Tuesday 24 December 2013

Mummy mistakes, mishaps and merry Christmases

I've just returned from a beautiful service at my Church and NOW it feels like Christmas. The marketing circus may have begun sometime just after Easter but MY Christmas began today (with just two sleeps to go!).

Of course, seasoned withdewrespect readers will be aware that our household has not just one but two Christmases with all the trimmings.  The stockings go up twice and the kids are wearing their new onesies before Santa's little helpers have even got the pressies down from the top of the wardrobe in most homes (other hiding places are available).  The tills are still ringing in Toysrus when my sons' Shoot and Ninja Turtle annuals are unwrapped, their selection boxes are empty and the Hot Wheels cars are lost under the sofa.

Our Christmas Eve Mark I was on Friday, December 21 and Santa took an early trip south and dropped off the gifts, drank the wine and ate the apple (don't judge me, I forgot to buy in the mince pies!).  He will kindly return on December 24 making stop-offs both in Bridlington (where my husband's children live) and in Portugal where my oldest son spends Christmas every year with his dad.  (new readers, please refer to previous blogs to fill in the gaps of this family tree and my thoughts on separated / blended family life).

This year, Daniel (6) brought the festive ditty All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth to life.  Just days ago, he knocked out one front tooth on the sofa (don't ask, Ninja, WWE or free-running moves were involved).  Then, on Christmas Eve Mark I, he had the other inadvertently yanked out by his mother (who, me?).
Please don't ring Esther, I was pulling his jumper over his head (OK, maybe a somewhat heavy hand was deployed as he was refusing to get undressed for bed).  As it passed over his open (squawking) mouth, it pulled his other front tooth out!!!

The next day, I glared at every friend / shopkeeper / random sticky-beak who said, 'ooooh, has the tooth fairy been?!'.
Daniel's face would fall as he sadly replied: "No, she forgot."

....shall I dial Ms Rantzen for you?

I'm a bad, bad mother.

I managed to convince him that, having stayed at his grandma's the night before while we were driving Teddy to Gatwick, maybe the tooth fairy was confused as to his exact whereabouts.  Another friend suggested maybe the tooth fairy was too busy helping Santa wrap presents (I like that much better and wish I'd have thought of it).

Mind you, either way, not much gets past Daniel....

Advent calendars are a source of daily excitement in our house, allowing the kids licence to eat chocolate before school for 24 days.

It's like the ad for Cream Eggs (which, no doubt, we'll be treated to on Boxing Day); how do you eat yours?
 
Teddy rips open the cardboard door and shoves the chocolate in along with a mouthful of toast.
Daniel spends ages finding the correct door then studies the pictures on the front of the door, carefully opens the door, shows the picture to his uninterested brother, struggles to remove the chocolate without damaging it, then admires it for some time before having a nibble.

He also enjoys looking at my Hello Kitty advent calendar chocolate (don't ask) and today the conversation went thus: -
Me: "Look Daniel, my chocolate is a robin on a branch today."
Daniel peered at my chocolate before turning it the other way up and correcting: "Silly mum, it's Rudolph!"

Should have gone to Specsavers!!  (other opticians are available)  However, as I live and preach the 'shop local' ethos, you wouldn't catch me supporting such an independent store-murdering commercial retail chain anyway.

There's simply no neat segue from this tale to my next.  It's literally from the 'mouths of babes comes the voice of angels' to 'from the mouths of rather horrid post-pubescent scum-bags comes soggy food'.

I was out for a run the other day, minding my own business, enjoying the winter sunshine and jogging along the main road towards home.

Suddenly, on oncoming car slowed slightly and the passenger wound down his window and spat a mouthful of Cheesy Wotsits at me while the driver whooped with laughter at their jolly jape and sped away.

Words fail me (for once!).

You may be asking how I knew they were Cheesy Wotsits.  Well, come on, you shouldn't let good food to go to waste!


Wishing all my faithful and new withdewrespect readers a peaceful, fun and family-filled Christmas and a New Year which brings health and happiness to all.  Thank you for reading.


Tuesday 17 December 2013

Just a lot of hot air....

Be warned, dear withdewrespect reader, I'm in the mood for a bit of a whinge.....

A few wheelie bins fall over, leaves blow off trees, a crisp packet is whipped up into the air, the door mysteriously swings open on your electric meter and your hair might get a bit messed up.

Listening to folk talking, be it on the national news or in the Post Office, you'd have thought Hurricane Hardcor-etta had struck the British Isles this week.

More like Hurricane Abitofabreeza.

Get a grip people.....and I don't mean on to the nearest lamppost so you don't fall over or on to your house roof so it doesn't blow off!

Speaking over over-reacting to the weather......

I had a bit of a political FaceBook whinge the other week, although I think my hot air was about as powerful as the aforementioned 'high winds which battered the country' (don't you just love journalists and their lyrical waxing; cue winking smiley).

I was provoked into my social media rant after receiving a text from my son's football manager to say all football games on Kirklees pitches were cancelled that coming weekend.
They'd clearly had the crystal ball out, received an e.mail from from Him upstairs or believed everything spouted by the Met Office.  None of which, personally, I have much faith in.

In reality, the predicted 'strong breezes' failed to manifest and on a beautiful autumnal weekend with blue skies all around, hundreds of boys and girls, young men and women were sat at home stuffing their faces with left-over Halloween sweets and staring at computer screens.  Football pitches around the region were deserted and the postponed games which the young players spend all week looking forward to, will probably never happen.

Isn't this nation supposed to be tackling obesity and promoting healthy living, sport and team spirit (how quickly the hype of 2012 is forgotten?).

And while I've got my trumpet out of its case and I'm up here on my soapbox, I'll remind fickle weather whingers (not you, of course, dear reader), that just a few weeks ago the people of the Philippines found out all-too-tragically what the forces of nature can REALLY do and I was thrilled that my friends and family chipped in to raise £330 for the aid appeal.  All I did was have a nice jog down Kirkstall Road with 12,000 fellow fund-raisers.  Pip, as my kids would say (or was that last week, I really must keep up?!).

And shall I tell you what else annoys me.....?  (Blimey, I'm not going to be able to leave the house, there's going to be a lynch mob of offended people camped outside my house).

York Railway Station!  Lots of fancy metal things to stub out your cigarette, but no actual bin to throw your banana skin in.  (A throw away remark (!?!) but says a lot about the state of the Nation methinks)

Hey, just realised it's my blog's birthday!  I only thought of that because I was about to continue my rant with my thoughts about the increasingly early arrival of Christmas hysteria but then I remembered I did that a year ago and I don't want to repeat myself with the same seasonal editorial year-after-year, I'm not writing for Good Housekeeping am I?!  Can I just say though, I think the lady in the local gift shop who asked me if I was 'ready for it' on November 27th was lucky to get away with a black eye.

So, I'll check what I whinged about last Christmas and get back to you soon on my moans for the 2013 festive season.....bet you can't wait?!

I'll leave you with a special treat from the mouths of babes.....

Teddy: "Daniel, let me do a five knuckle shuffle on you?"

"What was that Teddy?!," I cry as my head spins round so quickly I get whiplash.

"Five knuckle shuffle, mum, don't you even know what that is, duuuuur?"

(Well, I thought I knew what it meant and somehow I hoped I was very, very wrong and like 'sick',  it now meant something totally different!)

"No, Teddy, what does it mean, my sweet, innocent 11-year-old son?"

Looking at me like I've just been beamed down from planet Olden Days, Teddy replies: "It's a WWE move."

Oh, thank God for that!

Hang on a minute, what the *%$@ is WWE?  (ahhhhhh, exploding brain, too many questions).

Good old Google (I'm not THAT old) informed me that WWE is what was WWF.  Presumably, the Pandas finally got fed up being confused with orange American men prancing around a padded ring in lycra.




Sunday 10 November 2013

When in Rome....

Well, that cements it (no pun intended).....I definitely don't want to be an archaeologist when I grow up.

I've just spent an entire afternoon gently digging and brushing away at a half-house-brick-sized block of plaster to unearth remains of a T-Rex.

No, I've not gone mad (I know a T-Rex is much bigger than a house brick).

It was a kit purchased for my 6-year-old from the 'learning' department of Toys R Us (yes, they do have one, it's tucked away behind the ridiculously-priced plastic aisle and the mindless, pointless games area, next to the assorted weaponry and replica arms aisle).

The idea is to meticulously scrape, carefully chip and painstakingly brush away the plaster to gradually unearth the remains of a mini T-Rex.  My six-year-old was bored after an hour (he did well) and went off to attack his brother with a light saber.  After two hours of barely scratching the surface, I resorted to soaking the plaster block in the kitchen sink then hacking away with the bread knife.  I stopped short of hurling it on to the patio, my OCD couldn't have coped with the aftermath.

So, archaeology not clearly in my blood....although I do have quite a lot of the plaster stuck behind my nails, but I don't think that counts.

Anyway, on the subject of old stuff, blimey Rome is full of it isn't it!?

Maybe not Jurassic old but really, really old nonetheless.

I'm not sure there's much more I can say without sounding like a plebeian, not being a learned theologian or historian or culturian (which a squiggly red underline suggests isn't even a word. Pah, what does Google know?!)

Anyway, if pleb means 'commoner' (in ancient Rome) then I was right at home and thus feel qualified to comment.....

On our return from our mini-jaunt to the historic city, an Italian friend asked what was the highlight of our trip.  Well, I pondered for a few moments.  So much to choose from; the incomprehensibly ancient walls of the Colosseum, the architectural marvel of the Pantheon roof, the breathtaking scale of St Peter's Basilica, the serene beauty of the cascading water at the Trevi Fountain?

"Ah yes," I replied, "my highlight was bartering a street seller down to €10 for a fake Prada handbag and a Burberry scarf at the top of the Spanish steps."

Hey, a girl's gotta shop!!

Rome is beautiful.  The city was literally heaving with tourists and ever-present pestering scarf and trinket sellers at every turn and several monuments were shrouded in scaffolding and mesh but, apart from that, the city IS beautiful and we got to see the Pope himself!

As someone who ashamedly messed about a lot in history lessons, I apologise is advance for admitting that my lasting memories of Rome do not lay in the unfeasibly sturdy walls erected centuries ago or the meticulous carvings and paintings created from the crudest of materials and tools by the most talented of hands.

As a passionate observer of human life, there were other things that caught my attention.

Like the Roman drivers.

If you've been, you'll know what I mean.

If not, then let me explain.  It seems in Rome that using the mobile phone whilst driving is compulsory.  Even if you've got nothing to say, you still need to phone a friend when you get in the car.

However.....  I actually believe (apart from this), they've got driving right.  They just get on with it, survival of the bravest.  There are no road markings, no respect for fellow road users, few traffic lights, no speed cameras, in fact, no distractions.  They just drive, simples.  They are alert, focused and keep their eye on the road and it works.  In the UK, we're so busy checking for constantly varying speed limits, lines and signs here, there and everywhere, flashing lights, bollards and humps, there's no wonder we're all running into each other.

My other lasting memory of Rome is not for the faint-hearted, or those eating lunch.

We were sat on an open-top bus enjoying the sights when we paused for for the driver to nip into a museum for a 'comfort break'.

As I gazed around at the majestic buildings and beautiful blue Autumn sky, I noticed an old lady at a busy road junction.  At first I wondered what on earth she was doing.  Then the penny dropped (no pun intended).

She was, as tourists milled around her and traffic queued up at the junction alongside her, also taking comfort break, or (please excuse my French) taking a dump!

She had her skirt hoiked up around her waist and was in the process of completing her ablutions.  She had a large roll of kitchen roll and was winding off handfuls, having a good old scrub, taking a look, then throwing the soiled paper on to (another) huge pile on the pavement.

Shocked, I pointed her out to Gary who's only comment was: "Blimey, and I thought you used a lot of paper."

Of course, we mock, but this poor lady was clearly homeless, living on the streets when she desperately needed to be cared for by somebody.  It seems in Rome, there's money to meticulously clean the walls of St Peter's but not enough the give a home and dignity to someone who has fallen on hard times.  Just a couple of streets away, in Via Condotti, I saw a lady pay €1,450 for a small brown handbag (adorned with lots of LVs).

I'm  not sure if Rome has got its priorities right when it comes to equality and respect for its people and perhaps a little too much fiscal attention is paid to crumbling walls.

I'll end with a couple of Daniel/Teddy howlers.

Daniel: "Come and watch my new card trick mum...."
Me: "Wow, Daniel, that's brilliant.  Tell me how you do it."
Daniel: "No, daddy said I shouldn't tell anyone."
Me: "Well yes, but I'm your mum."
Daniel, deadpan, before walking away: "Yes, and he's my dad."

Daniel: "We learnt about Guy Fawkes at school today."
Teddy, who had not been listening: "Eh, you learnt about Sky Sports?  That's not fair!!  We just did boring history."

Like mother like son.

Blimey, good job we didn't wear our Victorian bathing suits, we wouldn't have been allowed in the Vatican.

One man and his whistle.....

Friday 18 October 2013

How to stop your toast landing butter side down

What a to-do when you've got a lot of to dos on your to do list.

I have a pretty full 'to do' list today and appear to be writing my blog, which isn't even on the list!

Working from home (job-hunting) is all well and good, until it gets to lunchtime.  I've just polished off a stale cupcake the kids had left, an Oat so Simple bowl of microwave porridge and I'm about to raid my unsuspecting son's 'hidden' chocolate stash.  I need to get a job quick just to pay my WW subs.

Then there's the issue Radio 4 were debating only last week; do people working from home, actually work or are they just sending the occasional e.mail and calling the boss every other hour while watching MOTD on catch-up, reading the paper or walking the dog?
Of course, that's the male version.
The female version of the work-from-home skiver would be putting the washing in, taking it out, hanging it up, ironing, cleaning, cooking the tea AND walking the dog.

And the burning question; can you get away with Skyping in your pyjamas if you angle your laptop's camera eye so you can only be seen from the neck up?  For this option, clothing is optional but full hair and make-up are NOT.  And don't move!

Anyway, speaking of reading the paper, I've given up after my mother-in-law left a copy of the Daily Mail and I found a full page feature on page 7 (page 7!!!) entitled 'How to stop toast landing butter side down'.

So, on with the list.  On today's to do list is to write a present list for my little lad's impending 6th birthday.

So far, he has gone through the Argos catalogue and optimistically turned down the corner on every page from 1451 to 1645, including the Barbie page.

It actually turned out OK when he whittled his list down to just two pages. I walked into Toys R Us, tipped the shelf of Ninja Turtle plastic into a trolley, re-mortgaged the house on a Samsung app, paid and left. (Apologies to Toys R Us for not presenting their branding correctly and turning the R around.  Mind you, it serves them right for assuming today's children can't fully conjugate the verb 'to be').

I used to think I was 'down with the kids', a hip and happening mum.  Mind you, this was when I thought taking them to McDonalds and knowing who Jessie J is qualified me as both hip and happening.
Clearly, there's more to it.  This week, my young son called me upstairs to watch him on his PS3. He was playing Grand Theft Auto and asked me whether I liked the car he had chosen to kill and maim, 'sick, innit mum?'

Don't ask, (or call Social Services).  'The absent father' flew in and suddenly Game were £44.99 better off and my innocent son was tearing around the foul-mouthed, violent, pornographic, crime-ridden streets of LA, (once he'd finished his homework and eaten all his tea, of course).

Thankfully, he didn't have his eyes opened too wide before a friend swiftly informed me just how 'sick' GTA is and  exactly why it is rated 18.  To which my eyes, and my mouth, opened even wider and Gary had to look up some words in the dictionary!


Thank you for reading.

Somebody told me this week, 'love your blog, made me smile!'

Just as I'd hoped.

Coming next.....cor blimey, Rome has some right old buildings doesn't it?!



Thursday 26 September 2013

Gis a job!

I'm currently job-hunting and therefore pondering whether I should re-write the entire contents of withdewrespect and edit any reference to ineptness, forgetfulness, clumsiness and drunkenness but I realised it would result in a blank blog or, at best, a very short one.

It would also be rather dry.  For example, if you take my last entry, it simply wouldn't be funny if I told the truth and dispelled the image that I'm a bit dim and can't cope with selecting the correct sequence of numbers on a telephone touch screen keypad.
You see, it made much funnier reading to recount my tale of ringing the wrong friend and attributing it to, well, dimness.
The truth is (dear potential employer), I've got chubby fingers and both friends' names begin with 'S'.  In fact, I seem to have an disproportionate number of contacts under 'S' (strange), and my chunky digits merely tapped the wrong one.  Now, I'm sure there will be an Equal Opportunities group of activists who would fly in like vultures if anyone tried to discriminate against me on the basis of finger size so I've decided to leave withdewrespect, warts and all.  Maybe I should set up a finger-related charity myself, just in case, I'll call it FAFFF, Friends and Associates of Fat Fingered Folk.

Now we've got that cleared up, on with the waffle.

Speaking of phones,predictive texting has a lot to answer for.
Just the other day my friend texted to recommend a restaurant, informing me she'd, 'never had a bad Neal there'.  I replied to check her husband knew about Neal.

I could fill an entire separate blog with my newly-acquainted-with-the-texting-world mum and her predictive bloopers, they are priceless.  I never thought my mother could make me LOL.

And just this morning, I was texting my husband to say, 'I'm preparing stew and dumplings for tea', and lo and behold, once I'd entered 'I'm' - space - and got as far as the 'pre', and it predicted, 'pregnant'!?
Good job I was focused on texting and not stirring the stew, or I'd have been texting my lawyer to either cash in the life insurance or to finalise the divorce, oh, and to sue Mirena (one for the ladies).

And another thing, Piz Buin (how DO you say that, answers on a postcard please?) and Elnett need to talk. Their branding people need to sit down around a table and come to an amicable agreement on which one will change the bronze colour of their hair spray / spray-on tan packaging.
On Saturday night, I had three young boys sitting in the car outside our house waiting to be taken to a fancy Indian restaurant for my son's birthday treat. At the last minute I hastily decided to have a good old squirt of spray on my carefully coiffured hair.  I'll let you finish that story.

Withdewrespect is a short one today, I'm dashing to take 20 kids to school on my walking bus, give blood, help Year 1 sew cushions, buy my mum a birthday present, visit an elderly relative, take one son to gymnastics and the other to street dance, end war and poverty, polish my halo and lie down in a darkened room.  Come to think of it, I don't have time to work!!!!



Saturday 31 August 2013

Upstairs, downstairs or Oy, that's my shirt!

A friend and fellow forty-something-year-old recently asked if I'd ever set off upstairs then forgotten why I was actually going upstairs.
Eh, comment, pardon, o que!?
Obviously I retorted that this was not an experience with which I am familiar......

What I didn't bother mentioning was that I regularly forget why I've opened the fridge, I put pink socks in my sons' drawers and can't remember who I'm calling by the time I've finished dialling the number.  Yesterday, I called my aforementioned friend.  When she answered, I asked if she was at work.

"No", she replied, "you know very well my maternity leave doesn't finish until November.  Dianne, have you rung me by mistake again?" continued my completely different twenty-something-year-old friend and new mum, clearly with all her marbles still intact (for now, cue evil knowing laugh, ha, ha, ha, ha!!).

And hey, the 'going up the stairs' thing is easy.  You're either tired (go to bed), need the loo (go to the loo), got your arms full of clean clothes (put them away, preferably in the right drawers) or carrying the Hoover (vacuum the floor).  No early onset of Dementia can catch me out on the stairs, no siree.

Now, where was I?

Ah yes, silly phrase of the week.  Have you ever heard the expression 'a watched pot never boils?'
How outdated is that?!

Does anyone watch a pot these days?   Don't we just flick the switch on the kettle, change the baby, do the shopping, take the toddler to the library, clean the bathroom and then remember we turned the kettle on?

But unlike a watched pot, the modern-day kettle has turned itself off and is stone cold by the time we actually get chance for a cuppa at 11.45pm and we're heading up the stairs to bed!

Anyway, I've invented my own 'watched pot' metaphor.

"A watched flight information board in the Arrivals hall at Gatwick doesn't change from 'expected' to 'landed' if you stare at it without blinking until your eyes go dry."

But you can guarantee that as soon as 'landed' does eventually appear and, after a further twenty minutes (which feels like a fortnight) it changes to 'baggage in hall', there's not a dry eye in Costa (or was that just me?).

Yes, if you're a withdewrespect regular, you'll know it's just been my third favourite day of the year when my ten-year-old son returns from spending summer with his dad in Portugal.  My first and second favourite days are when he returns from visiting his dad in Portugal at Easter and Christmas.

So me, grandma and the boys enjoyed a couple of days in London town and had a fabulous night at Billy and Elliott (as my five-year-old called it).  Mind you, also outdated is the giant Spitting Image puppet of Thatcher being chased by the scythe-toting Grim Reaper.....got ya.  (And were pre-adolescent working class children really so foul-mouthed up north in the 80s, I certainly wasn't.)  But what a fantastic show, my boys were mesmerised for three hours solid, Almost Naked Animals can't do that (see previous blog).

It was on our way home from the Capital that it all went pear-shaped.  My mum was desperate for a cuppa at Kings Cross but I told her she wouldn't have time to drink it and I'd get her one on the train.

As the Grand Central train slowly pulled out of the station, the chipper voice of the senior onboard crew member (or conductor) welcomed us on board before he dealt the fatal blow.

"We regret to inform passengers that we will not be serving a hot drinks service on this evening's four-hour-long journey."

I glanced over at my mum.  She hadn't heard, so I nipped down to the buffet car and bought her a bottle of wine.

However, while purchasing the wine I made an interesting discovery.  The reason for the 'no hot drinks' policy was because some of the pull-down tables were missing on some of the seats.  'Health and safety' said the shame-faced steward as he stood guard in front of the hot drinks machine.

But hang on a mo, didn't I see steaming cups of coffee as I walked through First Class?

"Ah yes, madam, they all have tables in First Class."

"Well, we have a table in carriage D."

"Tough."

Cups may have been steaming in First Class but the only thing steaming in Standard were the passengers!

Last week, I found myself among a lot of people who know a lot about football and like to voice their opinions, mingled with language akin to that of a 12-year-old from a 1980's strike-ridden County Durham mining community.  Yes, the new footie season is upon us and I seem to be once again the proud owner of a season ticket for Sheffield Wednesday Football Club.

There are many, many diamonds in jewellers shops near and far, but no, my husband annually buys me a small blue and white card with an Owl on it.

So, there I am watching the Owls versus the Millwall Lions (if we liken their odds to those in the animal kingdom, it seems like an obvious conclusion to me).

As the game was about to begin at Hillsborough, the visiting team (Millwall) rather bizarrely came out of the tunnel and proceeded to play in the away kit of the home team (Wednesday) - are you keeping up?

The Millwall players had been forced to borrow Wednesday's spare shirts, shorts and socks as it turned out their kit man had forgotten to bring a fundamental part of their belongings......their entire kit.

One job, the man has one job!

(Maybe their kit is kept on the first floor at The Den, and he forgot why on earth he was going up the stairs!)

Hang on a minute, isn't that my shirt....you'd better not get it dirty mate!


Saturday 24 August 2013

The Adventures of Waggy

I'm sitting watching CITV with the little one and asking myself why. Why, oh why is Almost Naked Animals deemed to be entertainment?  Answers on a postcard please. Where do we go next to push the boundaries, Inside Out Animals.....?
And then there's the (very) regular ten-minute-long commercial breaks filled with adverts that provide plenty of nagging-fodder for the kids.  "But I really, really want one, pleeeeeeeeeeeease!!!!"

With due respect to those good people who have the perhaps unenviable task of coming up with new and exciting toy concepts for the likes of Fisher Price, John Adams and Ideal, or being sacked......what on earth is Doggie Doo, Gooey Louie and Silly Moo?!

Hey kids, it's just fine to pick your nose (or even someone elses), play with the findings and then put it back but be careful, poke around to much and your brain will explode.  And hey, next time you see a pile of animal faeces, just pick it up and play with it, to hell with the raft of illnesses and blindness it could cause not to mention the disgusting smelling and staining properties, you're mum will  be just thrilled if you bring it home.
If you're thinking of purchasing Doggie Doo (well, for a start, STOP READING MY BLOG!) you might want to check out the Amazon reviews first.  Many reviewers observe that the pooh gets stuck inside the Doggy and you will need a screwdriver to open the dog and remove the blockages on a regular basis.  Maybe the game should include a small bag of prunes or some Dulcolax.
There are no reviews yet for Silly Moo.  But it appears the basic premise is that you squeeze it's nipples (sorry, udders) until it 'delivers' either milk or excrement and her eyes pop out when she's fully milked.  Dear God, what next?  And don't get me started on the Blingles kits, for six to 12-year-olds to decorate their iPhone 5.

What happened to Space Hoppers, Pick-a-Stick, Kalashnikov-toting Action Man and who could forget Barbie and Ken.  Good, clean, wholesome fun.....(!?)
Which reminds me mum, I still haven't forgiven you for taking Tiny's head off because sand got in her blinking eyes rendering her not so much Tiny Tears as Tiny Stares.

Speaking of children's toys, we played an enjoyable hour-long game of 'Where's Waggy?' the night before last.  No, (it's not a typo) not the traditional picture-book hunt for the little cheeky chap in the red and white striped sweater.  'Where's Waggy?' involved an international late night man-hunt (well, cat-hunt) for a small stuffed toy who goes by the name of Waggy.  (My young son's capacity to create names for his vast collection of much-loved teddy-bears is outstanding).

It's 10 o'clock and the five-year-old is still wide awake because he can't find Waggy.  We turn the house upside down.  We turn the garage upside down, and check the front and back gardens of all houses in the cul-de-sac. No sign.  We turn the neighbour's house upside down; nothing. I ring his brother in Portugal for advice, 'where was the last time he saw Waggy?'  Good advice.

Now Waggy has a special place in our home, not to mention a growing collection of belongings.  Currently he lives in a shoebox, has a strawberry box bed with two sets of duvet and pillow cases made out of kitchen roll and designed with a felt-tip drawing to mirror Daniel's own duvet sets.  Waggy also owns his own rail card, piece of polyestyrene, elastic band collar with a real cat's bell which Daniel found under a bush in the park and one of those keyring coins you use in the supermarket trolley (also found by Daniel).  Waggy has his own front door key (an old suitcase lock key) and a sticker for being brave at the dentist.

Hey, great TV idea Britain's Biggest Hoarders; the Children Chronicles.  I'll sign him up now.

Anyway, to cut a long story short (!?), we found Waggy, in his shoe box!!  Why the Hell nobody had thought to look there in the first place is beyond me.  I had to make around six phone calls to reassure various fellow Waggy-hunters that he was safe and well and they could go to bed.

I don't think I can top this story today, except maybe for one quick parenting tip.  The sign advising that a soft play area is for under fives should be adhered to by all, especially people in their 40s.
It drives me bonkers to see grown men and women scrambling around encouraging their children to have fun. If they're not having fun without you in a soft play area, please just go home and stick CITV on!

I speak from experience.  Years ago, as a new mum, seeing other parents in the play area with their toddlers, I thought this must be the 'done thing' and headed in.  I came unstuck, or should I say stuck, almost immediately.   I tried to squeeze through one of those horizontal roller mangle thingy-me-bobs.  Basically, I got my head through and, with a lot of huffing and puffing, got my boobs through.  Then I became stuck, totally stuck.  I couldn't go backwards (must have been some untimely hormonal swelling going on), and I couldn't go forwards.  The foam rollers, with all their soft squishy-ness, would quite simply not compress sufficiently to allow my arse to pass through.

I did, of course, finally manage to escape, thankfully before anyone went to find a screwdriver!!  (cue winking smiley face!)


Saturday 10 August 2013

Sun, ping pong glory and a nasty rash

Age, FB and holidays are occupying my limited brain matter today.

Age; having recently passed a very insignificant birthday (21 again, literally!) it did however seem significant that all my cards featured pastel colours, flowers and butterflies.  Hmmmmm....
FB.  Still not a huge fan but tracked down an old school friend who now lives in Bali and still looks like she IS 21 and a friend who's a doctor with a perfectly formed family; bah humbug!!  Going to keep on searching until I find old friends with grey hair, five divorces and jobs at call centres in Croydon.
(only joking S and A; thrilled to be back in touch, and apologies to S (another beautiful and successful school friend) for the Croydon reference.....)

Anyway, and finally, holidays.  Shared my photos on FB when I got home which is a lovely side to FB.  On a cynical note (you know me) however, why do people share their every waking move, drink, swim etc etc while they are still away!?  Is it not just like putting a big sign on your front lawn saying, 'we're away, keys under the mat, PS3 warranty in shoe box under stairs in case you need it'.

Well, we HAD (we're home, Rottweiler is back from kennels and hasn't been fed for a week) a lovely holiday in lovely Portugal.  Sadly it ended with my heart being ripped in two at Faro airport when Teddy got on a different plane to visit his dad in the north.

It was a rather uneventful (in blogging terms) holiday, filled with sunshine, table tennis and delicious yet stroke-inducing Portuguese fodder (the term 'pinch of salt' translates into Portuguese as 'three tablespoons').
And speaking of translations, I spent the week brushing up my fluency skills in the national tongue while all the native Algarvians responded in their first language; English.  And I nearly slapped the Cockney holiday rep who, despite living there for years, STILL didn't pronounce Albufeira or Carvoeiro correctly!!!  You know where I'm coming from don't you, K.  When in Rome, learn how to £$%*ing pronounce Albufeira properly for Goodness sake!  And breath.....sorry.

We were treated to a 4* hotel (thanks mum, you know who you are), which, however, has its downside.  Having worked really hard to lose two stone (thanks WW), I like to think I at least don't embarrass the kids when I don my Bravissimo bikini (sponsorship deals available). However, why is it that at a posh hotel all the ladies are size 8 and under?  Yes, I'm over-generalising (before you shoot me down in flames) but.....  Still, my uber-slim mum was right at home, damn her.

The kids entertainment was limited to a small-ish pool, a rickety old pool and ping pong table with accompanying rickety old balls, bats and cues.
But you know what, you can stick your fancy kids clubs and aqua parks (that's french for water), my amazing boys had a ball (no pun intended).  They made friends with Lars, Mario, Luke, Max, Sam, Daniel, Max (a different one), Duarte and Tiago and the little international group of buddies with ages ranging from 5 to 15 played and played until the sun went down, and some days, nearly came up again!  (They even learnt the skill of catching the pool balls before they went into the pocket to save themselves another Euro and enjoyed the hour-long entertainment of the bar guy dismantling the table to retrieve wayward bouncy balls, about four times a day!)
Even Gary made a new friend; tennis ace Rudger from Holland.  Happy days.

I enjoyed yoga in the shade of a carob tree but was unfortunately popping Predisolone by day three when, despite leaping from shade to shade and slapping on the Piz Buin, I still came out in a nasty rash.
I even had a go at the Kareoke.  I stepped up to the mike for an untuneful rendition of Fico Assim Sem Voce, when Teddy said, 'oh no, don't sing that mum, it'll make me cry'.  Nice one Teddy.  I then proceeded to gurgle the entire song through a mouthful of swallowed salty tears.

I took three back copies of Psychologies on holiday with me, determined to spend some quality 'me' time reading (and learn about mindfulness, CBT techniques and 'the rules of success' at the same time). 
However, it was not to be.  I would lay (with strategically placed items of clothing covering the rash) under the parasol, and raise my magazine.
But then I'd hear the joyful cries of Daniel whooping his beautiful cheeky laugh having pushed unsuspecting Teddy in the pool, or I'd hear Teddy's amazingly fluent and perfectly pronounced Portuguese banter with the boys from Lisbon as they tried to teach him to dive, and the magazine would be gently laid aside.  Plenty of time to read when they leave home.

PS. Tip of the month: don't try to wash leather ballet shoes.....

PPS. For new readers to withdewrespect, I'm only joking!!! (most of the time)  I don't really have a Rottweiler (I'm of the opinion that children actually need their limbs intact for later life), we don't even have a goldfish.  I'll leave my thoughts on the British obsession with keeping animals (especially that strange breed of human who has multiple Rottweilers) for another blog; don't get me started on Pets At Home.....

PPPS (yes, I know you can't have 3 Ps, look, whose blog is this?!)
 This blog is dedicated to my wonderful son Teddy, table tennis champ 2013 (last week in July) Colina da Lapa, well done son, you did yourself proud.  Love you and miss you Teddy, without you, I'm quite simply an 'aviao sem asas'.



Wednesday 24 July 2013

A Benecol bottle, a Prince and the world at our feet

If only you could bottle your children (put the phone down, there's no need to call Social Services).

The other day, I asked Daniel (5) to come and sit on my knee for a cuddle and he sensed I was feeling a bit glum and asked what was wrong.

"Oh nothing, I just had a bad dream about you last night".
"What happened mum?"
"Well son, we were playing on the beach and a big wave came and washed you away from me."
Daniel gave this some thought and replied: "Don't worry mum, you know how the sea works, the waves go in and out so I would come straight back to you on the next wave."

Such moments of wonder followed by opening his school bag to find rather a large pool of water swishing around in the bottom with his school work and the usual assortment of sticks, elastic bands and bits and bats floating around in it.

In and among the drenched debris was an old Benecol yoghurt drink bottle which he had filled with water to surprise me.

The lid had been secured with sellotape and he had wrapped it in an A4 sheet of paper (cue smiley face with lop-sided smile and eyebrow raised).

Speaking of which, a piece of A4 paper dominated world news the week.  (Did you see how I seamlessly segued from mumsy trivia to a historic moment in history? Or was it the other way round?)

A child was born; undoubtedly a special child, a future King, of interest to us all, whether we want to admit it or not (you know who you are, S).  But, FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, was nothing else happening in the country, nay the world?!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  (Please read capital letters in a shouty voice and excuse the blasphemy, you know who you are Rev.)

I felt for the presenters who had to smile a jaw-aching smile and endlessly wax lyrical without repeating the sentence 'it's a boy'.  And I felt for camera operatives who worked for years to gain knowledge and experience in their field and were subjected to a day spent zooming in and out on an easel.

Twenty-four hour news coverage is superb when there's actual breaking news, yet mind-numbing when the news has broken and it becomes like a stuck record (once again, apologies to anyone under 30 who has no idea what this analogy means, imagine your ipod shuffle not shuffling).



And speaking of 'news' that isn't really actually 'new' or even 'true' in my humble opinion, I was reading the Daily Mail this week.  No, I didn't buy it, the in-laws left it for me to clean the windows with (another top tip thrown in there, see previous blog).

I always thought the media's 'silly season', when they roll out the equivalent of Primary School 'what I did in my holidays' articles, was August.  However, it would seem the DM is padding out column inches with seasonal yet entirely non-newsworthy drivel in July.   Zoe Brennan wrote a scathing and entirely biased article entitled 'Scams, cons and the TRUE cost of your budget flight' (the sub editor must have wanted to shout the word TRUE for some reason or perhaps in caps it fitted in the space better).

I won't insult you by explaining in detail what the article is about.....Ryanair, easyJet, baggage charges, legroom charges, jump-the-queue charges, pricey in-flight snacks, yadder yadder, you get the picture.

Cobblers.  COBBLERS, I say.

I could end the blog here, but allow me to pad out my blog with silly season rambling (what's new, I hear you cry!).

Are we all really stupid?  Does anyone actually think that a flight advertised at £17.99 is fully inclusive of return trip for a family of eight to Dubai in Business Class with on-tap champagne, caviar, Pringles and a head, neck and shoulders massage from a handsome man with an Irish accent?!

YOU GET WHAT YOU PAY FOR!  Does that not apply to absolutely everything in life?  Why then do people like Zoe feel that budget airlines are somehow pulling a fast one.  (I hope Mr O'Leary is reading this, I might get extra legroom thrown in on my next flight.....OK, maybe not).  But that's exactly my point, if I want extra leg room, I accept it's an added extra and I will pay for it.

Has Zoe and like-minded thinkers forgotten how we used to fly?  Or should I say, how we didn't fly, BECAUSE WE COULDN'T AFFORD IT!

While living in Portugal, I would endure exhausting day-long journeys with my baby /toddler city-hopping via places such as Frankfurt or Paris because I couldn't afford direct flights.  I could now buy a flight WITH all the fee-payable extras of leg room, baggage and priority boarding for a fraction of the price I would have paid for a direct flight from Porto to the UK in the early 2000s.  AND (oh my, now I've started.....) so-called budget airlines should be applauded for acknowledging that there IS life in the north of England and us lovely folk who live there would like to go abroad too, without a long-haul trip down the M1 first!!

The Ryanairs and easyJets of this world have made this world more accessible to the masses.  End of.

And don't get me started on baggage allowances. If you choose to avoid the fees to stow your luggage in the hold, then you must comply by the cabin baggage rules, simples!  It's not rocket science, if your bag is too big, it won't fit in the overhead locker, duhr (no matter how hard you shove it or shout at the nice lady in polyester).  There are ferries you know, or I hear Margate is lovely at this time of year.

And if you are required to print your boarding card before arriving at the airport, why the hell are you surprised, and offended, if you have to pay to hold up the process.  If you didn't print out your ticket before you got on a train, for example, you would have to pay the full fare on the train, it's just the same.  Zoe, in her article, even whinges about fees for missing your flight!  Does she think an airport control tower runs like a bloody school walking bus!?

OK, I'm going to shut up as I can sense I'm going on a bit.  I'm off to clean my windows....




Saturday 13 July 2013

Fun in the sun

I read my own blog back to check for typos and I suppose it's reasonably funny and yet I don't really consider myself a 'funny' person.  My own husband and mother are always keen to tell me I have no sense of humour ('just like your Grandma', my mum reliably informs me).

However, I am fortunate that those around me ARE hilarious and all I have to do is recount what they say and do and, hey presto, I've got myself a blog, hopefully, worth reading.

This week, I've decided I might venture into 'parenting tips'; here's my top five.



Tip number one: Don't stop digging (ever)

Sunday afternoon, Bridlington beach.  I had been tasked with digging a hole while my beautiful five-year-old trekked up and down with buckets of water.

I made sure I was busily digging while Daniel walked the 100 yards back to the hole and then took a small break while he marched back out to re-fill his bucket.

That was until, on one return journey he calmly said: "Mum, you need to keep digging, even when I'm not watching."

What is it they say about parents having eyes in the back of their heads?

Tip number two: Join in (but avoid cold shocks)

It's not just family that supply the anecdotes, friends are superb blog-fodder too and it seems I'm not the only one who will happily participate in children's activities, with the odd proviso.

Teddy was round at this mate's house for a sleep-over at the weekend and, with the sun blazing, aforementioned mate's dad decided they would all have a water bomb fight.

So off he went to prepare the water bombs while the boys played on the PlayStation.
What a fun and helpful father I thought to myself.

But he let me in on his secret.  If he was to be involved in any water bomb-related 'fun', he always made sure he prepared the water bombs himself so he could leave them in the sun to warm them just enough to take the 'chill' factor out of the fun, for his own sake!  Priceless.

Tip number three: Take a walk (it's a big world out there, so share it with your kids) 

Anecdotes come from the most unlikely sources.  Here's one I heard at the dentist.

As you know I run a walking bus at my kids' school and armed with 20 hi-vis vests while booking an appointment, I got chatting to the receptionist about kids and walking, or should I say, the rarity of kids walking.

Debating the issue, the lady told me a story she had heard that week.

Her son's class were on a school outing to some local fields (a field trip, perhaps).  As they walked from one field to the next, her son's friend, clearly exhausted, turned to his teacher and asked, 'are we in a different country now?'

Tip number four: Avoid slip-on shoes (and ensure their socks are clean)

And speaking of fields, I can't resist this one, although you maybe 'had to be there'.  At school sports day, an adorable friend of my sons' was taking part in the obstacle race.

She had just completed the 'sack' section and was ready for the final sprint to the finishing line. However, as she stepped out of the sack and set off she realised she was running in her stocking feet, having left her shoes behind in the sack.

Bless her, instead of carrying on with a chance for victory, she went back, fished her shoes out of the sack and returned them to their rightful place, much to the amusement of the onlooking peers and parents.  She finally finished the race just as the next one was about to begin, giggling all the way.  Now, that's what I call a good sport.

Tip number five: Make up your own title (that's an instruction, not a title, by the way)

Of course, my inspiration (and indeed my reason for living) largely comes from within my own four walls, courtesy of my beautiful boys.

So I'll end on a Teddy special this week.  While outside playing cricket with the local kids, Teddy said our neighbour had come out and joined in their game.  He later informed me, out of interest, that our neighbour was left-handed but right-footed.

Anyway, we chatted some more and I commented that our neighbour had probably enjoyed the chance to join in the game with the local kids, as he didn't have any children himself.

To which Teddy replied: "Is that because he's left-handed and right-footed?"




Thursday 27 June 2013

Hold the front page

I love that expression, do you think it's actually used in real life?  It never cropped up in my journalism career, more like, "what the **** are we gonna put on the front page, no cats stuck up trees this week?!"

But this week, my news really is worthy of the 'splash'!

I've discovered the single cause of obesity in women aged between 30 and 50 (I make no apologies for being very gender and age specfic).

I can see scientists everywhere scrambling to the computer to read withdewrespect and share the eureka moment with me and a belated entry being added under the Ws on the Queens Birthday Honours List.

My miraculous discovery came just yesterday as I was (again, sitting comfortably) leafing through the new summer edition of the Lakeland catalogue (target market, females aged between 30 and 50).

There it was, on page 67.......a laundry basket with legs.

I rest my case (no pun intended, really).

Laziness (and expensive accessories which nourish this vice) is surprisingly not my 'whinge of the week', although the purchase of such costly comforts may induce the following pet hate.

Now, I work in a shop so I am able practice 'doing as I would be done by' (take your reference from the Classics, Bible or The Water Babies, as you wish) with regards to this niggle.

Picture the scene.  Two kids are hanging round my ankles, I'm trying in vain to squash a dozen eggs, a pineapple, four pints of full fat and a box of Cheerios into the final bag whilst searching desperately for the relevant store loyalty card.

There's an angry queue building as I fumble and curse under the pressure.  I think I'm home and dry, one hand is major-multi-tasking with a bag hanging from each finger, a child's sticky hand clutching my thumb and my open purse balanced in my palm.  I hold out my other hand for the change as the tension, and the queue, builds.

Into my now sweating palm, the cashier piles my receipt, a petrol voucher and my loyalty card precariously topped off with £7.98s worth of coppers.

Anarchy ensues as it all becomes too much for my trembling hands and the coins inevitably topple and roll all over the floor.

Still, I manage to bend down to pick them all up.....just like I'm capable of bending down to pick my clothes out of the washing basket!  'Work that waistline ladies!!!'   (I can't even be bothered being PC and saying 'ladies and gents', my husband doesn't even know where the washing machine is.)

PS: I LOVE Lakeland and the Co-Op (oops!) really.....  (Blow it, let's be honest, I'm never gonna find a sponsor for this blog am I?!)

Clearly not in the mood for a housewife's workout!

Wednesday 12 June 2013

The long winter evenings.......

I sometimes read my own blog (I know, as Edmund Blackadder said (with rolling eyes), 'the long winter evening must just fly by'), and I worry.
I worry that people won't 'get it' and will think I'm sad and shallow (and perhaps a bit weird) and should watch News at Ten more.
You see, my blog largely consists of wittering on about life's trivia such as litter, the trials and tribulations of bringing up kids, dodgy Groupon deals, smelly fencing helmets and boiled eggs.
I'm not sure everyone will see beyond that.

But what I AM sure about is that people would a. stop reading; b. give me a hug; or c.punch me in the face; or d. all three, if I wrote about my thoughts on terrorist atrocities, famine, greed, unequal distribution of wealth, the overpopulation of the world, tolerance (and its evil archenemy 'intolerance'), religion, immigration, crime and punishment, excessive smoking, drinking and eating and their resultant toll on the healthcare services etc.
So, I'll stick to writing about the little stuff (or 'grass roots' if you will), which may seem like random banter about annoying children, litter and bad parking, and just hope that people see that what I'm actually writing about is common sense, respect for our planet, the value of friendship, the indescribable joys of parenthood, decent standards, peaceful and healthy living and good old fashioned 'love thy neighbour' morals.
Phew, I need a lie down now.

Well, the footie season is now over and I have my weekends back.  However, the long summer evenings are now spent watching my son play cricket.  It's OK (#yawn) but I miss the shouting (apparently not much to shout about at cricket, and I got told off for telling my son to 'just whack it!').

The footie season ended with the annual presentation and my son was made Manager's Player of the Year and his BFF was Player's Player of the Year (#proudmumsallowed).
I'm loving the # thing on twitter but still not a full FB convert, #mustyoushare/dowecare.  A friend said yesterday, 'blimey, never thought we'd see you on FaceBook!' and I stress that I'm still not a fan and use it purely as part of my cunning plot to take over the world with my blog and, of course, share the obligatory photographs of my beautiful children.

Parental shouting from the sidelines is a must, if only to embarrass the aforementioned beautiful children when they're not near enough to come and dig me in the ribs.
This season there has been a few classics, with mums and dads being heard to shout......
 "Leave your bloody hair alone" (you know who you are, son)
 "Stop pulling your sleeves down"
 "Stop marking grass"  (my personal favourite)
 "Get up and shake it off" (turned out to be a broken leg)
 "Carry on, you can have Calpol at half time" (just a mild case of concussion)

I'll leave you with a quick Women's Weekly reader's page-style observation. It's something that I keep noticing whenever I'm entering my personal details into an online form.  You know you're getting old when you have to scroll, and scroll, and scroll down the drop-down menu to reach your birth year!
#was1971reallythatlongago


Winning smiles

Saturday 1 June 2013

How to build a sandcastle

Sometimes I wonder when and where the inspiration for another blog will arrive, and I find it always does so when I least expect it.
Sitting comfortably (?!), leafing through the free Boots health and beauty magazine I'd just picked up from my local branch and there it was, amid a feature on 'retro' family fun in the sun.
Now don't get me wrong, I'm Boots' number 1 fan; while living in Portugal I missed Boots more than I missed my own parents.....I'd like to say 'only joking', but.....
Anyway, there in the Boots magazine was a half page spread on, wait for it, drum roll, red carpet, small bits of sparkly stuff falling from the ceiling.......how to build a sandcastle!

I jest not, the 'article' described, alongside three numbered 'diagrams', how to fill a bucket, tip it upside down and lift off the bucket with the words 'ta-dah' accompanying the final graphic.

Is it just me or has journalism / the world gone mad?  Why is anything dubbed as 'retro' largely just basic common sense that doesn't cost anything, doesn't involve forgetting chargers and doesn't make you fat.
We could say that walking to school is now 'retro', as I said in my speech to gathered dignitaries, supporters and friends at the press launch of the Hoppa last week (see previous blog), 'it's not rocket science'.

I've often thought I would like to write a book and would have called it 'Is It Just Me' if Miranda Hart hadn't nicked that idea (I'm not a big fan if hers so don't get me started).
Ellen Degeneres (a massive inspiration of whom I AM a huge fan) stole 'My Point and I do Have One' so I need to think of my own idea I suppose or maybe get withdewrespect readers to send answers on a postcard.

Well, today it's confession time as I've been outed as a hypocrite and I'm not afraid to be named and shamed for my behaviour.
After ranting about litter leavers in a recent blog, I made a fool of myself the other week when, in a friend's shiny new car, I couldn't find anywhere to put my exhausted chewing gum as we drove along a country lane, so I threw it out of the window.
My friend was horrified, and quite rightly so.  I immediately realised I  had sunk to the depths of those I abhor and I have been red-faced ever since.  After enduring my just telling off and hanging my head in shame, we chatted about the litter lout culture and I applauded her very brave actions recently.  She explained that she saw some lads drop their Macdonalds wrappers on the floor so she went over and politely said, 'excuse me, I think you've dropped something'.


What's that....children walking to school!?  (how 1980s)


Sunday 12 May 2013

Hoppa fever has taken over my life!!!


I was asked the other day if I'd abandoned withdewrespect.  My indignant reply was, 'certainly not'!
It's been a busy old few weeks as I'm launching 'an innovative new project' (or so my press release boasts!) at my children's school next week and it's taken over my life, leaving little time for idle ramblings.  So I apologise and reassure you that normal service will resume once our Hoppa is up and walking.

Your 'what' I hear you cry?!  (well, I thought I heard a small noise, were you just yawning?)

The Hoppa is a hybrid; a cross between a Walking Bus and a Park & Stride scheme, both of which, in my opinion, for various reasons are not a viable or sustainable alternatives to just driving to school.

Like most primary schools around the country, traffic is chaos outside our school.  And with that 'chaos' comes danger, 'an accident waiting to happen' as the media likes to dub these scenarios.
So, I've taken it upon my little self, enlisting invaluable help from the Head, fellow parents, local business and road safety professionals, to come up with a scheme to help our school children get walking.

I'm not driver or car-bashing, like some national road safety organisations tend to do.  We need to accept that cars are an integral and essential part of every day life and gone are the days when we all walked long distances to school.  Let's face it, in my days as an infant in the 70s few folk had cars anyway.  (I'll move on before I start sounding like a Monty Python sketch, and suggesting we lived in a shoe box in the middle of a road, which we cleaned with our tongues....).  Those were the days eh, when comedy was comedy and not watching Miranda fall off a chair (again)?

Sorry, where was I, oh yes, the school run.  It shouldn't be a chore. It is a rare chance to catch up with your children while they are not physically attached to an ipod, laptop or wii controller with their eyes glued to a flickering screen.
It's also a chance for them to socialise with and make new friends, get their chit-chatting out of the way and be ready to learn when they arrive at school.  It also gives them exercise, another increasing 'issue' in society.

Remember, 'stop, look and listen'?  These days our kids only hear these words when we say, 'hey, stop messing around in the back, look, you'll be in trouble if you drop those crisps on the back seat, I've had the car valeted, just listen to your music and shut up while I drive, we're late!"

And you see secondary school kids ambling down the middle of the road and wandering in front of cars because, if they're not ensconced 'inside' a car, they simply have no idea how to behave on the roads.  We all try to wrap our children in cotton wool, the cotton wool in this case being the latest  Ford SUV (other models are available).

It's simple, human beings are made of rather brittle materials, skin, bone that kind of thing whereas cars, lorries, vans and buses are made of rather strong chunks of iron, steel and glass.  It's not rocket science.  In an argument, human beings don't fare well.
We need to teach our children how to behave around these chunks of metal and we're  not going to do that if they are always 'inside' the aforementioned chunk.
Well, anyway, can someone give me a lift down from my soapbox please cos I need a wee?

Thank you.
That's better.

So, where was I?  Oh yes, I can assure you that, amid Hoppa activities, I've been storing up lots of anecdotal banter to keep you reading withdewrespect instead of Googling your own name when you're bored and the boss is out (ah, is that just me?).

Oh yes, and I've been running, that's what else I've been doing.  Here's a pic to prove it.  I did the Harewood House Age UK 10K in a gruelling one hour and 47 seconds.  Darn those hills, darn those 47 seconds and darn my running partner who lost me in the pack and cracked the hour!


Wednesday 24 April 2013

On the buses

Being as I've been away a while, I'll get straight on with today's beef.
I sat opposite a very well turned out, forty-something professional lady on the train to Leeds yesterday.  She smiled politely at me and I formed an immediate opinion that she looked like a nice genteel individual.

Right until the moment she drank the dregs of her coffee, stood up and got off the train, leaving her disposable coffee cup, well, un-disposed, right there on the table!  Why do people think they have a God-given right to leave litter, let someone else come along and sit with their used coffee cup in front of them and leave someone else to clear it away.
It is just me?
Probably.

Sorry, withdewrespect has been on a short holiday, coupled with a nasty chest infection and followed by, oh what's that thing I do again.....?  Oh, that's right, work!
Also, Easter left me with far too much chocolate around the house so I've been on such a sugar high I couldn't string a sentence together.  Well, OK, the kids were left with so many eggs that I hid six in a kitchen cupboard and have been steadily munching through them ever since.  Whenever a child sneaks up and asks me what I'm eating, I smile sweetly and reply, 'an apple, do you want one'?

My holiday was to Portugal, as you know, once my country of residence.  I returned with a friend who was also travelling with children to visit their father.  Going towards the EU or Nothing to Declare exit choices on arrival at Porto Airport, my friend joked there should be a separate exit for International Divorcees.  It would be a busy exit I can tell you!!  And among those using it would be non-other than JK Rowling (and not a lot of people know that!).

On this trip we hired a car and ended up re-mortgaging both our houses thanks to the 'hidden extras' ( well, thanks to Groupon and affordablecarhire.com, NOT!)
Back in the days before I owned a car and the fantastic Metro do Porto was just a twinkle in a Transport Minister's eye, I was a regular on city's bus routes.
There was never a dull moment on the buses in the mid 90s I can tell you. Getting to empty seats was like a rampage scene from Jurrasic Park, jabbing elbows, right hooks and swinging handbags were commonplace in pursuit of an uncomfortable, wet and dirty blob of orange moulded plastic.  Put it this way, seats were as rare as a smile in a Portuguese Post Office (JK knows what I'm talking about!).

It was a daily adventure, often more farcical than Sid James' trousers falling down or Barbara Windsor making a boob of herself.
One day, my newly-purchased Nokia house brick rang.  I delved into my bag (as did everyone else!).  One minute, I'm just a face in the crowd.  I say, 'hello?', and I'm the daughter of Beelzebub!!!
Like a Wild West saloon when the baddie walks in, there's a deathly silence, everybody stares.

'Oh, hi mum, you OK.....yes I'm fine, just on the bus......'

Mothers gather up their babes in arms, children point, old ladies stare, men shuffle away.  Lock up your daughters, there's an alien on the bus!
I'm the one they stare at!!!  Opposite me a lady has two puppies in her shopping bag, behind me two women have set up a cottage industry, crocheting table cloths.  (Is this some form of tax evasion, crocheting on a moving bus, like duty free on an airplane?).  The man next to me retches, gargles and sends an expertly formed green globule of phlegm hurtling over my head and through the open window.
All this, everyone ignored.  I say 'hello' and you'd have thought I'd stripped naked, pulled out a pair of maracas and started singing Viva Espana.

I hasten to add that I am firmly in favour of 'when in Rome' and worked tirelessly to learn the lingua.  Even when I spoke near word-perfect Portuguese, I still had a noticeable (OK, dodgy) accent and grew to love the intrigued stares on the buses.  Or maybe I just bought a car....memory doesn't serve me well.

The Portuguese language is notoriously difficult to master.  Like all Latin languages, it's feminine this and masculine that, with no rhyme or reason, and there's more past and future tenses than you can shake a stick at.  And, perhaps much like English (sun / son), there are many similar sounding words with completely different meanings.
I once walked into a shop with a runny nose and asked for a packet of bed sheets.  (lencos = tissues / lencois = bed sheets)

 (PS: I love Portugal and its people really and I was always, and still am, made to feel at home in the land and like one of the family among its people.  The Portuguese are wonderful; every home should have one, mine does!!!!)


Wednesday 3 April 2013

Toss an Escudo or make a run for it

Being a hen in Portugal must be pretty darn hard work.
The average inhabitant of the country seems to consume at least four eggs a day; that’s a whole lot of laying.
You’re about to tuck into your roast beef and lo and behold a fried egg is sat on top of it, as they do alongside most meat dishes.  Boiled eggs accompany many a fish dish and there’s none of your fancy slicing or mashing with mayo; it’s just boiled and shelled. I always approach my chocolate mousse with some trepidation, and a pinch of salt, just in case.
Returning to Portugal again (you may recall I lived there for a number of years and returned to the UK in 2006) is real culinary trip down memory lane.
I remember the first time I met my intended’s (now ex's) parents; I spent an entire day smiling for England and eating twice my own body weight.  My facial muscles ached for days and the whole chicken (and several eggs) in my belly took its toll I can tell you.
Meeting the prospective in-laws is an ordeal at the best of times.  The ‘best of times’ for me would have simply being able to speak their language, or them speaking mine.
There I am at the dinner table with the whole family, nodding, grinning and feigning an expression of complete comprehension as they put the world to rights in, as far as I was concerned, gobbledygook.
I had been tipped off that Portuguese women like people to enjoy their food.  So, unable to contribute conversationally, I ate, and ate, and ate (and nodded and smiled).
Suddenly, there was a lull in the incomprehensible jabber and all eyes were on me.  Oh no, what’s wrong?  Have I got egg on my chin, parsley in my teeth, sprouted another head or, even worse, has someone asked me a question?
I reckon have a 50/50 chance with the simple response 'sim' or 'nao'.  
Should I toss an Escudo or make a run for it? 
Now, thus far, my very basic understanding of the language armed me with ‘your house is lovely’ (tem uma casa bonita), ‘pleased to meet you’ (muito prazer) and ‘I’d like a ham and cheese toastie please’ (quero uma tosta mista por favor).  In those days, I wasn’t quite ready to share my views on the European Monetary Union.
What a relief it was then when my fiancé translated that his mother had simply asked; ‘why was I at university when I was so old, was I marrying her son to gain Portuguese nationality and would I like another chicken leg?’
I nodded, shoved in another potato and smiled.

We'll be BFF!!!! (until the kids arrive)

It's a tricky subject to broach but thought-provoking non-the-less and something I've been pondering over.

Last week, this very topic was echoed in a conversation I overheard while ear-wigging in the playground (as you do).

Can friends who are parents remain 'really' close friends with friends who aren't?
Oooo, controversial!!!  And I can hear you all thinking of fine examples to immediately dispel this theory (and my non-parent friends thinking, charming!!!).
Bear with me.
What I'm getting at, both from the point of view of parents AND non-parents, is that although staying close in a friendship after the arrival of children might not be impossible, it certainly isn't easy.

The conversation I overheard at school was about a group of forty-something-year-old girl friends who had been trying, for many years, to plan a short trip away together, just the girls!
It had never happened; running the home, the demands of kids, taxi duties and sheer exhaustion, had always got in the way.....until one day.
On that day, the ladies decided to still go away, but.......take the kids with them.  Eureka!!! Suddenly it was do-able and the trip was planned within hours!

I'm not just coming at this from the 'parent' perspective and bemoaning my own lack of time and opportunity to meet up with non-parent friends, without the kids around.  I ashamedly admit sometimes struggling to understand why my friends can't just drop everything to meet me when I have an hours gap between football training and street dance class.  How mean!!!

In reality, how wrong I am.   For one, I selfishly forget that my friends without kids have a much wider circle of friends, more diverse hobbies and busier social lives.  More importantly, they all work a hell of a lot more hours than I do, in very stressful and demanding jobs, and therefore their spare time is also a rare and precious commodity.

In some ways, FaceBook has provided us with a new level of relationship, filling the gap between BFF (Best Friends Forever) and FOF (Fallen Out Forever); where we can maintain contact through regularly sharing family / social / work and hobby news and photographs.  We can stay in touch with all our busy friends without actually having to stay in touch, if you see what I mean. (Yes, that's right, I've gone soft on FB)

I guess it's just practical that my social timetable as a mum fits in better with friends who are mums, making meet-ups more logistically manageable.  The kids are, of course, usually around but at least they can play together while we chat.  We just accept that during such mum-to-mum conversations we never actually finish sentences; there's bound to be an interruption from some small person needing a bottom wiped, or in my son's case, something urgently needing sellotaping (two non-linked examples, I hasten to clarify).

Likewise, before I had the boys, in meet-ups with already-burdened friends, I recall being frustrated at such seemingly trivial interruptions from their snotty kids.  I simply didn't understand why bum wiping was more important than discussing my boyfriend trauma or hairstyle dilemma (those things being of equal importance at the time).

I guess it's all about compromise and finding the middle ground where mums understand the varied stresses and strains of everyday life without kids and, in return, our friends understand that since we've given birth to the darn things we're apparently morally and legally-bound to give them priority with regard to that most precious of commodities; time.

At the end of the day, all friendships that survive childbirth or any life-changing event are surely worth working at in real time, and not just through a FaceBook post (see, I'm not totally convinced).  Meet-ups may be less frequent but non-the-less special and worth making time for.

PS: I've gone all serious and pensive again so I'll throw in another one of my pet hates, courtesy of 'motorway management' and specifically the signs warning drivers that there are pedestrians in the road.

Rather than having to repeat these signs for miles and miles to hundreds, nay thousands, of drivers, why not just have one sign directed at the pedestrians saying: GET OFF THE ROAD YOU FOOLS!?

Friends.

Happy days, when sentences were never finished!!!

See you soon, face-to-face, or on FaceBook.




Wednesday 20 March 2013

Is the new Pope really Elliot Carver?

Is it just me or has anybody else noticed that the new Pope could actually be evil media baron Elliot Carver?
Well, OK, Elliot Carver is actually a fictional character from a James Bond movie played by Jonathan Pryce, but you tell me they're not lookie-likies!

I went to see the much-celebrated Agatha Christie whodunnit Mousetrap at Leeds Grand last week.  At 41-years, I was a somewhat 'young' member of the audience and, dare I say, the 'ambiance' of the dress circle made me think of Blanche Dubois' famous line in A Streetcar Named Desire, 'the smell of cheap perfume is penetrating'.  Sorry, that's not much good as a review is it?  I think my mum summed it up when she admitted she only wanted to see what all the fuss, and 60-year historic West End run, was about.  It's stood the test of time in some respects, with great cast and production values in this touring performance, but I think, when the Rights become available, it would be better placed as a village hall am-dram.

My theatre trip followed a couple of days in Wales, including a trot up Mount Snowden, followed by three days of staggering around in agony!
Here's my White Waters Country Hotel review......
You know you're in a cheap hotel when the stir and tap of 'tea spoon on coffee cup' in the next room is your wake up call.  Or perhaps the parrot in reception was another sign.  And you know it's a Groupon deal when having a shower, hanging clothes and walking down a corridor are chargeable 'supplements'.
Mind you, the hotel did have a spa of sorts (oooh posh, I thought), although I think their definition of 'spa' and mine are two very different things.

But we decided to make use of the over-sized bath.  There being just the two of us in the spa, I became, dare I say, carefree and, well, positively risque!  Clearly thinking I was on an 18-30 holiday or Big Brother, I cheekily decided a quick flash was in order before I joined my hubby in the bubbles.
Chuckling away to myself at my own recklessness, it became like a scene from a low budget family sit-com when I looked up and spotted the all-seeing, all-winking red eye of the CCTV camera and remembered the bank of screens in the reception area.  Red-faced, I restored my respectable tankini to its rightful position and submerged myself under the water in haste.

(That tale is a bit like watching an episode of Embarrassing Bodies and observing that nobody who is genuinely 'embarrassed' would go on national TV and show their bits!)

My 'gaff of the week' is not a Teddy-tale this time, it is my incredibly intelligent, well-read and worldly-wise friend.  Intelligent, well-read and worldly-wise she may undoubtedly be, but clearly the difference between blue and green is an area she needs to work on! Not really a problem day to day I suppose.  However, at a school event is another thing, especially when she leaps out of her seat and skips to the raffle prize table in front of a hundred fellow mums brandishing the winning number on her blue ticket, only to be told it's actually green (and therefore not a winner)!
(Hey mate, at least (hopefully) only a parrot saw my boob!)

Come on slow coach, just another 1,000ft to go!



Saturday 9 March 2013

My egg-cellent son

This is dedicated to my son Teddy, without whom this blog, and my life, would be very dull!
He may get egg on his chin once in a while but the beauty of it is, he just doesn't care!
But more of that anon.

As a quick random rambling aside, a la Ronnie Corbett sat in the Mastermind chair, I might change the name of my blog to, 'what or whom is annoying me this week'.
And first up are.....people who clean the pavement outside their house by sweeping the fag ends etc in front of their neighbour's house!  (I saw it with my own eyes on my way to work yesterday, why would you do that; maybe I should have stopped the car and asked!)

Anyway, where was I?
Oh yes, Teddy.  I'm so proud of him this week I could pop.

Back in September, he was adamant that he was NOT joining his fellow Street Dance 'crew' for the dance school's show Legends, professionally hosted by the Lawrence Batley Theatre.
Last weekend, I joined nearly a thousand fellow popping mums, dads, grans and grandads to see him dance in four performances over an exhausting weekend.
The show itself is an absolute credit to Katie Philpott, her school, teachers and, of course, the dancers, aged from just-out-of-nappies to school-leavers, some of whom are heading to prestigious dance colleges (oh, and an excellent group of fellow forty-something-year-old tappers).
A cast of 300+ girls and boys danced ballet, tap, jazz, modern and street with musical theatre thrown in for a few giggles (unfortunately, I now can't stop humming It's a Hard-Knock Life! - bet, you can't either now!).
I cannot gush too much about how excellent this show truly is (regardless of whether your own budding Bussell is in it or not).  Mind you, ask me which the best dance was and I may show slight bias....the Smooth Criminals of course!

But I'm most proud of Teddy for facing his fears and showing a growing confidence that I hope will stand him in good stead in future life.

Anyway, about that eggy chin of his......
On the way home from the final show, I was asking Teddy and fellow street dancer Jacob about  World Book Day and what costumes they were planning to wear for school (by the way, this idle chat was just a cunning ruse to keep the shattered pair awake).  The conversation went thus: -

Me: "Who are you going as on World Book Day, Jacob?"
Jacob: "Hamlet"
Teddy: "Isn't that a sandwich?"
Me and Jacob: "Eh?"
Teddy: "Oh no, hang on, that's Omelette."

I could write a book........

Smooth Criminals

Tuesday 5 March 2013

A damp cloth and a squirt of Febreze

I was hoping this blog, after a break with friends and family at Center Parcs (Sherwood), would be brimming with news, views and my usual scathing (yet hilarious!?) anecdotes on the annoying nuances of everyday life. 
I've come home with a blank notebook.

Darn Center Parcs and their smooth-running, nothing's too much trouble, safe, car free, squeaky clean forest of wholesomeness.  (You know if you Google 'forest', the third result is Center Parcs; how good are they at SEO?!)
And as for the 'friends and family', they were no good for blog fodder either.  Nobody fell out, nobody got injured, sick, lost, drunk or disorderly, stuck up a tree; nothing!  Getting scraped, bruised and up close and personal with strangers' bottoms on the rapids is hardly even note-worthy.
Actually, the only pain in the aforementioned, was that, after four days of non-stop laser shooting, archery, football, tennis (short and table), badminton, squash, climbing, snooker and relentless swimming, I came home with a nice dose of flu!

Wait a minute, I forgot fencing!
That's right, weaponry-obsessed Daniel wanted to fence.  Thinking it would be foam swords and non-parent-participation I took him along.
How wrong I was, on both counts.  After a very short introduction to 'en garde' and 'lunge', the five-year-olds AND mums and dads were kitted out for battle, complete with real life foils which were bigger and heavier than the kids!
I know CP in half-term attracts the 4x4-driving, North Face-coated brigade but I still don't want to come face-to-face with my fellow campers' halitosis and activity-OD'd sweaty pits.  Let's just say, the masks and jackets were in need of a damp cloth and a squirt of Febreze!

There we go, I knew I'd find something to moan about!!!!

Speaking of Daniel, back at school this week he came home with the usual tonne-weight of parent sheets (I shudder for the rain forests).  The term's topic seemed perfectly Reception-age-friendly; Colour and Shape.
However, I'm  not sure how adult-age-appropriate the parent advice sheet was.....
Under Communication, Language and Literacy, item four read: - 'To sequence familiar stories and encourage emergent writing' (eh?).
In Expressive Arts and Design they will be ' looking at works by the artist Kandinsky and creating a piece of art in his style' (who?). 
And at home, we were asked (among a whole raft of things) to help our children 'identify and write initial, medial, final sounds in the CVC words' (oh boy!).

Can't we just stick CBBC on and give them a bag of Quavers?
I'm even considering boarding school as I need the free time to crack on with my Masters in 'Understanding and Deciphering Primary School Parental Literature'.

PS: Of course, I do know who Kandinsky is really.
(I just didn't realise she was an artist and a cross-dresser - but I did always think that Bill Clinton chappy was up to no good)

En garde - Daniel has me cornered!