', and the Pyrenees, and the boats on the English Channel. And then they had the thrill of sucking lots of sweets, popping their ears, and landing in a different country. They marvelled at the hot weather, seeing real palm trees and giant cacti, swimming in a warm sea, and having massive grasshoppers crawl up their arms. They learnt how to expertly peel a prawn, and they got to speak proper Spanish, and drink Fanta (and watch mummy drinking Piña Coladas). They saw magnificent cathedrals, quaint Spanish villages, donkeys, beautiful pink flowers, incredible street entertainment, and Dolly got to meet Mickey Mouse. They got to splash around in an outdoor pool without getting frostbite, play on lilos, and greatly improve their swimming and ball skills. They got excited about the hotel lift and took it in turns to press the buttons. They experienced a crazy electric storm and flooding on the streets, and a terrifying drive along a windy and steep mountain road. They learnt about a different culture, the people, the food, the language, the plant and animal life, the time difference, and driving on the wrong side of the road. 

And as a family we had a very important and happy and relaxed time together.

So, Mr Gove, if you think there's a more educational and wholesome way to spend a few days, I'd like to hear it... 

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