This week has been an emotional one. Sadly Lynn, one of my dance friends from years ago passed away. Well more of a had her life whipped out from beneath her than a gentle passing but the sad news is she has gone. It was a shock to everyone concerned, she was the bubbliest, loudest, life-loving woman you could've imagined with an absolutely filthy laugh, a wicked sense of humour, a young family and everything to live for. As I stood in the church at her funeral and saw just how many people had turned out to pay their respects and say goodbye I couldn't help feeling proud that I'd known her and shared some good times. It struck me that pretty much every single memory I had of her involved laughing about something and usually discussing boobs - my lack of, her not so! As the music started up and I watched her coffin make its way into the church I began to well up. Now one thing reader....I don't 'do' crying. It's not because I think it's weak, childish or meaningless. It's because I'm about as deep as a puddle and I look reeeeaaaally really ugly when I cry. I'm talking red nose, red lips, puffy eyes, snot...the works. It's enough to make someone cry. So I looked around me in order to distract myself, trying to find something to stop the salty pools threatening to spill. It was at that point that I saw it. Or rather them. I knew straight away that even in the afterlife she'd clearly retained her sense of humour as next to me on the shelf was a book about an African family. The picture on the front cover? Naked lady, almost parading her boobs in a mocking fashion. I looked up. Ceiling moulding? Lady with massive boobs. I looked down. Reading material? Virginal lady perhaps but also the proud owner of a majestic heaving bussom. Now you may think this highly innapropriate but believe me, had Lynn been there by this point she'd have already been out for a ciggie and chatted up the vicar....

I made it through the service until her beautiful and brave girls made their speeches about their mummy, at which point I swear I heard my heart crack. Having two young children and seeing just how unpredictable life can be I promised myself there and then that I'd live every day to the full. You hear and read  people moaning and complaining about things that are easily rectified, making something out of nothing and not seeing the bigger picture. I was standing in front of the bigger picture and it made me want to seize the day and let everyone I care about know just how much they mean to me.

We made our way outside and the sun (which had previously been hiding behind the clouds) had decided to make a massive appearance and beam down on the entire congregation. As I watched the family drive away with my heartfelt sympathy I counted my blessings and promised myself I'd give the kids (and my long suffering other half) an extra big cuddle as soon as I got home as you can never be certain when life as you know it will be no more.

Run Forrest, Run......

So the other day my son comes home from school, mega excited. He announces that it’s Sports Day on Wednesday and he just couldn’t wait as it was soooooo exciting.

I think back to my Sports Days at school, back to the days when I could run more than seven steps without having to hold my boobs in place and I to when I actually enjoyed exercise. I have fond memories being quite athletic (lanky legs and there being more fat on a spare rib than I) and the thrill of overtaking someone, going all out and being rewarded with a medal at the end of it. I used to come home with a load round my neck, proud for having legged it and having really pushed myself to achieve something.

I looked at my little man, very petite and not the fastest at running and felt very proud that he was still excited about participating. Off he went upstairs to dig out his ‘sports gear’ which he ensured me would help him win all the races. Bless him. When he came down stairs he looked like an evacuee. I pointed out that Bermuda shorts and a tank top weren’t exactly sports wear and that we needed to re-evaluate the get up pronto. We settled on his outfit and off he went to bed full of high hopes and relay dreams.

The morning dawned and at 6.07am he tiptoed (like an elephant) into my room to ‘just to check mummy hadn’t overslept and missed any races’.  He insisted on a ‘runners’ breakfast (don’t ask me what it consisted of but the kitchen looked like we’d been burgled once he’d finished) and set off to school.

I arrived at Sports Day to find him frantically waving, excitedly pointing out he was on the Red Team and that was the greatest colour ever! There was eight different ‘races’ set up around the field, whereby the kids had to move from one to the next in order. There were beanbags on heads, hurdles and hoops and my personal favourite ‘The Welly Wanging’...

Off they set, over the hurdles, through hoops, running like their life depended on it, to the finish line. Cue eager faces, panting and cheering and the winner (by a mile I have to add, we should’ve gone to his house for power breakfast) happily smiling....only for every child to be given a sticker and told ‘Well Done, EVERYONE'S A WINNER!’......................................Errrrr, let me stop you right there. No. Everyone isn’t the winner. Some people are losers (fact) and they didn’t win, because they didn’t come first!! Now I’m all for equality and what not but it bothers me that the competitive element has been completely obliterated from Sports Days the country over. Even my son, who came fourth announced that he wasn’t the winner, funnily enough – because he didn’t win. In a maths test, are we going to start giving the children marking 3/20 and ‘A’ along with the children marking 20/20....because ‘everyone’s a winner!!’ ? - I think not. Some children just aren’t academic and sports are where they shine – why take that away from them?  The children’s reactions speak for themselves though, as after every event they’d automatically rank where they’d come, who’d ran the fastest and who’d jumped the highest. Lewis was overjoyed when after actively ‘not winning’ he wanged his welly the furthest. Bless him. He even asked if welly throwing was in the Olympics and if so could he train to compete?

I told him it was and we’d get practicing that very weekend.

So if anyone has some spare wellies just laying around (preferably Hunter or Joules ones, size five) could we borrow them for *ahem* some hardcore training?

I can’t believe I used the word ‘mega’.

Things I have pondered upon today..

I'll keep this one short and sweet....

Why do I continue to spend vast amounts of money on miracle creams that promise me "a youthful complexion" or that "dark circles will be banished". Take my new 'Radiance Balm'. Unless the latest definition of radiant is 'looking like shiny dog turd' then I want my money back.

Why when walking in the countryside you see a million and one signs reminding us to pick up our dog poo and dispose of it in the correct bin, but what about the horse poo?? Bigger, smellier and stickier, I appreciate it would be difficult to pick a dollop of horse waste with a poobag but Poo is Poo. Horse poop scoops would possibly need to be carried in a trailer or strapped to the riders back but fair's fair!

Why when driving in the countryside down small winding lanes that have just about enough room to squeeze one car down do I always meet the 4x4 off road driver who refuses to take their car off-road ? Isn't that a passing bay you've just passed? Sorry. My mistake. I'll just pull my 2x2 onto the mud and attempt to drive off when you've gone shall I? Oh I did a wheel spin did I? Yes, I wasn't trying to be cool. My car is shite and won't drive through fields as funnily enough it belongs on a road.

The HMRC 'Help'line. Pah. They're being ironic, right?

It's a Dogs Life..

The Seventh Day has become something of an event in our house. It’s the one day in the manic existence of Monday through Saturday that we actually take the time to take half an hour, sit down as a family and discuss anything that has arisen in the week or anything that may be up and coming. These chats consist of opinions and views from me, my dearly beloved and my son nicknamed Boo; I call it Family Meeting Time - the Other Half (Shaun) refers to it as Numb Bum Hour. Our usual topics are pocket money, chores that need doing, whether my son should be allowed to go and call for his friend alone, reminders about not filling pockets with stones, remembering to flush the loo and more recently.....Pets. 

I love the idea of having a dog. I’ve repeatedly “suggested”( albeit half heartedly) to Shaun that a furry canine friend would complete our home. He says he’d rather have another baby. I have a vision of long walks in the countryside with the most gorgeous well behaved dog, happy children, people stopping to admire just how great and wholesome we all are...he pointed out that in reality we’d end up a soggy bunch of grumpy people, wet through and muddy, buggy wrecked (I daren’t even tell him how much the buggy cost, to get it caked in mud would be a crime against four wheeled baby carrying contraptions) with the dog either tying us up in the lead or running off into the distance. When my idyllic bubble is burst- I’ll admit it. I’m a fair weather outdoorsy type. Quite literally. I might look the part – tweed jacket and my funky wellies but I have to say that the thought of any outdoor activity minus the twenty eight degree sun is about as appealing as pulling my toenails off in a random fashion. Yet for some unknown reason I continued to raise the subject of having a pooch. I think Shaun saw his opportunity to somewhat dissuade me when he discovered a friend of mine had recently returned to work full time and had been leaving her dog (a rather bouncy Labradoodle) home alone. After a little chat he decided after the recent spell of nice weather, we could be proactive (not to mention helpful) and test just how much fun it could be having a dog by offering to take pooch out for the afternoon.....Big Mistake. After twenty minutes I’d lost the dog twice after he refused to obey any commands, I’d got a piece of bark in my eye and sworn enough times to make a trooper blush. Then the ultimate insult came from Mother Nature.  I’d obviously peed her off along with the dog as the weather suddenly went from twenty six (and a half) degrees with sunshine to rival the Costa Del Sol to black clouds, pelting rain with a bit of thunder to boot. As I ran for the car, with Shaun, babypie and doggy McBouncybum in tow I happened to glance back over my shoulder and catch the look on my ‘darling’ boyfriends face. Triumphant wasn’t the word to describe it. I think on the long soggy haul up the hill he knew the subject of having a pup was well and truly closed. I reeeaaallllllyyyy hate it when he’s right.

I wonder how he’d feel about hamsters?