So there I was, sipping my Diet Coke like a lady whilst trying to endear myself to the group by joining in a conversation about CBeebies (which would be my chosen subject on Mastermind, especially if the humming of theme tunes was also included). 

Homeschool or Nothing Lady - Did you see the bedtime story on CBeebies tonight? 

Academic Lady With Vast Cleavage - Oh yes, it was lovely wasn’t it. 

Homeschool or Nothing Lady - Who was it reading the story? … Kathy … erm … Kathy 

Academic Lady With Vast Cleavage - Yes, Kathy … oh what is her name? 

At this point I saw an opening and I leapt in to their conversation enthusiastically. 

Me - I know, I know …. KATHY BATES! 

Silence fell as they looked at me and then at each other. Tumbleweed rolled through the door, under the table, circled my feet thrice and left through the fire exit as they continued their conversation. 

Academic Lady With Vast Cleavage - Kathy Burke, that’s who it was! 

Homeschool or Nothing Lady – Ah yes, that’s it. J really enjoyed it. 

What a tit.  It was a classic ‘I carried a watermelon*‘ moment. 

Are you ready for your bedtime story?

* For those of you who don’t know what an ‘I carried a watermelon’ moment is read definition here.  And, what do you mean you’ve never watched Dirty Dancing?!

Before we went people kept asking me if I’d bought a portable DVD player for the children. I would look at them horrified. Why would I need a portable DVD player when I had spent endless hours thinking up ‘fun’ activities, packing exciting books and thinking up a myriad of entertaining songs?

I never had a portable DVD player when my parents used to take me on ‘adventures’ through deepest darkest Spain … no, I thought up my own entertainment.

Of course three hours into our journey to France I would have given my kidney, a leg and possibly an eyeball to have one to thrust at them and drown out their whining voices.

Anyway, they would sleep for at least 12 of the 24 hours, wouldn’t they?  Err, no.  They would sleep for approximately one hour each during the entire journey … and not at the same time.

So, instead of buying a portable DVD player I simply vowed never to travel great distances with the children again. Sometimes a trip to Tesco is too far.

My latest problem comes in the form of a Nintendo DS. The 5 year old has wanted one, well … forever really.  Having a teenage sister who spent 3 years glued to hers shortly before she discovered mascara and skinny jeans just made the need even greater.

Imagine the look on her face last Christmas when she realised that Santa hadn’t been able to read her writing properly on her letter to him.  She got a pony which moves it’s neck, eats carrots, flutters it’s eyelashes and neighs … like a real horse.   “I cannot believe that Santa didn’t bring me a Nintendo DS. What was he thinking?” Followed by a big sigh and her head in her hands.

Her birthday came and went, with no DS but a poxy trampoline that her brother LOVES.  She thinks this is it, this is the year.  She has been practicing her Christmas list since the blip last year and she’s ready.  There WILL be one this year, of that she is sure.

It’s not that I am against modern technology or being a big old meanie but I know my daughter well. I love that she spends hours singing to herself in her bedroom whilst drawing, or chattering to herself in a make believe world or playing in the garden for hours with only her brother and her imagination.

I just don’t want the arguments about how much time she spends staring at it with a glazed expression, we have Cbeebies for that.

But I have been taken in, I am faltering. I am torn, my head is screaming “Noooooooooooooo!”, my heart is telling me that if I don’t she will never forgive Santa and then her make-believe world will come crashing down round her ears anyway.

After all EVERYONE else has one.

So, this is it, I’m giving in.  This could be the 5 year old’s best Christmas yet.

Oh and I’ve remembered what I used to do for entertainment in the back of the car during our adventures in Spain circa 1985. I used to either sing the tune from the ‘Trio’ or the ‘Um Bongo’ adverts on repeat … OR … pretend that my parents had kidnapped me and wave through the back window at other drivers in a demented fashion … and we can’t be having that.

The car had to go into the garage yesterday to have something done to the exhaust.  I don’t know the exact problem.  Husband would be able to give a full verbal description, I cannot.  It was so embarrassing to have to drive round the village with a huge rasping noise following me as the children shouted ‘It’s trumping, the car is trumping’.

After rushing the children out of the house, hurling them out of the car at the childminders, returning home to pick up the forgotten packed lunches and returning to the childminders to hurl packed lunches at the children I arrived at the garage which is next to my work.  I arrived harassed and as I entered the garage I remembered that I hadn’t brushed my hair and was sporting a rather bouffant and unkempt bushel.  I gave the key to one of the two men I pass each morning who always seem to be on a tea break and ran like the wind to work.

At the end of the day I went to collect the car.  Old Mechanic Man told me my car had sounded like a Ferrari that morning as I arrived.  I informed him that it was the closest I’d get to one.  He looked me up and down and said nothing.

I paid a goddam motherfooking fortune and sat down in the drivers seat.  I looked at the steering wheel which had a CBeebies Magazine sticker deposited by the 5 year old, which has been stuck there for the last 4 weeks.

As they waved me off I wondered if they thought the harassed woman with the unkempt bushel chanted the phrase on the sticker each morning before trudging past them to work to remind herself of who she really is.

Me? I’m pinning all my hopes on her liking the holiday club at school. If she doesn’t we are doomed. Our childcare is somewhat sketchy over the school holidays and based on a mixture of OAP childminders, grandparents, me, the husband and the school club. I’m currently operating a calendar on the back of the kitchen door and a list in my bag with lots of dates, scribbles, arrows and crossings out on it. Every time I have a conversation with someone about childcare I have to synchronise the calendar and the scribbly list. At present we have 10 days where the children will be left to fend for themselves with just the dog for company. I jest of course …

My love affair with the dishwasher is reaching the end of the honeymoon period. I still love it but it still needs loading and unloading and thanks to English Mum who told me story about a child who fell on a knife in an open dishwasher I am paranoid … even the spoons are put in face down. Did you ever hear a tale of someone dying from falling on a teaspoon? No, me neither.

Since the last update I have bought eye wrinkle cream in the hope that I can halt any further canyons laughter lines caused by my hilarious life. However, as with all things, you deal with one problem and along comes another … Nasal hair. It’s suddenly decided to grow and without one of those Remington Fuzz Away jobbies which I’m sure must tickle I sought advice. My sister who is eleven years older than me and therefore well versed in the ageing process (Ahem) suggested I put Veet up my nose and then blow it after the 5 minutes is up. This frightens me.

I discovered by accident that I have been blogging a year last Friday which was quite a shock. I also discovered that without alcohol or any encouragement I am a bonafide celebrity stalker, no thanks to Facebook.   Last week during a lapse in sensible thinking and a moment of boredom a celebrity came up in my ‘people I might know’ page on Facebook. I wrote this person, who we’ll call Barbara McTavish, a long email telling her that I knew two people she knew, that I blog and we have children of a similar age and then just finished and hit send. I immediately wished that a) Facebook didn’t exist and that b) I hadn’t hit send. Funnily enough I’m still waiting for a reply. If by any remote chance she’s reading this I wish to send my apologies and I will step away from the Facebook ‘people you might know however tenuous’ section in future.

Since moving to the house I have become aware of how much shouting I do. Moving from a detached to a terrace is a shock to my system and the neighbours, not helped by …

… The 3 year old who still has an aversion to bathing. He still bathes with one foot hanging out of the bath … AT ALL TIMES whilst screaming blue murder at the mention of submerging his foot. He finished pre-school this week and starts big school nursery in September. I am having difficulty explaining the length of time between now and the start of school. Any more than 3 sleeps and I’ve lost him. This means that every morning over breakfast he excitedly asks if he’s going to big school.  It’s groundhog day.

He still wears socks to bed, although they now have to match and he watches Wallace and Gromit’s A Grand Day Out twice daily if he can. Anything less and he gets twitchy. He has taken to waking early again (pre 7am) every morning which is making …

… The Husband twitchy. He is worried because we are going camping this week and our children are renowned for waking early when camping (pre 5am). There’s nothing like sitting in a dewy field with a 3 year old in your jim jams and a Berghaus wondering what the f*ck to do for 3 hours without CBeebies until everyone else rises with only …

… The dog for company.  She likes the new house so much that yesterday she decided to just bob next door to introduce herself to our neighbours.  As in right inside their house, just mosied on in for a sniff, hopefully not a crotch based one.  We only realised when our neighbour who probably thinks I thrash my son in the bath with a belt started shrieking at her to get out.  The dog also spent the best part of last week honking on the new house carpets which was pleasant.