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.

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.....

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?!

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!!!!

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!

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'.