Re: Norman Tebbit’s famous ‘on yer bike’ speech from the 1981 Conservative Conference.
Additional note: I was never cool enough to ride one of these.

One of my kids has just finished university and is looking for temporary work - not looking hard, mind you, but he is looking - and a friend mentioned to me that her daughter found a series of catering staff gigs with a temp agency nearby. I suggested he get in touch with them and, astonishingly, he agreed that might be a good plan. That was ten days ago, and no progress had been reported…

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Me on Friday: Have you heard back from them?

Him: No.

Me: When did you fill in the online forms?

Him: End of last week.

Me; OK, it’s been a week. How about—

Him: Mum! Do NOT say I should go in there. It doesn’t work like that anymore. You Gen Xers always say stuff like that, and everything’s changed since the Dark Ages.

Me: No, no I wasn’t going to say that… OK, I was going to say that.

Him: I know you were - because you say it every time. ‘Why don’t you go in person and see if that helps.’ When has it ever helped?

Me: Well, never - because you’ve never actually done it. And even if it only works one time in ten, that would still be one job you got that you otherwise wouldn’t have had.

Him: Hurrumph.

Me: You know I’m right. Look. I need you to come into town with me today anywayto help with that thing. How about I drop you in front of the temp office first, and you can just stick your head round the door, ask if they received your application, and if they need anything else from you to get things moving. It can’t hurt, surely?

Him: For god’s sake Mum.

Me: And change out of those horrible tracksuit bottoms first.

Him: Mum!

Me: We’re leaving in 20.

Much to my surprise, we do actually leave in 20. I drop him in front of the building. Five minutes later, he comes back.

Me: So?

He mutters something incomprehensible.

Me: Sorry?

Him: I’m going back for an interview on Monday, with id and proof of address. They have something for me.

I said, fellow parents, nothing. Because I am a goddess.

(But Gen X rules OK).

Not my fridge; not enough half-full jars and frankly, way too clean.

Today it is the fridge that has aroused my ire; for an inaminate object it’s very good at that. I’m sorry to say this is not it’s first offence, and I’m over it.

Namely, I’m over the fact that every time I pull out the tray at the bottom to access the root veg, I more or less flood the kitchen with the accumulated water that comes with it - again. I mean, I think I have it on the right setting, but who can tell, really? Certainly there’s no help on the manufacturer’s website - or at least none that my lizard brain with it’s automatic reset time of 5-10 minutes can fathom out. (Honestly, it’s a wonder I’m managing to stay focused long enough to unload all this nonsense, now I think about it).

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So I will now need to go through the following steps. I wish it weren’t so and that I could spare you this wild ride, but based on previous experience the pattern is mandatory.

• Pull out the bottom drawer of the fridge.

• Recoil in horror at the wizened parsnips / beetroots / potatoes / carrots lurking at the back.

• Decide to make a fortifying cup of tea to help me face this particular thankless task, so fill and switch on the kettle.

• Use the boiling time to empty the wizened vegetables into the food recycling bin

• Realise the recycling bin needs a good clean.

• Get distracted by giving the recycling bin a good clean.

• Be alerted by the washing machine that the cycle has finished, so decide to ‘quickly’ unload the clean bed linen inside it.

• Transfer the sheets to the tumble dryer and take the pillow cases upstairs to dry on the airer (because, energy crisis and if we can save money and the environment by only running one drying cycle then why not).

• Realise when I get upstairs to the airer that one of my children has left their most recent wash on the airer. It’s dry, so I take it off.

• Then I fold it.

• WTF am I doing.

• Decide I am no way taking their dry laundry to their room and dump it on the spare bed. Remember we have a guest staying this evening and I need to make up the spare bed.

• Make up the spare bed.

• This entails moving all the dry laundry off the spare bed and into the airing cupboard.

• Open the airing cupboard door to discover the shelves full of last week’s now aired - and forgotten - bedding and towels.

• Put them away and replace with today’s bed linen.

• Check my watch. Shit, I’ve been up here 15 minutes already. What was I doing again?

• Go back down to the kitchen to look for a liner for the now dry food recycling bin (remember that?). Realise we’re out.

• Decide to finally make that cup of tea.

• Realise the kettle is now empty because the other child has just used it for noodles.

• Refill the kettle, which is tricky because the sink is obstructed by the bottom drawer from the fridge which I left there to give a good clean now that I’ve emptied the wizened vegetables.

• Clean the bottom drawer of the fridge.

• Remember, when I open the door of the fridge to return the drawer, why I took it out in the first place.

• Get a bucket and sponge to clean the swimming pool’s worth of water off the floor of the fridge.

• Lose all feeling in my fingers as I remove the water (because, Reynaud’s Syndrome), which causes me to knock the bucket over.

• Fetch the mop. Add ‘new mop head’ to my shopping list.

• Refill and switch on the kettle.

• Go back upstairs to find dry socks (because, wet floor and no shoes). Realise they are in the pile that needs pairing in the airing cupboard.

• Pair the damn socks. All of them*.

• Return to the kitchen to find the other child boiling eggs, and an empty kettle.

• Refill and switch on the kettle.

• Return the vegetable tray to the bottom of the fridge, realising as I do so that the tray above could also do with cleaning out.

• Sod it, so could the whole damn fridge.

• Clean out the fridge.

• Throw out half the jars living in there rent free, which various family members have bought, used one teaspoon of, and then forgotten about.

• This, of course, entails emptying the jars into the food recycling bin - for which we still don’t have a proper liner, so I’ll be cleaning it out again after bin day - and then washing the jars and putting them in the glass recycling box.

• The water in the kettle is now cold. Reboil the kettle.

• Then, I deep clean all the fridge shelves. (note to readers; this may be an example of that ‘creative non-fiction’ I sometimes include for laughs. Deep clean all the shelves? As if…*)

• Remember why I started this fiasco in the first place - the water and it’s mysterious appearance - so pull fridge out from the wall to check if the reservoir is full.

• Recoil in horror at the spiders, dog hair and dust that has set up camp behind it.

• Clean the space behind the fridge, then check the reservoir, and the hole that leads to it.

• It’s empty. No sign of why the water is pooling inside. The mystery continues.

• Push the fridge back into place.

• Realise I still never got that cup of tea. Boil the kettle.

• Make a cup of sodding tea.

There - don’t you feel better about your morning?

*Except of course the orphaned socks which have yet again unaccountably multiplied, and now appear to be hatching plans for airing cupboard domination.
**Actually, I did deep-clean all the shelves. I was just showing off by pretending that I didn’t.

Hands, fingerless gloves, tea, kitchen table and laptop: models’ own

Join me, dear reader, on a journey into the world of the Write Wardrobe - or, as it’s also known, the ‘what the hell am I going to wear as I sit around today in a still freezing house (WTF? It’s May already), and spend far too long not moving in the interests of producing Great Work’ wardrobe.

Or, my (insert amusing acronym here*) wardrobe.

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First up, the non-negotiable essentials; warm socks (because; stone floors, still freezing tempertures in May - again, WTF?), and comfy underwear (because; sitting). We don’t need to dwell on these, do we? We’re all grown-ups here. Sort of.

Then: layers. Because again, freezing temperatures in May (once more, WTF?). These can consist of (but are not limited to):

• T-shirt, most likely in faded colours and of questionable vintage, probably with an over-stretched collar and perhaps a slightly iffy logo. Definitely unironed, because who has the time, and either too large or too small (more likely the latter due to excessive biscuit/cookie/cake consumption as a result of needing to stay warm in the British spring).

• Thermal shell tops (I refer you to previous comments re; May), originally bought for long-ago winter holidays, now well past their best and no longer fit for public viewing but pressed into unwilling service in order to assist in the production of Great Work. Can be worn solo or in a cool '70’s retro style, under a t-shirt. Always assuming you have any left that fit you loosely enough to allow this. (See: biscuits/cookies/cake)

• Heavy sweaters for that formless, shapeless, ‘nothing to see but Great Work in progress here’ image. Likely bobbly under the arms and at the cuffs. For a truly authentic Write Wardrobe aesthetic, be sure to include tea or coffee stains. Said sweaters (or ‘jumpers’ for our non-US readers - more on which distinction another time), should be entirely unacquainted with the concept of a Remington Fuzz-Away or whatever the modern equivalent the youth of today use when they’re not wearing cool outfits from eg ASOS etc.

• On your bottom half, heavy jeans or cords that are loose enought to allow sitting for long periods (you may find the ‘loose enough’ requirement in short supply due to the afore-mentioned biscuits/cookies/cake), which can double up for soakings from the interminable May (MAY!) rain on dog walks, putting out and bringing back in of rubbish bins full of biscuit wrappers and used tea bags, or trips to the tip and / or local store for tea bags and biscuits. These trousers will have seen better days, but let’s not be picky, so have you.

• The jeans or cords can, on red letter days, be swapped out for a pair of those oh-so-flattering trackpants that looked fantastic when you spotted them in the catalogue. (Yes, that same catalogue that came through the door when the store realised you’re more likely to look at dinosaur tech than you are to open the spam email they also send to your inbox and which you immediately delete to avoid distractions from Great Work). For some reason these trackpants - which you bought for your yet-to-be-achieved jet-way lifestyle wafting through the airports to first class lounges on the trips you unaccountably never take - always look ineffably cool on the 22 year old size 8** models on the page, but somewhat less so as you try them on in front of the 3/4 length mirror on the back of your cupboard door. You wear them anyway. mostly with afore-mentioned shape-shifting woolly sweaters as you sit at your desk, because they are comfortable and if need-be can be worn on top of thermal leggings (see: May).

• Shoes or boots, yes, indoors. Don’t @ me. Slippers are usually gross (and in any case I can never find mine), and no way am I going to brave the ice rink under the kitchen table in my bare or socked feet. People in warm climates or with under-floor heating can afford to be sniffy about outoor shoes inside, with their natty little shoe cupboards just inside the front door, but the rest of us, in draughty northern climates, have to protect our toes from chilblains…

• Finally, to top it off, maybe an attractive scarf. Because sometimes that polo neck sweater just isn’t enough. (See: May)

Obviously, other Write Wardrobes are available for - in the UK - the 3 days that officially qualify as summer, but that’s a subject for another post and one which this year, quite frankly, I am beginning to doubt I’m ever going to need.

Because, these May temperatures. WTAF?

*Wearing Ridiculous Insulation To Exist - I know, it’s a bit crap, please feel free to contribute a better alternative in the comments

** size 4 US. I am neither of these sizes. See 1) biscuits/cookies/cakes and 2) May

(The image above is not my lawn - which will become clear by the end of this post)

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See below a list of things I probably should not have done over the last couple of days, but which I did anyway because I’m an idiot; Gardening Edition.

• Taking a look at our back lawn from my bedroom window at the weekend. Doing a double take. What the hell was all that?

• Going outside to take a closer look to realise that in the - oh, 2 months since I last looked at it (did I mention I hate gardening?), the lawn had been populated by thistles, ragwort, and various unidentifed plants, all of which were launching a bid for lawn domination.

• Spending 10 minutes or so on the thankless task of investigating how much it would cost to get the lawn returfed.

• Telling my husband how much it would cost to get the lawn returfed.

• Agreeing that said amount was definitely too expensive. (I said it was a thankless task…)

• Looking at the other pristine lawns in our row of terraced houses and realising we are the social pariahs bringing down the tone of the neighbourhood.

• Regretting the fact that apparently ‘No Mow May’ is a thing of the past in these parts. (So much for environmental gardening).

• Deciding to see how much of an improvement I could implement myself, without hiring any help, tools, or assistance from my husband because he’s wisely travelling for work right now.

• Visiting the local garden centre to buy some kind of gadget to remove the invasive plants myself.

• Discovering that a daisy grubber would probably be just the ticket. Wondering how I reached this point in life a) without knowing what a daisy grubber is and b) managing without one.

• Spending the next two afternoons pulling up a large garden bin’s worth of assorted thistles, ragworts and other unidentified plant life, using said daisy grubber.

• Having to take a bit of a nana-nap after each daisy grubbing adventure to recover from my unaccustomed garden-based activity.

• Actually calling it a nana-nap in front of my children who now will not let that one rest.

• Researching what to do with the bare patches of lawn where the assorted thistles, ragworts and other identified plant life have been removed.

• Discovering for the first time what a scarifier is.

• Realising a) we don’t have one and b) would have no space to put one in our shed of shame if we did.

• Revisiting the garden centre to buy grass seed and a sturdy rake which surely would do the job just as well as a scarifier.

• Scarifying the lawn with a heavy rake rather than a - well - scarifier.

• Realising after the home-made scarifier adventure that actually, the correct way to go about this would have required the application of moss killer a few weeks earlier, to prevent moss spores spreading over the rest of the previously unaffected lawn. Oh well.

• Taking a look at the now blasted heath that used to be our lawn, and realising no way had I bought enough grass seed to cover the bare patches, so heading back to the sodding garden centre for a bigger pack.

• Scattering grass seed across the lawn using the patented applicator that is part of the box, rather than a scoop.

• Disregarding the shooting pain that subsequently started in my back following the scattering of the grass seed, and deciding that yes, it would be a good idea to walk down the steep hill into town; a bit of a walk would probably help with the pain.

It was not a good idea. It did not help with the pain.

Did I mention I hate gardening?

Another memory from the back in the day, when my kids listened to me (sort of) and I didn’t regularly need to vacate the room to escape the fall-out of their having had too many eggs for breakfast. Good times…

We had the builders in today. They rolled up around 3.30pm, complete with reflective vests, hardhats, and toolbelts. I thought the hardhats were a touch over the top, but I guess you can't be too careful when you've come to help construct a railway around the sitting room.

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Sadly, the railway was never actually finished, even though it snaked from one end of the room to the other, taking very little account of the lie of the land and features like sofas and tables. When they started, the builders had high hopes of reaching all the way from Sydney Harbour to London Airport, but then they were distracted by an attack of killer dinosaurs on a nearby castle.

The dinosaurs were intent on removing all the occupants of the castle by the simple means of stuffing them down the back of the sofa, but the local mum police scuppered this plan and insisted the playmobil soldiers be placed instead in the seat of a conveniently situated toy buggy, until other suitable accomodation could be found. The only problem with this plan was that the buggy has an unfortunate tendency to fold itself up without warning, which the younger of the two Builders (I believe his name was Bob), found so frustrating that he was soon full length on the floor shouting and banging his feet.

I suspect that tomorrow morning there will be further ructions when the builders return and find that not only have the killer dinosaurs been returned to their place in the natural order of things (a tray in the corner of the sitting room), but that the railway has unaccountably been swallowed up by an earthquake and returned to it's original home in a box in Boy #1's bedroom…

A friend of mine, C, is newly pregnant - for the first time. C, if you ever read this darling, I'm laughing with you (or with the 'you' you will be in 6 months time after the baby has arrived) - not at you...

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We were chatting about the preparations she’s making, the speed with which she plans to return to work, and the support she’s hoping her family will give. Then;

C: "... and can you believe it, one of my friends who's just given birth has someone to come into her house 10 hours a day for the next 3 months, just to help with the baby!"

Me (thinking; the lucky devil): "Really? Sounds like a good idea. Who wouldn’t, really? If someone offers to pay for that for you, I suggest you bite their hand off."

Silence.

Me: "C?"

C: "You can't be serious. I mean, feeding a baby every 3 hours and preparing a meal - how hard can it be?"

I was like that, once.

It’s Mother’s Day weekend in the US right now; we had ours in the UK a couple of months back, but this prompted me to go back into my blog archives - nearly 20 years, as you’ll see from the topical references to The Crocodile Hunger and Ice Age (yes, the og one).

The old adage ‘the days are long but the years are short’ is never more true than when it comes to raising kids. You think the time is dragging, but - if you’re lucky enough to have a retrospective window onto what was going on, as I am from the writing I did back then - you can see just how rich that period was. I’ve done a lot of solo parenting in my life because my husband travelled a lot back when our kids were small, so this is an account of a fairly standard Sunday; reading it again now takes me right back to that sometimes chaotic time…

It's been busy Sunday here. I hadn't expected it to be, since it was meant to be just me and the Boys, but we seem to have had one visitor after another...

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First off? Steve Irwin and a Fearsome Lion dropped by at around 8.00am. The Crocodile Hunter was in fine form, hunting down the big cat and cornering it in the sitting room. This was perhaps a little easier than usual, since the Fearsome Lion in question was clomping around with a pair of my boots on it's front paws and therefore unable to pad around the flat with it's usual stealth and cunning. It still put up a fight though, growling and roaring like the King of the Savannah it is. This necessitated the intrepid Aussie to counter with his own shouts of 'crikey' and 'Irwin, Steve Irwin!' before the wrestling pair had to be separated for breakfast.

Steve then left, but as he departed he entrusted a model Tasmanian Devil to Boy #1's care - the relevance of which will become clear shortly.

Breakfast over, I took my life in my hands and decided to fly solo to church for the first time. I had my doubts about this, but somewhere between the car and the church a miracle took place; instead of being accompanied by two squirming complainy Boys, I found that I had acquired a couple of angels who, for the first part of the service, seemed to deem it their mission to show up every other child in the building with their model behaviour.

Then, during the opening hymn Boy #2, standing on the bench between his brother and I, reached out and took both of our hands, resembling nothing so much as a child at an evangelical church about to speak in tongues and bestow blessings. It was quite exceptionally cute, and I allowed myself a (short-lived) moment of pride.However, the moment passed rapidly come the sermon, when Boy #1 started to demand juice. I refused to hand any over, forseeing treks back and forth to the loo shepherding not just him but his brother and all our coats and bags as well (it's a central London church holding around 400 people on a Sunday morning. I am not so naive as to leave my bag lying around unaccompanied, un-Christian though that might be...). This resulted in much fierce whispering until his attention was distracted by the winsome 4 year old girl in the bench in front.

Unfortunately (and this is where the relevance of the toy animal becomes clear), in a bid to impress, Boy #1 decided to show off the charge left with him by Steve-o. His command of the word 'Tasmanian' is not good at the best of times. This resulted in his replying, when she asked him what the animal was; "A Tis..m..n DEVIL" (emphasis on the DEVIL) during the period of quiet contemplation before communion.

Well, he didn't actually say it like that - that's just how it sounded to me. And everyone else around us. Her mother, not seeing the toy, and no doubt only hearing the word 'devil', shot me a reproachful look before gathering her daughter closer to her...

So, that was mass. Afterwards, we went home and were joined by a Celebrity Chef in full whites regalia - including the tall hat - who insisted on accompanying Boy #2 and I to the park, where we met a friend and her daughter before going for lunch. I wouldn't have minded, but his overalls could really have done with a wash, and looked a little odd hanging out beneath his coat, with the whole ensemble topped off unnecessarily with his cycling helmet over the hat. Still, I guess that's the rich and famous for you...

When we reached the park? Well, the chef rapidly metamorphosed into a 'pirate chef'‘ with his sidekick the pirate captain, who commandeered the lookout post and refused to come down until tempted to do so with cookies.

The Boys joined me briefly again for lunch, but when we got back and Boy #2 went for a nap, Boy #1 went missing and was replaced by Diego, the Sabre-Toothed Tiger from Ice Age, who was hunting his prey all over the living room and doing his best to destroy what remains of the springs in the sofa where I was trying - unsuccessfully - to take a post-prandial nap. As if. Have you ever tried to get some shut-eye with a fearsome tiger breathing in your face?)

It wasn't until dinner that calm was restored and it was just me and the Boys again.

Frankly, this Sunday has been exhausting.

I am not a property developer; I want to make that perfectly clear before I start this article. Nor do I live in an enormous ten bedroomed house. It just so happens however that over the last 6 years or so I have been involved with renovating seven (yes, count them, 7) bathrooms, in various houses. And I thought it might be entertaining to share what I learned, so you don’t have to start from scratch yourself, should you be in the (un)fortunate position to need to do this yourself in the near future.

Buckle up. And I suggest not eating lunch while reading - you have been warned.

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Sani-flows

If you’ve never come across that descriptor before, these are also known as toilet macerators - and yes, that is as revolting a concept as it sounds. A great idea if you have a tall house with a bathroom on the top floor, as it helps ensure ‘everything’ (and I don’t need to specify what ‘everything’ is, do I?) goes down the pipes as it should without backing up and blocking the downpipe.

Oh, you thought ‘everything’ just magically disappeared once you flushed, and hadn’t realised backing up was possible? I was like you, once (cue thousand yard stare). But yes, backing up is a very real possibility, it turns out. Particularly if the house you are renovating has been a holiday let for a number years, and various occupants have been flushing items other than ‘everything’ (again, do I need to specify what ‘other than everything’ means? Didn’t think so…) for an unspecified period of years. And don’t look down your nose at these oh-so-carefree holiday makers who merrily flush whatever they fancy with abandon when they’re on vaction - you know you’ve done it too. We all have.

But no more.

So. Our plumber, the one who helped us renovate the house and was installing the new toilet and saniflow, was not aware that said pipe had been blocked, and he certainly would have words with you, if you were one of those transgressors. Why? Because, even though he very carefully drained the old loo before removing it from the wall to install the new set-up, not being aware of the blocked pipe situation he had not reckoned with what happened next.

I’m not a physics teacher, but in simple terms; it was the result of natural vacuum power.

As the plumber - we’ll call him Matt, because that’s name - removed the old toilet, there was an ominous gurgle. Then, what he could only describe as a poonami* catapulted out of the hole in the wall, all over him, all over the (thank goodness) very small and luckily completely empty bathroom, and down the stairs immediately next to him.

We were not living in this house at the time - and I thank god for that. Apparantly our garden hose came in handy for clean up duties outside, before Matt headed home to recover.

*Not sure there could be a more descriptive word than poonami, but if you fancy coming up with one in the comments, be my guest.

But this, my friends, is not the end of the story. Far from it. Even though we now have the Saniflow which, when used correctly, should prevent a repeat build-up of, let’s call it ‘organic material’ just to change things up a bit, in the downpipe. Thing is however, a Saniflow’s ability to work is dependent upon ONLY organic material going through it. And guess what? It subsequently turned out that some of the rental guests who’ve occupied the property since we bought it are not good at reading the very clear and specific instructions we’ve printed out (in big font and everything), laminated, and situated directly above the loo. The same instructions that say ‘Natural waste only’ and which give a long list of all the things that should not be disposed of in the loo. In any loo, really, but particularly in one with a macerator attached.

It turns out, however, that these things are exactly the sort of waste that some people believe can only be disposed of in a toilet.

So, three years after the poonami incident, our poor long-suffering plumber was summoned back to the scene of the original crime, since the saniflow had stopped working with sadly predictable results. And god help me, this time I was on-site too. Matt told me that he usually refuses requests to sort out blocked macerators; the only reason he attended this time was because we’ve built up a good relationship over the last few years and - crucially - I settle my bills on receipt. (I knew that would pay dividends eventually)

There’s a peculiar type of camerarderie that develops when two people have to carefully detach a macerator unit from the wall, carry it down 2 flights of carpeted stairs, out through the front of a house, and to the nearest suitable drain outlet to dispose of contents which I can only describe as revolting and in total contravention of the oh-so-helpful list of items that should not be flushed through the toilet. Indeed, it was almost as if the guests had used the list as a helpful checklist of what should be flushed down the loo - although thankfully they hadn’t got as a far as flushing metal or wooden objects, for which I suppose we should be grateful.

In any case, once the plumber and I had stopped gagging, washed our hands, reattached the now working macerator, and had a nice cup of tea, (we are British after all, and that is the cure-all for all ills), I settled up on the spot, he left, and I printed the instructions out once again in an even larger font and reinstalled them again in the top floor bathroom. Oh, and black-listed the guests who’d caused the problem in the first place, of course.

Well, would you look at that? This post has already gone on far too long, so I will save further handy tips on bathroom renovations for future fun and frolicksome articles.

But tell me; have you got any great bathroom renovation stories that won’t get my account banned from Substack? Feel free to share in the comments below, if yes…

Another excerpt from the early days of my blog, back in 2008.

Boy #1 was in a bad mood this morning. Everything was a problem; waking up, being asked to brush his teeth, getting dressed, you name it. And to cap it all, he rediscovered a scratch on the palm of one hand that was the result of having a splinter removed yesterday afternoon. Oh, the pain! The drama! He wasn't ever going to be able to eat again! He wouldn't be able to hold a pencil! 'Really, mama, I think I had better stay home from school today...'

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(I would like to say at this point that the scratch in question was merely that - a scratch. Just in case you think I am Spartan Mummy and being too harsh on my beloved son...)

Having had just about as much moaning as I could take at 7.00am I administered antiseptic ointment and told him to get on with it, which was of course like a red rag to a bull. Things calmed down - a little - over breakfast, when he discovered that amazingly, he was still able to hold a spoon through the excruciating pain. However, when he was instructed to put on his shoes, all hell broke loose.

He couldn't do it.

He needed help.

How was he supposed to do up his shoes with the scratch on his palm?

I sat there weathering the storm, giving Boy #2 - stoically good tempered, as ever - his breakfast. Suddenly, through the maelstrom of complaints, there came a small voice.

Boy #2: "Mama?"

Me: "Yes?"

Boy #2: "Boy #1. Help. Boy #1. Shoe. Help."

Me: "You think I should help Boy #1 put his shoes on?"

Boy #2: "Esss..."

Boy #1: "No! I can do it! Noooo!"

And promptly did.


What it is to have a two year old who is a master of reverse psychology.

Out for lunch with my husband and a male friend. The male friend (MF) was talking about a colleague who had left for work in the morning as usual, and who’s wife had left him by the time he got home at the end of a long day.

The MF’s colleague was completely blindsided. Had no idea, apparently, that his wife had been seeing someone else for 3 months, and even less idea that she would pack up and move in with this person.

‘That’s crazy’ my husband said. ‘It’s so quick! How old are they?’

‘Both around 52. He’s distraught. He has 2 loves in his life; his family, and his work. Had no clue this was coming. It doesn’t seem fair, that it happened so out of the blue.’

I looked at them both, these intelligent, good hearted men, in touch with their emotions and with no fucking clue about women. Cleared my throat.

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‘Um… I know nothing about these people. Never met them, never will. But I can hazard a guess what happened. (As, I suspect, could many women of a similar age). Want to hear it?’

They nodded.

‘She’s supported the family unit for years, yes? Tell me; have the kids recently left home?’

MF nodded again.

‘I can tell you now, she was probably sending signals she was unhappy for years. The husband didn’t pick up on them because he was so busy - and didn’t realise he should be paying at least as much attention at home as at work. She let it go, and let it go. Then, the kids left, and all of a sudden she had more time to think about feeling unnoticed, unneeded and unloved.’

You could hear a pin drop. Both men were looking slightly uncertain by now.

I continued. ‘Suddenly, boom, menopause - or peri-menopause - hits. Hormones all over the place. Time’s ravages are becoming clear. Along with the hot flashes, muscle ache, brain fog, sleepless nights, discombobulation, dry skin, and all the other lovely things that middle age hands women, a sense of urgency arrives and won’t be ignored.

‘Your friend’s wife is going through this shit alone (because that’s what we do), and just battling through like she always does, but something’s shifted now. She looks at her husband, busy as ever, passionate about his work as ever, and assuming she’ll always be there. She realises that this is likely it; his mindset won’t ever change. Probably, there’s a breaking point that he doesn’t even notice. A cancelled evening out, a missed birthday dinner for one of the kids, the casual forgetting of a task she asked him to complete. Could be big, could be tiny. The thing is, for all those years she’s let those situations slide.

‘But now she’s over it, so when someone else starts to pay attention - or she finds someone else to pay attention to - she makes the leap and burns everything to the ground.

‘And I get it, I really do. So you can say that it’s unfair and the husband doesn’t deserve it, but what I don’t think you can say is that this whole situation is unexpected. Hell, it’s astonishing more of us don’t do it.’

Both men looked shaken.

‘This can’t be news to you, surely? It’s textbook. Or rather, it is, if you’re a woman paying attention to what’s going on around you as you hit this age.’

Lunch ended on a rather subdued note, after that.

One of the things I’ve been enjoying about Substack recently are the tales from the frontline of parenting. They take me back; as I’ve mentioned before, I used to write a blog on exactly that topic back in the day. Here are a couple of excerpts from 2008, when my children were young (2 and 4), biddable, and I thought I was in charge. (Bless).

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Excerpt #1: When nearing the end of a long car journey… (note: Bob the Builder is a rock star in our house right now. This is highly relevant, as you’ll see).

Boy #1: Look, Boy #2, a crane! Can you see that? A crane!

Boy #2: Plane!

Boy #1: No, I said a crane. A crane! Over there - a crane!

Boy #2: Train!

Boy #1: Noooooo! Mama! Tell him - it's a crane! (Reaches over to give Boy #2's car seat an admonitary tap). A CRANE!

Me: Boy #1! No hitting. Not even chairs. If Boy #2 wants to say plane or train, he can. You know it's a crane, that's what's important. He'll get it eventually. Won't you, Boy #2?

Boy #2 (under his breath and grinning at me cheekily. He knows exactly what it is): Crane. (More loudly) Plane! Train! Plain! Train!

……………………………………………

Excerpt #2: From a conversation with my children as Boy #1 unpacked his toy-rucksack following our return from my parent's house the previous evening.

Boy #1: Oh look Mama, a toy car. It isn't mine. Is it mine? Boy #2, is it our car?

Boy #2: Tea? (Boy #2 is currently obsessed with pouring imaginery tea for everyone he meets. It wouldn't be particularly funny, but he asks in just the tone that a vicar's wife - or, if you happen to live in the UK and have seen the 80's comedy Keeping up Appearances, Hyacinth Bucket - would use. With a rising inflection and a big smile plastered over his cheeky face). Tea? Tea?

Boy #1: Yes please, Boy #2 (he knows that he won't be left in peace until he is holding his imaginary cup of English Breakfast). Mama, look! I said, a toy car, that isn't mine!

Me: Oh yes. Maybe we brought it home by mistake. Perhaps it's one of Cousin J's.

Boy #1: No, no, we didn't bring it by mistake. We were just stupid. (The implication being of course, that it wasn’t him, but me who was ‘just stupid’).

Boy #2: Cake?

Ah, the wisdom of babes. (And yes please, Boy #2. I will have that cake).

What love looks like in our home, now the family has grown and become largely independent - a non-finite list:

• Me over-stocking the fridge so that there is always something to grab, and which, crucially (other than evening meals) I am not going to prepare for them. This may mean that if one of them is not at home for a weekend there is a yogurt glut, but that’s still better that than none at all - IYKYK.

• Expecting them to clear and clean up after said meals - and getting them to come back and do so if they haven’t. (Still a WIP, if I’m honest. Working from the kitchen helps with this - it removes any deniability for the mess from the mix).

• My cooking only one choice of evening meal, for everyone. No passes, no opting out. Preferences are taken into account, but not singularly catered for. And if one child needs to make a neat pile of hated courgette on one side of their plate, I can live with that.

• Expecting them to sit down for a family dinner most days, phone-free (myself included), and engage in human conversation…

• … and knowing which subjects that conversation should steer clear of.

• Not ironing their shirts for them, because I know they have to become competent at these life-skills themselves. (One child has got this - the other is getting there).

• Not fetching or doing their laundry because, likewise. And if that means a crumpled shirt for a formal dinner, well…

• Not tidying their rooms. No matter how hard it is to walk away. (Although I must ask for one relatively recent instance of maternal tidying to be taken into consideration here, which involved protein powder, cardboard packaging, and mice. Retch)

• Asking them to help carry groceries through the house so they learn that even if they didn’t come to the supermarket, food is not delivered by magical means. They should be involved in the process of putting it all away in the right places as part of caring, functioning household.

• Pushing them to plan and cook one from-scratch family meal a week so I know they will be able to nutritionally fend for themselves when they’ve flown the nest. (My evil plan here is that when out of home commitments etc are taken into account, I should soon only have to cook 2-3 evening meals a week. It’s down to four at present - I’ll keep you posted).

• Teaching them to roast a chicken, and how to make a really good birthday cake, so they will always have friends. The upside of this is that I don’t have to make my own birthday cake. The downside is that I have to live with the consequences which is that I will forever be celebrating my birthday with chocolate cake - rather than my preferred coffee cake - because that’s what they like.)

• Getting them to organise their own healthcare appointments, and to co-ordinate with your diary regarding transport if necessary. And also, to call to reschedule said appointments as necessary (which is always, ALWAYS required. We’re working on this).

• Expecting them to involve themselves with caring for any pets, so they understand responsibility for beings other than themselves, especially those who can’t vocalise their needs, or ask to be taken for out for a comfort break pre-bed. And if that doesn’t happen on their watch, them clearing up afterwards. (This last also applies if the dog has eaten something they shouldn’t have like, for example, the entire contents of a full bottle of castor oil and omega 3 capsules. The need to clear up the catastrophic results have ensured this situation has never been repeated).

Other parents with older kids still at home - what have I left out?

I like to believe that when it comes to reading matter, people are more discerning than is generally thought. I think that although the majority of content we take in nowadays is short form, we are still more than capable of consuming larger tranches of information in one go. It’s not necessary to break everything up into bite-sized pieces; we may have got out of the habit of reading long, run-on sentences, but - like riding a bike – if we’re engrossed enough in the information we’re taking on board, I think we can still manage it.

(See what I did there?)

Of course, nowadays the temptation to run a piece through an AI engine and to transform our thoughts from stream-of-consciousness to short, snappy sound-bites can be overwhelming. Who doesn’t like to be able to deliver short, interesting arguments in easily digestible morsels of wisdom?

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So I thought I would try an experiment, and run the two main paragraphs above through ChatGPT. Here’s what it came back with.

People aren’t as shallow in their reading habits as we often assume.

Yes, we scroll. Yes, we skim. And yes, much of what we consume now comes in short bursts. But that doesn’t mean we’ve lost the ability—or the appetite—for depth. Give someone something worth their attention, and they’ll stay with it. Length isn’t the problem. Lack of engagement is.

We’ve been told everything needs to be bite-sized. Trimmed. Simplified. Broken down into neat, digestible fragments. But that’s not always necessary. Long sentences, layered ideas, sustained arguments—they’re not obsolete. They’re just underused. And like anything neglected, they come back quickly when we re-engage with them.

Still, there’s a growing temptation to compress everything. To take raw, meandering thought and run it through AI until it emerges as something tighter, cleaner, sharper. More “consumable.” It’s efficient. It’s polished. It works.

And yet—there’s something almost too easy about it.

Because while everyone appreciates clarity, there’s a different kind of value in letting ideas unfold at their natural pace. Not everything needs to be a sound bite. Not every thought needs to be optimised for speed.

So, leaving aside the fact that at only 9 words long the last line of the AI generated post is entirely contradictory, what’s the difference between the two pieces? At first glance, not that much – except that hard as this fact is to swallow, even I can see the second, AI-augmented, version is much more easily consumed. The sentences are, as it says ‘tighter, cleaner, sharper.’ And here’s the data, in case you’re interested:

1. Total number of sentences: Original 7 vs AI 26

2. Total number of words: Original 138, vs AI 187

3. Longest sentence: Original 48 words, vs AI 19 words

4. Shortest sentence: Original 7 words, vs AI 1 word

5. Average words / sentence: Original 19 words vs AI 10 words

6. Total paragraphs: Original 2 vs AI 6

Obviously, I’m being somewhat disingenuous here. I deliberately extended the sentence length I used in my first two paragraphs, because of course I want to prove that we - you - are capable of persisting with them. And because I believe that the human mind offers more than an LLM; I like to think of myself as a writer, and the thought that the richness of human minds and imagination can be replaced by a data centre goes – to put it mildly – somewhat against the grain.

But what’s worrying – to me, at least – is that the difference between the two excerpts above is illustrative of a deeper truth. The second post may be longer, but it seems to say less. It may be terser, but it’s using more page space to be that way. It may be more impactful, but to achieve that it’s using much more energy at a data centre than I am, sitting here at my kitchen table. And whilst I’m all for labour-saving devices, I find the homogenisation of online content extremely concerning. I come to Substack to enjoy the wide variety of individual viewpoints, hot-takes and well thought out cogent arguments in unique voices, not the same. Short. Sentences. Bludgeoning me. With facts.

Because for me, the joy of listening to a choir is not in hearing the same voice replicated many times to achieve a required volume. The joy of listening to a choir is in hearing what are obviously many voices, singing to the same end, creating beautiful music. And I don’t believe that that is what AI is giving us, either as creators or consumers.

Or am I just being naive?

If you have children you are likely to be very familiar with the phrase ‘What are we doing today, Mummy?’ It's just a few words, but - unless you are much better prepared for a rainy Friday than I am - it may well drive you crazy.

So when your children ask, do you ever dream of answering that question honestly?

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"Well, darling, today we are going to clear up the breakfast things, start the dishwasher and the washing machine, reorganise the laundry on the drying rack to minimise drying time, rush around opening all the blinds and curtains, and do the first of many rounds of tidying up. This is in no particular order, and one task may interrupt another at any time for no good reason (other than the fact that I am incapable of staying focused on only one job for more than a couple of minutes), thus resulting in most of them taking them twice as long as they need to.

Then, I am going to ask you put on your shoes - 4 times, probably, before you take any notice - bundle you and your brother into your coats and hats, realise it's raining cats and dogs and that I've left the umbrellas in the car down the street, and manhandle the buggy up the steps. I will then run back down the steps to double check I've locked the front door (which I know I have but hey, let's just make sure), before embarking on a splashy walk to the shops.

About half way there you will start to complain that your legs hurt, and I will endeavour to distract you by pointing out the biggest puddles I can find for you to jump in (thus ensuring that a change of clothes and yet more washing is required when we get home). This technique will restore relative calm until we are nearly at our destination, when your brother will start to shout for food because he wouldn't touch his breakfast and is now - an hour later - starving.

As we leave the bakers - with you and your brother stuffing your faces with bread roll and doing a pretty good impression of children who are never fed at home - you will announce at the top of your voice that you need a poo. This will cause all the tourists eating their breakfasts (who had previously been enjoying the picturesque view of you and your brother looking winsome, nudging each other and smiling in avuncular style) to turn away and finish their coffees at top speed. We will then need to go into the shop with the nearest guaranteed to-be-not-too-disgusting loo to avert disaster. As usual, this means Starbucks, so my resolution not to buy myself a hot chocolate will go out of the window, and you and your brother will demand a chocolate coin. All 3 of us will then be totally sugared up before 10.00am..."

However.

What I actually said was something like "Oh, well, let's see. This morning you're coming to the dentist to watch mummy get her teeth checked so you can see what happens there, and later this afternoon we'll see Fred and Jamie in the park - if it ever stops raining."

You've got to hold some of the good stuff back, right? No point getting them totally over-excited...

Another one from the archives; this one’s from November 2008. It concerns my younger child, then known as Boy #2. Time has moved on; now I’m a parent to 2 over 20’s, and the experiences I write about in this post took place long, long ago and in a land far, far away. But yet again, I’m thanking my younger self for writing stuff down as this blast from the past has transported me back to what might have been a more frantic time, but which was most definitely simpler…

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Boy #2 is currently home sick from nursery. Not anything serious, just this nasty cold/flu virus that’s going around and which you just have to get through. Thank heavens, we are now past the nightly vomit-fest of a few days ago and he is recovering, albeit slowly.

Now, don’t get me wrong; I value my child-free time when he’s a nursery very highly. For 3 mornings a week I get to go unencumbered to the supermarket, to run errands, to do stuff around the house, even exercise from time to time (and of course to blog, but let’s keep that as our little secret), and those are opportunities? They are like gold to me.

But Boy #2 is just so... Boy #2-ish. Obviously, when ill, he’s a snot fountain. He’s tired and cranky. He’s demanding. He wants me to read book after book after book. He moans. Frankly it’s exhausting - if I had the time I might have to come down with something myself just to recover.

But I can’t begin to adequately describe the feeling of contentment that washes over me when he and I are curled up on the sofa reading ‘The Polar Express’ or Thomas the Tank Engine. His neat little head resting in the hollow of my shoulder, his chubby little hand resting on my leg, his sniffly breath in my ear (well, maybe not that last bit - but it’s part of the package right now); all are serving to remind me that being a mother to small children is so fleeting, so transient.

If it’s possible to enjoy looking after a mildly unwell 2 year old, I am doing.

Who’ld have thought it?

Back in the day, I wrote a Mummy Blog; The Potty Diaries. At the time it was a way to make sense of the days, but re-reading the posts now it’s an invaluable window into the way our lives were back then. Here’s an excerpt from a post in 2008, when my 2 year old was beginning to flex their muscles…

We experienced the brother of all tantrums at dinner this evening.

My younger child, Boy #2, is generally a sunny tempered, even-keeled, easy riding kind of a bloke who just goes with the flow. Fancy a late night? He’s fine with that. Need to kick him out of his comfortable travel cot at a friend's house for a post-dinner party trip home in the car? 'Wow, what an adventure.' An injection required? 'OW - but that chocolate sure is good Mum, got any more?' Going to drop him at nursery for the first time? 'Oh - are you still here, parent-person?'

You get the picture.

But there's one thing that is guaranteed to start his lower lip trembling; strapping him into his high chair.

It's not that he doesn't want to eat. A more robust little weeble you'ld be hard pushed to find. Compared to his brother, he is Monsieur Mange-tout. But he values his freedom. He likes to be able to get down from his high chair, trot off and fetch the car / train / comic that has caught his eye, and bring it back to the table to join in the fun. Problem is, it’s not very restful for the rest of us when he takes off across the wooden floor, scattering cous-cous from his pelican bib and smearing greasy hands over the furniture and walls. So when he did this for the 3rd time during dinner this evening, I decided enough was enough, and gave him due warning that this was not acceptable.

Hostilities commenced as follows....

Me: "The next time you get down, Boy #2, I will strap you in."

Cheeky grin in reply. Subtext; "Yeah, right."

Within 2 minutes he gets down again.

Me: "That's it, darling. I'm strapping you in."

Boy #2 laughs. At me.

Stupidly, I laugh back. I can't help it. I know this is a mistake. I should appear tough, parental, in control. But he's so damn cute! However, consistency is all - so I pick him up, sit him in his chair, and start to do up the straps.

A look of incredulous horror crosses his face. Subtext; "You've got be joking. Come on, sweetcheeks, look at this grin. Can you lock me up, really? She's locking me up, really. I can't believe it. Boy #1, look at this! I said, Look At This!"

Boy #1 concentrates on shoveling salmon and cous-cous into his mouth (inexplicably for such a normally fussy eater, this is one of his favourite meals), and ignores his brother, no doubt thinking; "About time the little tyrant got his come-uppance at the table. That'll teach the little show-off to eat bananas and fruit and other shit like that."

I continue to struggle with the straps, whilst Boy #2's tantrum escalates and I start to worry whether any passing police car may hear and assume infanticide is happening inside.

Me: "Come on, darling. I warned you what would happen. Now it's time to stay put."

Boy #2 struggles, screams, and flails about. You'ld think I was putting him in a hair shirt rather than just doing up some rather loose straps and fastening a tray on the front of his high chair. Tears roll down his plump rosy little cheeks. He gets louder, and I start imagining the sound of dull booms and sirens in the distance.

I watch him and can almost hear, through the rattle of imagined gun-fire, him dictating over the telephone; "I tried everything. Stop. She wouldn't listen. Stop. No matter what I pulled out of the hat, she was immovable. Stop. Who was this dictator? Question mark. At what point did a toddler's intrinsic right to roam free during a meal get taken away by a mother's passing whim? Question mark."

Every now and then there was a momentary lull in hostilities whilst he cast sidelong glances in my direction, through spiky lashes wet with tears, to judge the impact his performance was having. I didn't budge. He ratched it up a notch. I stayed put, calmly (outwardly at least) eating my dinner. Boy #1 handled the pressure well, although was forced to put down his fork and spoon at regular intervals to put his hands over his ears when the shelling got too much.

Note : for those of a nervous and sensitive disposition, at no point was I forcing Boy #2 to eat. My concern was simply that he should understand that meal times are for sitting at the table, not wreaking havoc around it.

Eventually he started to calm. Maybe his ammo was out, I don't know. More likely, it was that he saw Boy #1 and I were finishing our meals and calculated he was wasting bullets when C-beebies and Story Makers were just around the next bend in the road. In any case, the fusillade stopped.

I looked at him. He looked at me. There was a new respect in his eyes. A look that said "Oh, so you meant it then?"

Me: "Yes, I meant it. Do you have anything to say to me?"

Boy #2 uttered one of his (still relatively) few words; "Sowweee."

My heart melted. Of course it did. I undid the straps, and gave him a kiss. He kissed me back, and then sauntered off to the living room, empty ammo belt swinging from his hips, Bob the Builder helmet jammed firmly on his head. I glanced up from clearing away the rubble as he reached the door. He turned and gave me a look that said, as clear as day:

"And I'm certainly going to learn how to run faster before breakfast."

I’m not much for jewellery. I wear rings on the third fingers of both hands, and earrings when I want to make an effort or for special occasions. It’s not that I don’t appreciate glitter and sparkle - I absolutely do - but every day? I doesn’t suit my life, right now.

But recently I unearthed a necklace that my husband gave me back in the early days of our courtship. It’s single stone may be small, unassuming, and easily missed as it sits inside the colour of a t-shirt, but knowing it’s there is a comfort.

As I fastened the clasp this morning I wondered why the simple act of wearing it is important to me - and then realised what was behind my seeking it out most days. My husband is travelling - a lot - right now. He always has, but at the moment it’s almost as much as when we first met, when we had one of those international relationships that sound so much more glamorous in the abstract than they are in lived reality. That was when this gift was given, and back then it’s perfect stone it felt like a promise.

I will come back. I love you.

Nowadays we’re tied together by so much more than we were thirty years ago; children, wedding bands, a home, shared goals and principles, and - of course - the burdens that a life built together accrues.

The necklace that I put on each day doesn’t look like much, to be honest. It’s fragile, somewhat unassuming, and as I said before, easily missed. But I don’t need it to be blatant; I know it’s there, nestled round my neck, and each day as I put it on I suppose I too am making a promise.

I will be here when you come back. I love you.

The disconnect between what is going on in many women’s lives, and the morning birdsong outside on a sunny day as I sit in my kitchen is hard to fathom.

For there is a low hum in the background, an ominous buzz, that is created by the inescapable knowledge that right now, RIGHT NOW, someone - many someones, in fact - are logging onto the Rape Academy. Forget 62 million views in February; February, it turns out, was a quiet month. In March, there were 80 million views. And you can bet that April’s numbers will be higher, given the fact that just as with every other sphere of human endeavour, no PR is bad PR, and as far as I’m aware that site is still operating. And elsewhere other someones, schooled either by this website or others like it, are stocking up on Rohypnol, or replenshing their supplies of syringes for the next time they go ‘hunting’, either at home, or in the bars and clubs.

Meanwhile, what do young people have to defend themselves with the next time they want to go out and enjoy themselves? Shared tips on how to recognise a predator that may or may not work, and links to sites selling scrunchie covers for drinks, so they only consume the drugs they actually choose to. I mean, scrunchies. FFS. And apps, downloaded to help them walk home safely - maybe - after a night out. Assuring each other they have their backs, and will immediately take a friend home if any of them start acting out of character. And, as a last resort, the hope that if they are isolated and vulnerable, a stranger will step in and do the right thing.

Good luck with that. Not one person who came across Dominique Pelicot’s horrific website reported him - he only hit the police radar when filmed upskirting in a French supermarket and his tech was confiscated and examined. As for the rape academy, it took two female CNN journalists to unearth that cess pit. Not, you might note, any of the men who viewed it, purposefully or otherwise.

I am sick of this inexorable creep towards the edge of the pit. This general acceptance that the world is going to shit for women, and there is next to nothing we can do about it.

And I’m sick, too, of the requirement to preface any statement regarding men’s culpability with the words ‘Not all’… Because, as any woman can tell you, we’ve been dealing with these predators all our lives - and rarely has a prince on white horse rode in to rescue us. Yet astonishingly, some men seem to view their non-participation as some kind of badge of honour, insisting that we qualify our horror and outrage with those two words - Not All - to make sure that nobody thinks it was them. Men need to understand that non-participation in sexual abuse or assault does not win you any accolades, or allow you to demand the addition of ‘not all’. Stepping in and stepping up is what makes the difference - and precious few seem to be capable of that.

The problem, of course, is that it could be them. Because on the evidence we currently have - which if human experience has shown anything recently, is likely to be the tip of a very large, very odious iceberg - it turns out a great deal more men than anyone had previously realised actually WERE participating in all of this. Many of them with partners who never once imagined that their significant other might be making them the victim of sexual assault.

I’m naturally a trusting person. I’m lucky; I live a life and move in circles that have allowed me to maintain that illusion. But as I grow older and take more notice of the truism ‘let them show you who they are’, I find myself becoming increasingly less so. And as I wrote recently in a Substack note; (Not all) men are doing an excellent job of showing us who they are right now, don’t you think?

I wrote this on The Potty Diaries blog 19 years ago. My younger son (known in the blog as Boy #2) was nearly 2 at the time, and was - if I say so myself - an adorable baby and toddler, generally sweetness and light. Re-reading my blog has reminded me however that he had his moments, and as he approached his second birthday it became apparent that the worm had started to turn.

His climbing ability was already cause for concern - no chair, sofa, or bookcase was safe when he was unsupervised and in pursuit of treats. In my ongoing attempt to reframe the constant containment situation as amusing, I decided at the time to write - on his behalf - an instruction leaflet for other mischevous toddlers who might, heaven forbid, want to emulate his escapades...

Whats-up, Mischief-Makers? Boy #2 here, and I’m going to jump straight in with the ‘how-to freak out your mum’ tips, because that’s what you’re here for, right?

1. Meal time Guerilla Tactics
One of my favs - and I think it will be for you, too.

Roughly 10 minutes before any meal is ready, when you decide that you've really had enough and the wait for food is getting beyond a joke, ambush Mum. The moment she starts rushing around the kitchen putting the final touches to dinner whilst talking 10 to the dozen on her mobile and also trying to convince your older brother to wash his hands before sitting at the table (‘but I haven't done a pooh, mumma!’), act as follows;

1. Throw your arms around her knees, and press your head into her thigh (Mum's trousers, incidentally, are perfect for removing any annoying bits of snot you may have hanging around your face).

2. Sit on her feet. (For a perfect 10, do this as she's trying to take a pan of boiling water off the stove or a hot tray out of the oven)

Once at the table, appear to be eating the veg. Then hide it on the handy shelf under the table, or if all else fails, in your pelican bib, when her back is turned. She probably won't notice until the yucky broccoli has been removed from the table and the delicious strawberries have already been placed within reach.

2. Swimming lesson Pay-back
After a swimming lesson, when you've had your fill of fun and games pretending you can't understand what the annoying man in the wet-suit is asking you to do, wait until you are dry and Mum has taken off your swim nappy before she puts you in a nice clean fresh nappy. Then (and this is a blinder), wee on the one and only towel that she has brought with you.

Even if the towel is bath-sheet size, if you've drunk enough pool water, the effect is magnificent.

For maximum impact, do this before she has had the chance to dry herself.


3. Amusing Tricks for all the family
Fart. Loudly. Then laugh.

Encourage your older and previously well-behaved bro to do the same.

It helps if Dad is around - he usually laughs too.


4. Stunts.
This one may be difficult for those of you who don't live down steep basement steps like we do, but if you get the chance it's pretty exciting. As Mum is bumping you back down the stairs in your buggy, wait until you get roughly 4 steps from the bottom and she is distracted by complaints from your older bro about the fact that the bannister is wet. (Note; slippery stairs due to rain definitely add to the fun for this one).

Then, on step Minus 4, throw your body weight forward. This causes the buggy to rock forward alarmingly, the last couple of steps to happen rather more quickly than normal, and Mum to turn bright red and shout something unintelligible in a rather impressive manner.

That's it for now folks, but I'll be back with more tricks in the near future, and remember, if you must do these at home always remember to follow each of them up with a cheesy grin and a blown kiss to limit any likely repurcussions. If this don't appear to lift the mood and things are looking really dicey, finish off with a gentle stroke of Mum's cheek. Works every time - haven't had Time Out once yet. She thinks I don't even understand what that means. No, of course I don't...


Now, you may think I'm kidding, but I swear - if Boy #2 had been able to type back then…

It took until I reached 55 for me to develop a sustainable approach to physical fitness.

I’m not sure what changed - well, I suppose I did, really. The aching knees and muscles. The slightly saggy bits that had appeared in places. The knowledge that aging might be inevitable but that also we can slow it down, perhaps… The casual references by friends in medicine to ‘Snipers Alley’, that period between 50 and 60 years old when people who have previously appeared to be in rude good health suddenly… drop off the perch.

Whatever the reason, I decided that after years of mostly incremental exercise, I would see if I could change course at least a little, and make it intentional instead.

Some background; I don’t come from a sporty family; it wasn’t important to my parents. My siblings and I weren’t particularly encouraged to try out for any school or club teams, so mostly we didn’t. And despite the fact that I’d tried ‘the gym’ a number of times during my 20’s 30’s and 40’s, nothing stuck. I mean; who really likes to stand / run / row / lift weights in front of a wall of mirrors that seem specifically designed to show how far you are from the you you want to be? Certainly not me - you can keep that particular form of torture, thank you.

So this time around I started slowly, and avoided the gym itself. Instead I set the bar low and pushed myself to go to one group class a week at a local leisure centre, with the aim of finally working out what types of exercise I enjoyed. If I’m honest, a large part of me doubted there was anything at all that would fit that bill.

But once I started, I discovered that I had been doing exercise all wrong - for me, at least. All the earnest, worthy, solo endeavours I had assumed would be my preferred options - swimming, running, hard-hitting gym workouts - they absolutely weren’t for me. It’s hardly surprising, I guess; we’re social animals, after all, and I’ve always preferred to be part of team to working in a silo. Lengths in the pool, rowing in place, pounding away on the treadmill, or trying to reach a personal best on a heavier set of dumbells; well, frankly, yawn.

But put me in a busy class with a group of people of varying ages looking to build endurance / strength / resistance / flexibility, cracking jokes and all experiencing a shared positive endorphin rush as our pulse rates rise in time with a banging play list? Turns out I don’t just enjoy it; I LOVE it.

So four years later I still go to that same frills-free fitness centre multiple times a week, doing a variety of classes across various disciplines. Yoga, aerobics, core workouts, weights; all things that I had either been too scared of or slightly sniffy about are, it turns out, perfect for me. Obviously I have my limits; as I had suspected my two left feet meant that for the time being I’ve put zumba in the ‘not for me’ pile, along with spin (too frantic), boxercise (too full-on) and body combat (just too… much).

There are all types of people at the classes I go to. School leavers, students, working parents, stay at home parents, young professionals, older professionals, retirees, OAP’s. Parents, grandparents, and even one great-grandparent aged 89 who is an example to us all and still pushes herself in a step class three times a week. It’s a melting pot, a community, and a lifeline for some.

So, why post about this? Well, I guess to share the love a little. It’s very easy to assume that if we don’t enjoy pounding the streets after work, or can’t find the time or energy to get up early to squeeze in a mat-based workout at home before work and/or the school run then that’s it; exercise isn’t for the likes of us. But that may not be true. Because I never thought that I, with my creaky knees and poor coordination, would be one to extoll the benefits of exercising regularly as I enter my 60th year - and I certainly never thought that I might actually enjoy it.

And yet, here I am. Whatever next?