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!)

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'.

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....

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?"

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!

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

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)