Who's the Daddy?

The toddler seems to be having some difficult working out who is father is.

It actually started with me - first of all he identified a 17 year old in the paper as 'mummy' which could have been sort of flattering if it hadn't have been an article on binge drinking which showed her falling into the gutter surrounded by vomit.

Next he became convinced I was Cerrie on Cbeebies - this was a step up as Cerrie is not renowned for binge drinking or wading about in vomit only a) I don't look like Cerrie at all and b) Cerrie only has 1 arm and I have 2 so I started to wonder just how much attention he's really been paying to his daily carer for the last 2 years?

He probably answered that question himself when, on seeing a photo of Denise Lewis (as in the amazingly fit Olympic Heptathlete who also happens to be black) he shouted 'MUMMY!'.

I was wondering where it would all end (mummy being mistaken for Gordon Brown? A chair? A gutted squid on the Asda fish counter?) but then (fortunately) he turned his focus on Daddy.

'Daddy's home!' he shouted in glee at front room window. Thinking this rather odd as Daddy was actually sat upstairs, I rushed to the window only to see a large ginger cat waiting by the front door.

Hmm. I can assure you now I have never entered into a romantic liaison with a cat.

Some days later we perusing the homewares in Matalan when he let out a delighted shriek of 'DADDY! DADDY! DADDY!'. Several people turned to look. I turned to look. He was pointing at a large. A large poster of?

'Colin & Justin' the two super-camp interior designers:


I think the other shoppers were as surprised as I was but probably not as surprised as his actual father who on reading this will no doubt rush to the mirror and try to define whether he's more of a Colin or a Justin.

I'm not sure love but if you come home wearing a blazer trimmed with fushia ribbon and a dandy bloom, you'll be sleeping in the office......

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The Haunted Vagina

No, not mine (although the way things are going, who knows? That would be an interesting call to NHS Direct. On the plus side - it would also be a sure fire £200 from Take a Break for a double page spread).

No, last night I learned that whilst I might write on some rather odd topics on this blog, there are people out there who have had books actually PUBLISHED (and paid for) on far weirder stuff.

While searching for a totally unrelated academic book on Amazon I was slightly intrigued when the 'customers who have viewed this, also viewed.......' banner came up with a book called 'The Haunted Vagina'.

Well how could I not take a peek?

I thought perhaps it was more serious than it sounded (although I have to confess it sounds pretty serious) and was maybe an academic tome on the oppression of women or the lust for designer labia.

But no.

The product information reads as follows:

Product Description

It's difficult to love a woman whose vagina is a gateway to the world of the dead.

Steve is madly in love with his eccentric girlfriend, Stacy. Unfortunately, their sex life has been suffering as of late, because Steve is worried about the odd noises that have been coming from Stacy's pubic region. She says that her vagina is haunted. She doesn't think it's that big of a deal. Steve, on the other hand, completely disagrees.

When a living corpse climbs out of her during an awkward night of sex, Stacy learns that her vagina is actually a doorway to another world. She persuades Steve to climb inside of her to explore this strange new place. But once inside, Steve finds it difficult to return... especially once he meets an oddly attractive woman named Fig, who lives within the lonely haunted world between Stacy's legs.

"A very strange and surprisingly touching love story, despite the deliberately asinine premise. With subtle humor, surreal erotica, and some genuinely creepy moments, The Haunted Vagina is a completely unique reading experience."

I'm not really sure what to say now. It's not often I'm left speechless but I'm, erm, speechless. I don't even know what to make of the bit about the 'living corpse'. Is a corpse not, by it's very definition, no longer alive?

I think I need to order it to complete my research. I can then donate it to the school's Christmas Tombola and ensure that I'm never again asked to assist with any PTA events whatsoever.

Oh well, this blog is already a magnet for those looking for sucked balls, moist panties and crap Iggle Piggle Cakes. I guess I just opened myself up to lovers of surreal erotica......

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A Step in the Wrong Direction

Last weekend, amidst the glorious Spring sunshine, I found myself having a picnic on a small, cigarette butt strewn, scrubby patch of grass, adjacent to an A road, a major traffic light intersection and the Job Centre.

I was getting a lot of odd looks from passers-by, mainly because 200 yards down the road (and within a visible sight line) was a large, gloriously appointed, rather beautiful park.

So why wasn't I in there?

Well let me tell you this (in case you don't already know).

With a toddler in tow, a single step can seem like a hundred miles.

With a tired toddler in tow, a single step can seem like a thousand miles.

With a tired HUNGRY toddler in tow, a single step can seem a hundred-thousand miles.

We had managed to exit the Supermarket with our 'picnic' but he was clutching a large punnet of strawberries (which he would not relinquish) and the lid kept coming off so he kept dropping them (and howling). He refused to be picked up, refused to hold my hand, refused to walk properly and thus was being sort of dragged by his shirt sleeve along the side of a rather busy main road with lorries tearing past every few seconds emitting a noise not unlike a mating fox.

His brother was asking to be carried (all 5 years of him) and doing that incessant 5 year old (going on 15) whinge about how 'it's not fair, life's not fair, the fact I can't eat an entire chocolate swiss roll RIGHT now isn't fair and even more NOT FAIR is the fact that I have to move my legs EVER as I should not EVER have to walk down this road. EVER. When can I have that Swiss Ross? Carry me, carry me, carry me.....my legs won't move properly'. Which is ironic really because when he was in the Supermarket 2 minutes previous, he wouldn't stop moving his legs - at top speed up and down aisles, diving under clothing rails, tunneling through displays of 'boobies' (or bras as you and I would call them) and scaling displays of discount tea bags.

And thus I came to be sat, exhausted, outside the Job Centre, gazing at the park and thinking 'it's just not worth it'.

During a heated debate about the merits of excessive Swiss Roll eating, I took my eye off the toddler for a brief period. I knew he was sat beside me so how much trouble could he actually be causing?

Well lets just say that when I turned back the entire punnet of (bruised) strawberries had gone. Including the green leafy bits on the top. He'd left the lid though.

If every journey start with a single step, I wish I'd never bloody started this one.

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The 'Take a Break' Vote

It may have just happened upon your radar that there is going to be an election.

Soon.

I could have told you this news considerably earlier than the National Press because we had a letter from the pre-school some time ago informing us that the village hall would be shut on a certain date in May due to a 'matter of National Importance'. I very much doubted the Queen was coming down to have a go with the skittles and as it's unlikely they would be using it for any kind of secret meeting of the Super Powers (despite the new toilets, smoking shelter and fully working microwave) that left the General Election.

During my travels this week (and I've done about 800 miles - thus the lack of blogging and extreme exhaustion) I drove past a sign for a candidate with unfortunate surname of 'Butt'. His first name was in very tiny writing and his last name was in very big writing and above it all was the word 'Vote.

Poor old Butt.

Anyway, other than voting Butt, the most disturbing thing I've heard about this election so far is that Gordon Brown hopes to swing it on stealing the 'Take a Break' vote.

Yup - that's right - he wants Take a Break readers to take the reins of power in their mighty hands (once they've put down their Superking Extra and torn themselves away from turning Lambrini bottles into garden ornaments).

This worries me (slightly), despite my self-confessed Take a Break addiction .

The last time I looked inside the hallowed pages (actually whilst staying with my Mother in Law) someone had written in to suggest crafting your very own 'unique' mirror frame using (brace yourself) ROLLED UP PAGES OF TAKE A BREAK. They radiated out from the central reflective core like some kind of evil sun.

Wow - talk about crafting things from the words you love.

There is a reason that that such a mirror frame is unique. No other fool would, surely to god, EVER imagine that surrounding a mirror with, what look like giant multi-coloured spliffs emblazoned with headlines like 'My Lover Froze my Pussy and then ate the Hamster' could possibly be a good idea.

There was also a beautiful photograph of someone's 'unique' staircase which they had adorned with pieces of (badly cut) stick on mirror. Apparently it was cheap AND beautiful (two words that don't usually sit well together). A stairway to heaven it was not. It looked like something they'd make on Blue Peter if they ever did a sticky-back-plastic Nevada Whore House.

Do we really REALLY want the Rulers of our country making decisions on the basis of pleasing people who can't actually figure out that:

a) Making used toothpicks into a mug-tree/jewellery holder is NOT.A.GOOD.THING.

b) That if you are 78, 34 stone, answer to the name of Ethel and an 18 year old Turkish 'Adonis' tells you you are 'sexy lady' and 'he love you more than world and make all your dreams come true, sexy sexy laydeeee' then it is not, I repeat NOT, a good idea to 'lend' him £120,000 so he can buy you both the house of your dreams. Even if you will be photographed for Take a Break, peaking out from beneath your sun-visor in a garden somewhere near Pontefract, it isn't worth the pain. Honest.

and

c) That the mark that has appeared on your sofa is not the image of your dead Nan 'Coming Through', it's a sign the dog has stress incontinence.

On second thoughts, policies catering for all of the above could put an interesting spin on things and I can't see the others offering any more interesting alternatives.

Hmm, maybe I need to go into politics.

(NOT!)

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Sticky Situations

Am I the only person out there of reasonable-ish intelligence who every time they drive into a Service Station finds themselves overcome with a crushing sense of panic and general lostness?

There always appears to be circa 88 signs and symbols with many paths to chose from. It doesn't seem to matter how much I slow down or how carefully I examine the instructions, I always end up in the lorry park. Or the caravan section. Or (even better) missing out the Services all together and back on the motorway. Still that's better than my deepest fear which is ending back on the motorway but going in the opposite direction.......

So I try not to stop but sometimes you just have to.

For example, this weekend, whilst charging down the M4, I got very very thirsty and being alone in the car had to open a bottle of drink (with a very stiff lid) so, clever individual that I am, I decided the perfect solution to getting the cap off was to clamp it between my thighs and hold it hard as I tugged.....

All I can say is that it must have been a bumpy ride because the next thing I knew I was doing 70mph with a bottle of Fanta ejaculating enthusiastically between my thighs.

Oh how it gushed. On. And on. And on.

It wasn't just wet, it was sticky and the sensation was not one I'd recommend.

So off to the Services I went and, having negotiated several acres of speed bumps, the lorry park and a small gladed area, I finally found the car park.

I then had to waddle to the toilet with a large, yellowish, damp patch around my groin. There were looks.

And then, when I tried to wipe it off, the toilet paper got stuck (well I could hardly strip to the waist and start having a wash in the sink could I?) and thus I returned to the car still sticky, smelling faintly of oranges and now adorned with a pubic-beard of a 'Moto' loo roll.

It was a long, sticky, drive home.

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When Godzilla Came to Stay (and other tales of Easter)

No, Godzilla is not the Mother in Law.....

I know many, many of you look to me as some kind of parenting guru (cough, splutter) and are keen for me to once again inspire you with ways of keeping any little treasures you may be in the possession of, entertained and off the streets over the holidays.

Well so far this holiday my little-delights have come up with some wondrous activities just perfect for the average child under 6 (I don't know what happens when they get older than that - I'll tell you when I get there but judging on past performances it probably quite tricky).

First up we have:

THE RISE OF GODZILLA - for this game you need a small sleeping child (preferably toddler sized) and you need to place it somewhere like your sofa. Your older child can then wile away a happy hour assembling a large amount of weaponry, surrounding and focused upon the sleeping beauty. When asked what on earth he's doing you will be informed that your precious sleeping infant is in fact Godzilla and when he is awoken, he must be destroyed before he annihilates Japan (a.k.a the model train track set up across your living room carpet).

Advantages: One child is asleep.
Disadvantages: When he is awoken you may actually wish that he was Godzilla and could be sent back into the sea.......

IT'S A CELEBRATION! - for this one you need a large sheet of wrapping paper and some unattended children. Given time they will invest their energies into shredding the aforementioned wrapping paper into approximately 30,000 pieces of 'confetti' and holding a 'celebration'.

Advantages: Keeps them from breaking other stuff for about an hour.
Disadvantages: You can probably figure that one out for yourself and you won't be having a celebration if you go wrap a birthday present and find the only option is a black bin liner.

IT WAS ALL YELLOW - all you need for this is a bright yellow High-Lighter pen, an unattended toddler and an older child to encourage behaviour he finds thrillingly 'out there'. The toddler can easily and readily be encouraged to wile away a vast tract of time colouring the entire left-hand side of his body (from toe to cheeks) fluorescent yellow.

Advantages: Erm, it's cheap, I guess.
Disadvantages: Neon yellow is, it appears, a persistent dye. When viewed in a sun-lit playground he lights up like a workman's vest. I'm hoping it's not toxic and isn't leeching into his blood stream.

If any of these are beyonds your means you can always go back to those fail safe favorites of throwing things, slamming doors and shouting 'BOOO BARRRR' at strangers out the windows. And the kids can watch TV.....;)



p.s. it has been brought to my attention by someone very kind out there that there is some kind of contest on the internet for blogs written by mums and dads. A group of bloggers have worked very hard to set this up and it's lovely to see people getting recognition for what they do (even if, in my case, it's just randomly pouring out the surreal nature of my life in a rather hurried fashion). One of the categories is 'Funniest' and this very kind person nominated mine. If you feel the same then I would be very happy if you clicked the right button:

http://the-mads.com/nominate.htm

I think the winner gets a prize. If it's me, I promise to use it in an amusing manner.....

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The Heat is On

If you think my life is, at time, a touch surreal, then you clearly haven't been to stay with my Mother-in-Law.

Hell no.

Believe me, a long Easter Weekend up there, and you'll be finding Zombie Badgers, Cocks named Jesus and Cursed Yew Trees a welcome return to normality.

Now, before I get stuck in, I think it's best I make it clear that this post is in no way a dig at the woman herself. She is, after all, my husband's mother and a kind woman who loves her grandchildren very very much.

However, she is also a woman who finds it physically impossible to turn the heating off. Ever. Or open a window. Or a door. Ever.

This gives her a house a similar feel to a Tropical Biome or perhaps the pool area at Centre Parcs. Or, even maybe, the vivarium inhabited by your average deadly reptile.

It also gives the air a slightly mind bending effect. I think it's the build up of Carbon Dioxide. Whatever it is - it's not good.

A day in The Sweatbox starts on you thinking you have risen somewhere in the Moist Tropics only to open your eyes and be greeted by this:


(Geniune photo of disturbing bed-side ornament taken at Mother in Law's House).

And it ends with your running out of Strongbow and hitting the Harvey's Bristol Cream (which is stored outside the room past Nana's chair and the Sherry glass is very very tiny so you have to go back and forth to the drinks cabinet about 150 times thus ensuring that you come across really very badly indeed and sweat even more).

Somewhere in the middle of the day The Toddler bangs a Big Red Button and alerts the emergency services to Nana's potential demise. You (as in I) panic and try to pull the damn system out the wall (which actually just confirms to the control centre that Nana is under attack) only for a disembodied voice to echo forth from the speaker 'Mrs X, Mrs X, can you confirm your situation? Are you in need of assistance?. Being a mature and responsible mother of 2, you are plunged into hysterical laughter and have to retreat to the toilet where you sob tears of hysterical laughter into a towel.

Somewhat later than the middle of the day, Nana takes a trip upstairs on the Stairlift. Or rather, she tries to. It appears that 'somehow' some Lego has been carefully inserted into the mechanism and Nana is marooned somewhat short of her destination. Husband with the (very) Sad Face has to try to alleviate the situation using a meat skewer (to get the Lego out - not to skewer Nana - that would be a tad harsh, even given the heat). I, once again, have to lock myself in the toilet. The chair is eventually freed to resume it's steady work.

There was also a very confusing conversation about the latest series of 'Microsoft' (which is actually a cooking contest - you might know it as Masterchef) but I'll leave it there as it's giving me a headache and I need a glass of iced water.......

Even the ornaments were begging for mercy:



(Further geniune photo of disturbing bed-side ornament taken at Mother in Law's House).

Anyway, I hope you all had a lovely Easter. Here comes Summer......

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