Boots and Breasts.

A friend of mine has offered me her thighs. Such a kind gesture. I read an article on breast implants from body fat and rather liked it. Having once written an article for a motoring section that included on the effects of silicone toxicity in the event of collision - it has rather put me off the idea of filling breasts with the stuff. Body fat, that is another matter. Apparently they suck the fat of your thighs and inject it into your breasts. Voila, natural breast implants.

Only I have no fat on my thighs. Weighing in at 7 stone 2, allows little for marvelously enhanced mammories. Suck it out of my thighs and I will end up looking like a question mark. Hence the offer. I am not convinced that someone else fat would really work. There may be issues with rejection. On the other hand, rejection is something I handle well. This could be the way to go.

Boots - Mine have served me well. I have F*** Me Boots, which worked superbly. They then became F*** You Boots, which also worked for me. Last week I forgot about common sense and ran across ice in 4 inch heeled boots. They became F*** Me boots once more but not in the way I had enjoyed so much previously. I am now looking for a new pair.

There a couple of elderly people in my village that have discovered this blog. It makes for such fun. I imagine that even with the *** they will be having a fit. Don't worry, I took the boots off.

The police turned up yesterday for the fact that someone had reported a vehicle with no tax. The police were very understanding of the reasons why. So far in the last month I have had the visit from the police, a warrant of execution on one utility, another cut off and an invitation to the Jeremy Kyle show. I may be lying about the last bit. We are economising on utilities out of necessity. We lasted 1 week with no heating. The children were to cold to get in bed so we had a family conference and decided to turn it back on LOW. We are all fine as long as you hang onto the radiator. If we lose our home we should be sufficiently practised that we can downsize to an appropriate telephone kiosk.

One major cut back is use of the tumble dryer. God, drying clothes naturally is so tedious. Not only do they take three months to dry with no heating, they are creased and you have to iron them. Middle child was given the task of hanging wet clothes on the airer yesterday. He thought that standing on it and breaking the leg may change my position. It did, now we just have wet clothes.

Word of the day - Synergy, accept it. Embrace it.

I am joining the gym, finally.

I am going to get fitter and stare at fitter bodies. So much emotionally safer than touching beautiful bodies, though that was rather enjoyable. Perfect and thank you to the provider of such a generous gift.

Gut instinct on all matters has always served me well. Gut instinct often flies in the face of external events and factors and sometimes it is hard to hang on to without any external influence

Spinoza differed sharply from the Stoics in one important respect: he utterly rejected their contention that reason could defeat emotion.

Tick, tick

Sera

Boo! Hi Susie XX

Another thought and elsewhere,

Isn't it sad how people can be in total external denial about behaviour. No matter how you behave, deep down, in the couple of minutes before you go to sleep - you will know the difference between having integrety and not. The things that you do that make you feel worthless are the reasons that you have that feeling. External superiority fools no one.

At the end of the day, grown ups are not children. Let go of the past and start taking responsibility for actions. There is no excuse for unnecessary unkindness. None

It is this behaviour that creates a loneliness that will erode you. It will continue to do so until the day that you decide to grow up. Chances are like shooting stars, you need to see them to appreciate how special they were.

Sleep well lonely one.

PS. The thing about words is that they can speak to whoever hears them. This may not be about you and yet it may be aimed directly at you. If you all suffer the same unhappiness then the words will speak to you anyway.

I failed dismally in my bid to find a holiday for a fiver. I did however manage to procure some obscenely cheap flights and so am part way through my mission.

I took the older two for an Indian tonight. The man serving said

'Can you just check the pilau - it doesn't smell right to me'

This strikes me as a little odd. If something doesn't smell right, why would you ask your customers to try it first to see if it kills them? I let the children try it first because that is just how generous I am. They survived and short of winning awards for aromatic nirvana - it was okay.

The children have been surviving on a fairly ad hoc food regime; lethargy, illness and stress make for no Nigella and whilst I know that they have eaten, I cannot put my hand on heart and say that it is the best this kitchen can muster. As a result, we are unaccustomed to large quantity and half way through the meal, we all experienced a near death moment. Given the proximity to the local undertakers, this could have been most convenient.

So we had a nice meal, we overate, risked food poisoning and felt fat, bloated and ill on leaving. For this we paid good money. This goes to prove that money does not necessarily make you feel good.

So back to the issue of the holiday. We have flights and nowhere to stay. Every year I tell myself that normal people plan and book these things in advance. I have lost count of the times we have had the car fully loaded and still frantically trawled the Internet for accommodation. I cannot forget the last flying family holiday we had (10 years ago) when it was booked, paid and left us a mere three hours to get to Birmingham airport (the joy of last minute bargains), or the bargain basement holiday to Thailand when I took myself, a baby, a toddler, a friend and her 4 month old on a spontaneous holiday to Malaysia. I lost the childs shoes in last minute packing and he spent his hols in slippers, nothing was booked, nothing planned, a guidebook purchased at Heathrow that did not get read on the plane. This was the best holiday I ever had.

There are some things you can plan for in life, some you cannot. The planned ones have anticipation and expectation attached - all to easily shot down. The last minute unplanned will always be okay because it just will. Sometimes not knowing what is around the corner is far more exhilarating than knowing, and the results are often better

I do wish I had sent the passport applications off earlier.

And 20 mins trying to edit the word fall to fool so that I don't look one. Since I an unable, then I accept that part of being grown up is to admit your mistakes. I admit my mistake although for the large part - that is what most of this blog is about.

Another part of accepting myself is to be honest about faults and bad habits: So here is my dark secret, my bad habit.

When I take a glass from the drainer and the rim is still wet, I use my left breast to dry it. It fits perfectly, one twist and the entire rim is dry. It is also a good way of charting pertness. The day I mistake my breast for my stomach - it will be time for surgery.

Savour that thought should you ever ask for a drink in my house

I have now spent an entire day trying to find a way of taking the children on a plane, storing the dog and some form of bed for the period - all for about five pounds.

It has been a fruitless task and I am now bored.

I may have to buy a large poster of sun, sea and sand, a sunlamp, some cocktail sticks and resort to staying in the living room and trying to fool them. The little ones have never been on a fly somewhere and stay somewhere holiday. This may not be about to change

Swine flu, so named because as you lie in bed sweating through the night you wake up smelling like a pig. Vomit adds to this, as do the piggy eyes.

The teenager had a party last night and a lovelier group of teenagers you would be hard pushed to meet. It did occur to me that having a party when your mother is suffering a pig infection is a little less than thoughtful but everything has a silver lining and mine was that deep down he was concsious of the embarresment that was the garden. Three weeks of arguing about clearing it up and the only thing that was going to get him to do it was when he wanted to do something in it.

However, having a large group of teens in and out of the house until the small hours makes for a dirty floor, filthy sides and general disorder. Having another group cooking fried breakfast the next day makes for a greasy kitchen. Several hours of requesting it cleared got nowhere. Apparently this was unreasonable behaviour on my part since I done nothing myself 'having been in bed all day' By 6pm I booted him out lest I actually wring his neck

Quite right, how dare I be ill. On Weds I spent the night vomiting. On Thursday I woke the teenager and asked for help with the little ones

"Yeah sure" He said - got up, rubbed his eyes and went back to bed.

I am not impressed, I am not proud. He wasn't raised like this and if this is part of being a teenager I am not sure I shall stick around for the other three. I am sure that having your father walk out and no relationship with him must make for some pretty complex emotions but even so, I am not convinced this is a passport for treating others with such disregard. I have had to rally around the men in the family for male role models but all think that their quiet disapproval should suffice. Personally I feel that having lacked a firm male role model for some time, a sledgehammer may be more appropriate.

So I loafed in bed for the best part of the day and watched Jayne Eire. What a load of romantic tosh. The bit in which the vicar mentioned 'all my worldly goods' I thought particularly poignant. In another flurry of texts between 'It' and I, 'It pointed out that it was still 'his' house. I pondered this since when we married, we had nothing. Interesting wording, I thought. Mine, mine, mine

This got me thinking about the narcissistic approach to life. A was reading somewhere about psychopaths. Having always assumed that Psychopaths were simply cold blooded murderers - I thought I should investigate further. So I read about it, dismiss the murderers and look at the common all garden variety.

Imagine - if you can - not having a conscience, none at all, no feelings of guilt or remorse no matter what you do, no limiting sense of concern for the well-being of strangers, friends, or even family members. Imagine no struggles with shame, not a single one in your whole life, no matter what kind of selfish, lazy, harmful, or immoral action you had taken.

Umm, interesting. What has really interested me recently is the continued games. 'It' turns up and takes his bike from the front of the house. He Say's nothing. I text to ask if he took it. He texts to say he took it the day before. He didn't because it turns out he was seen. He says he will bring it back. I say don't bother. He brings it back.

A chum once described this kind of interaction as cat and mouse. Lets say that I am the small squeaky one. So there I am reading about Psychopaths

This leads us to an important question: what does the psychopath REALLY get from their victims? It's easy to see what they are after when they lie and manipulate for money or material goods or power. But in many instances, such as love relationships or faked friendships, it is not so easy to see what thepsychopath is after. We can only say that it seems to be that the psychopath ENJOYS making others suffer.

Anyone who has ever observed a cat playing with a mouse before killing and eating it has probably explained to themselves that the cat is just "entertained" by the antics of the mouse and is unable to conceive of the terror and pain being experienced by the mouse, and the cat, therefore, is innocent of any evil intent. The mouse dies, the cat is fed, and that is nature. Psychopaths don't generally eat their victims.

Yes, in extreme cases the entire cat and mouse dynamic is carried out and cannibalism has a long history wherein it was assumed that certain powers of the victim could be assimilated by eating some particular part of them. But in ordinary life, psychopaths and narcissists don't go all the way, so to say. This causes us to look at the cat and mouse scenarios again with different eyes. Now we ask: is it too simplistic to think that the innocent cat is merely entertained by the mouse running about and frantically trying to escape? Is there something more to this dynamic than meets the eye? Is there something more than being "entertained" by the antics of the mouse trying to flee? After all, in terms of evolution, why would such behavior be hard-wired into the cat? Is the mouse tastier because of the chemicals of fear that flood his little body? Is a mouse frozen with terror more of a "gourmet" meal?

This suggests that we ought to revisit our ideas about psychopaths with a slightly different perspective. One thing we do know is this: many people who experience interactions with psychopaths and narcissists report feeling "drained" and confused and often subsequently experience deteriorating health. Does this mean that part of the dynamic, part of the explanation for why psychopaths will pursue "love relationships" and "friendships" that ostensibly can result in no observable material gain, is because there is an actual energy consumption?

We do not know the answer to this question. We observe, we theorize, we speculate and hypothesize. But in the end, only the individual victim can determine what they have lost in the dynamic - and it is often far more than material goods. In a certain sense, it seems that psychopaths are soul eaters or "Psychophagic."

Conscience seems to depend on the ability to imagine consequences. But most "consequences" relate to pain in some way, and psychopaths really don't understand pain in the emotional sense. They understand frustration of not getting what they want, and to them, that is pain. But the fact seems to be that they act based solely on a sort of Game Theory evaluation of a situation: what will they get out of it, and what will it cost? And these "costs" have nothing to do with being humiliated, causing pain, sabotaging the future, or any of the other possibilities that normal people consider when making a choice. In short, it is almost impossible for normal people to even imagine the inner life of the psychopath.

This leads us to what psychopaths DO have that is truly outstanding: an ability to give their undivided attention to something that interests them intensely.

Manipulation is the key to the psychopath's conquests. Initially, the psychopathwill feign false emotions to create empathy, and many of them study the tricks that can be employed by the empathy technique. Psychopaths are often able to incite pity from people because they seem like "lost souls" as Guggenbuhl-Craig writes. So the pity factor is one reason why victims often fall for these "poor" people.

Now I recognise that this is far more fascinating for me than it is for anyone reading this but since most of my recent outpourings have been a cathartic vomit than an entertaining script - bear wiith me. And fascinating it is since 'It's" nickname was in fact 'Poor It' - so now I search for my part in this drama

Even more amazing is the fact that when psychopaths do get exposed by someone who is not afraid to admit that they have been conned, the psychopathis a master at painting their victims as the "real culprits."

Psychopaths just have what it takes to defraud and bilk others. And even when they are exposed, they can carry on as if nothing has happened, often making their accusers the targets of accusations of being victimized by THEM.

The victims keep asking: "How could I have been so stupid? How could I have fallen for that incredible line of baloney?" And, of course, if they don't ask it of themselves, you can be sure that their friends and associates will ask "How on earth could you have been taken in to that extent?"

The usual answer: "You had to be there" simply does not convey the whole thing. Hare writes:

What makes psychopaths different from all others is the remarkable ease with which they lie, the pervasiveness of their deception, and the callousness with which they carry it out.

But there is something else about the speech of psychopaths that is equally puzzling: their frequent use of contradictory and logically inconsistent statements that usually escape detection. Recent research on the language of psychopaths provides us with some important clues to this puzzle, as well as to the uncanny ability psychopaths have to move words - and people- around so easily. […]

Here are some examples:

When asked if he had ever committed a violent offense, a man serving time for theft answered, "No, but I once had to kill someone."

A woman with a staggering record of fraud, deceit, lies, and broken promises concluded a letter to the parole board with, "I've let a lot of people down… One is only as good as her reputation and name. My word is as good as gold."

A man serving a term for armed robbery replied to the testimony of an eyewitness, "He's lying. I wasn't there. I should have blown his fucking head off."

I love this bit. I always assumed it was just the lack of ability to articulate at speed.

So what does all this mean. Nothing really, except that in terms of turning my life into a sitcom - it gets better and more dramatic every day. The fodder for future royalty is huge.

On a sadder note, how must all this seem through the eyes of a child. How do they see life when one day Dad walks out and Mummy and Daddy never exchange a word again. How surreal must that be? How must it be when one day when you are older you realise that Daddies mobile only works when Mummy sends a text saying if signal is bad, she can come over in the car to say goodnight?

On another note - I am going on a date with a total stranger. The only thing I know is his name. In reality - isn't this the only thing you truly ever know?

I have always said that you can only know what real parenting is when you visualise wringing your child by the neck. I am visualising.

This is real parenting.

True parenting is when you do not actually do it.

Crisis. In the space of a mere two hours I have gone through near nervous breakdown to tears, a date and another near nervous breakdown

It started with the mobile phone, that broke. I was trying to make a chocolate mousse at the time and in the midst of trying to download texts from a screen less phone, I turned the cream into butter (twice) and spend 30 dollars on a download that I didn't need. By the time I rescued the dessert and tried with help from my life Guru(Whilst receiving life counselling at the same time as trying o reconfigure the phone) I was in no mood to party. However - a chocolate mousse had been promised and at 10.30pm, clutching an extremely dense chocolate mousse, I arrived.

By this time I had given up caring about the phone. If I die without all my text evidence it won't make my death any more final. My failed promise to deliver the dessert was of more pressing importance and at least this was delivered, albeit long after the food had been digested.

So my first solo venture to a couple like party. The music was the music that it and I shared a love of and it totally threw me. By the time they were redoing "Ever fallen in Love with someone you shouldn't have" I felt more than a little thrown and had to sneak outside for nicotine inhalation in a bid to compose myself. The tracks were indeed , a tad ironic.

By midnight I had inadvertently pulled. Totally unprepared, when a nice man asked for my phone number and enquired as to whether I would like to go for a drink - I was flummoxed. Having no idea what to say, I said

"That would be lovely" and continued with my number, knowing all along that there was no attraction at all and I really did not want to go for a drink.

Now I feel dreadful and want to die of embarrassment. The last thing I expected in my mad dash to deliver a chocolate mousse was to be asked out. Having given it no thought, I had been totally unprepared for being asked for my phone number. In the last few weeks I had been totally prepared for never being asked for my phone number and now I have given it to someone that I don't actually want to go out with. I want to curl up in a ball (after I have changed my number). Having told myself that the Body God was simply not meant to be - I realise how that in fact, it felt like it was meant to be.

I am not sure about all this. I think being single is far easier. I am never going out and I am never, ever answering the phone again

Sometimes it is good to learn from your mistakes. Sometimes those mistakes are a series of events and difficult to learn from, such as marriage. I do not consider my marriage a mistake. It happened, I did it and there is nothing I can do to change that - rightly or wrongly it got me where I am.

There are other mistakes that we would benefit from learning from. I would have hoped that 'It' may learn from some of his, but apparently not. It is now over 4 months since the teenager and 'it' had contact. The start of this arose the night 'it' wouldn't let the teenager stay the night and the fact that it became apparent that 'it' would rather stay at the PCS's die a death of tedium house. In an ideal world 'it' would have learnt that putting your son behind your priority of eating homemade fish pie in lights on timer land - was not a good choice. He has not.

This week saw the school leavers ball and his own inimitable style of leaving everything to the last minute, the teenager had no suit. With just 24 hours to go, even he was feeling a little alarmed and had decided on a dawn jaunt to Bristol's finest in a bid to secure the elusive outfit.

Now living in the country has some drawbacks and one is the lack of public transport. An early morning dash to Bristol involves a late night transport to a chum with more suitably placed accommodation. So in a bid to rescue the situation, I had a blinding flash of inspiration.

"Don't worry" say I, "Your father has a dinner suit and you are a similar size, we can ask him"

"What about shoes" asks the teenager

"No problem" I declare smug in my problem solving ability "You can wear his wedding shoes"

"He won't want to lend them to me" says the teenager, or words there about

"Don't be ridiculous, he won't mind at all" say I confidently

So I text It and ask if I can scoot over and collect. He texts back saying he is out and can drop them off in the morning. I text back saying I need them tonight to save the teenager staying in town. He texts back that he can drop them off in the morning. I text back to say that if he gets it tonight then he won't need to go to town tonight. He texts back to say that he can drop them off into town in the morning. I text back to say that he only needs to stay in town if the suit does not fit. He texts back.... and so on.

By this point it is abundantly clear that he is not going home that night and it is by then very obvious to both the Teenager and I where he is and that yet again, he is not going to put anyone elses needs above his own. Any Dad would have said to his PCS "I am going to have to go and do something for my son, I will be back in 40 minutes" but not this one. More importantly, he would have shown his son that he was prepared to put him before anyone else. Sadly, he showed his son that he was not going to. Sadder still was that his son predicted it.

So the teenager stays in town for an early rise to Bristol clutching a collection of £10 notes. By lunch time he hasn't called and I am getting a little stressed. By 2pm he has a shirt and a hat. By 2.30pm he has a hat, having lost the shirt. By 2.45 he has two shirts and two jackets, a hat and a pair of trousers - all mismatching, no shoes and 15 minutes to get to Bradford on Avon.

By 3.15 I am still waiting. By 3.30pm I am requested to find a white tie and a pair of shoes. I find neither but do find an Armani suit for £20 in the charity shop. By the time he gets off the train at 5pm, I have been waiting 2 hours and between us we have a healthy selection of outfits. We also only have 45 minutes to get home, eat and for him to be back in town at the 'get dressed together whilst parents drink' event.

I stop on the way to borrow a pair of shoes.

"Could you look after the little ones for a while" I ask the lender of shoes. When she says yes, I decide to push a little further

"Could you give them a bath" I ask. Standing there with two small children covered head to foot in mud and chocolate, clutching a pair of pyjamas, I am not sure she felt able to say no.

So we get to the party, the boys change - all the Mums and Dads drink sparkling stuff and the boys all parade in their finest. All except mine who has forgotten his shirt and is sporting a Nike number. A mad dash back to the village, small clean ones collected and teenager changed into shirt.

It arrives in the midst of collections to finally drop off middle childs lunch money. He has ignored my point that since the teenager still eats at lunch time, he still needs money. Teenager
clearly annoyed.

Still, he left a really nice note to say that he acknowledges that he failed to make any comment or wish luck in regards to his GCSE's, that he did notice the monumental point of him finishing school and hoped he had a fantastic time at his leavers ball. Actually, I made all that up - he made no comment. I bet on reading this that you were surprised that he would do that. No need, he didn't.

So the teenager finally leaves, courtesy of a neighbour on a heavily mirror clad lambaretta, looking very suave and grown up. After the very stressful 24hrs trying to sort out outfit, transport and ticket - I am £100 lighter and have a migraine. I then vomit.

By the morning I have a full blown migraine. Getting small children to school whilst trying to retain the contents of your stomach is no easy task and nor is completing a weekly session of physiotherapy

"You look like Victoria Beckham with those glasses" Say's the medic "I feel more like your personal trainer than your physio"

I give him the option; I can wear the glasses and look like VB or I can take them off and vomit on your Adidas, I tell him

"Victoria Beckham is working for me" he replies

I get home and find a letter from 'It's solicitors, informing me that their client 'it" has instructed them to contact me and they are pleased that we have decided to use mediation to resolve issues with our marital breakdown. It goes one to point out that 'It' has not instructed them to act further at this stage. This letter is not good for my migraine. For weeks he has refused to respond to any of my emails, for months he has refused to discuss money. As for the not acting further bit, am I to expect a divorce paper listing refusal to dress like his mother and make fish pie as a justifiable cause of marital breakdown?

The whole point in mediation was that we tried to approach the issues yourselves in a conciliatory manner. I try to think of any good reason why you would pay a solicitor to write you a letter when your wife had already said that dependant on your openness, she would go to mediation. I see none. Using a solicitor instead of simply replying to an email with 'Okay, I will arrange it' is indeed a hostile move.

Never go to war with someone that can contain their anger. Angry people make mistakes. Calm ones do not.

Uh oh, bad moment. I have a house full of teenagers and have just had to lock myself in the bedroom to cry. I am having a moment of feeling totally overwhelmed, not help by the fact that as it is my weekend 'off' I have been at work and am tired.

I have moved one small child into their own bedroom Sharing no longer works for me. It was working well for them in terms of all night parties but I was having to go up and down the stairs 15 times a night. So small child now in my dressing room, amongst clothes, make up and shoes and various stacked bed parts. I cam home determined to make a sanctuary of sorts for him.

This was a mistake. One spare bed needs to go upstairs, which means dismantling cot bed and selling. Discover I cannot do this as small children have used specific screws for toys and are now missing. New sanctuary/dressing room does not fit a normal bed and will have to find and buy a new one - which means trying to find somewhere to keep two cot beds and the house is so full of bits - there is nowhere.

On moving bed parts I discover the forgotten horror of a cooker cable tacked down the middle of the wall, with the requisite smashed hole behind the socket. By now I am feeling so overwhelmed that I consider having to ask 'It' to help me. then I realise that I cannot do that since he was the one that did it and he was the one that told me on leaving that he had purposefully refused to do any DIY in the house for the two years before he left.

So now I have had to staple fabric to the wall in a bid to cover the wire and to stop one offspring killing himself when he decides to poke something in the hole. Now the landing is full of bed parts and a spare mattress and I can see it is going to be like this for many weeks. this is the point that i fall over the cot bed, it breaks and I drop about two hundred nails on the carpet.

Seems like a good idea to go outside and smoke, so I do. This was a bad idea because the garden is a hell hole. Having spent weeks sieving soil with the colander - grass is growing albeit patchily. It should have been mowed about two weeks ago but still has highway fencing all over it because I have not had time. So I go out the front. This was a mistake - following the carboot sale and middle childs insistence that the seats in the care be moved - I trip over the car seat in my tiny porch and scrape my leg. This adds to the discomfort I have in my knee, which is still not fully recovered. To top it all, I now have shin splints.

I cannot fail to notice the front door which has been kicked in at least twice in the last two years and the frame and lock are held together by two nails. It is very unsafe and doesn't even lock anymore. The door does not fit and has needed replacing for about 5 years.

The ironing pile now exceeds the three baskets. The dog still needs walking, the boys will be back in an hour and I have to wash and find all uniforms by then. I have to find all the parts to the wii that they given by 'it' at Christmas and has not worked since Feb. Seemingly not intending to get it fixed under warranty, I am hoping that shoving it in his hands may prompt him. I am trying to sell things to get enough money to take the teenager to Spain, to salve my conscience that he did not get to go last year and to celebrate his venture into adult life, I need to save the money to take them all to France and to kennel the dog and I still have nowhere suitable for the dog.

'It' used to regularly remind me that going to work was very hard and that I would never manage to do what he did, but really - can it be harder than this?

It is my birthday tomorrow and in the last six years - I have had one night way by myself.

I do not feel like celebrating.

I am a scaby bitch. I know this because the man that cycled past my house and looked over the garden wall, told me so. It has to be quite the funniest thing that has happened all week.


This man once spoke to middle child. I struggle to recall the exact words but it was something along the lines of



"Get off the fxxxxing grass, you fxxxxxx little xxxxx"


Now call me old fashioned but I do not view this as an appropriate way of speaking to a then 10 year old and so, quite out of character for one that prefers to avoid confrontation - I decided to go and tell him.


It wasn't a very productive conversation. The man and his wife swore so much I struggled to make sense with what they were saying. Apparantly child had walked on a grass bank in front of the house. At this point I was yet to discover that they did not own the bank, nor did they in fact have planning permission or ownership of the concrete steps and gateway they had placed over it. So at this point I had little more than my stance against the decline in moral guidance by adults.


"Do you have children of your own" I enquired.


"No and I wouldn't fxxxxzng want brats like yours" the refined lady replied


"So" say I "There is a God" and turning heel, I left.


At this point I phoned the local police and advised that inappropriate and foul language directed on one so young was less than good citizenship. They agreed and sadly for them - they regularly invite this charming chap to have chats on his word usage with locals.


Now since this event I have in fact stumbled across him whilst walking the dog. We have chatted in a civilized manner and both continued walking our bitches (mine was the dog), so the incident yesterday was doubly funny when I realised that when walking the odg, he had no idea who I was. I have looked up tourettes but it is no more likely to have a predisposition to amnesia than any other quirk.


So I told everyone in my favourite drinking venue that I am now a scabby bitch. I can laugh about this because I know that it is untrue - I am still having a close relationship with the Clarins Body Serum and enriched body lotion and as such, have skin like a 12 month olds butt.


On returning to the car last night a friend was horrified.

"Oh my God" She declared "You didn't leave it like this, you've been broken into"

She was absolutely right, the car had been turned upside down and it was in complete chaos.

She was wrong about it being broken into though. No self respecting car thief would ever break into my car and if I thought they could find anything quicker than I do, I would willingly leave all the doors open and a list of items I lost in there.

"Why did God invent head lice?" asks small child

"I have no idea" Say I

"I don't think God would have invented head lice" continues child

"I think maybe a scientist did"

I can see his reasoning; looking at all the truly irritating things in life, most are created by the hand of a human. You may find ipods, computers, mobiles and printers truly fabulous but I find them intensely, intensely irritating. The printer breaks every single time I need to use it. I have never had time to read the instructions for the ipod, the mobile phone can make Lattes and I still can only manage dial outs and text - I have considered asking the manual to bed with me but by the time I have mastered the many assets it clearly has, the children would have broken the phone.

Life is full of things you don't need and none more so than terms and conditions. It seems that every policy taken out has to come accompanied with a 1cm thick manual on all of the reasons why something wont be covered. I binned the lot. Half way through binning the lot, I got bored of reading the policies - so I binned them to.

Then I binned all of the old stuff relating to the house, and the house before and insurance claims, planning, mortgage bump, valuations. As I type this, my wood burner is wading through 2.5ft of paperwork.

In amongst this purge I came across a whole host of bumph relating to my wedding day. 17 years since and I still had all the cards, the table plans, the correspondence and the thank you letters. How strange that I held onto those things when I didn't need them (after all, when you are actually married, what proof of the event do you need?) and yet when your marriage is over, it simply becomes even more redundant. So I burnt most of that too.

So the filing shelf is now lighter and more coordinated, having decided that matching boxes are better for Karma than an array of clutter. There is now one small corner of the house that is vaguely tidy.

Parents evening this evening. Middle child's report and personal statement is available for viewing. Apparently he enjoys Kayaking every two weeks, from one local town to the next. This came as a surprise to me, as I can only recall one occasion where he has ever floated anywhere. Middle child adamant that since he was asked what he would like to do this weekend, rather than what he was planning on doing - then his response was entirely appropriate.

The small ones had their first sports day this week. I cried (discretely) like a big girl simply because they were unbearably cute and this is their last first sports day. One of mine tried so hard to kick the football but missed on almost every attempt; overshot, slipped on the ball and landed bottom and face down in the grass. He was a little mortified.

Still, I got some great photo's. There are some memories worth keeping.

If there is one thing in life that I truly hate, it's a car boot sale. Being on the grab a bargain side is fine but being the glum looking one behind the paste it table, is my idea of hell. Which is why I found myself wondering what on earth persuaded me that despite my better judgement, it would be a good idea.

Having roped in a friend whose car boot sale clutter has been in her loft for so long, her once stylish clothes would now befit the best Bay City Rollers fan - I agreed that 7.15am was a good time to leave. This may well be for normal people but I had to shift the possessions of four children, 25 tonnes of unwanted Christmas presents, a bench, 5 children and walk the Bitch before we could set out. It took until 1.30am to load the car and this does not take into account the week going through cupboards and driving around Wiltshire trying to find a friend that likes wallpaper sufficiently to own a table.

So I start my car booting with the first hate of the day, the flock of vultures that poke their heads into your car when you are trying to get everything out. Five children disappear at this point, I can't find the change and I realise that 5 decorating tables would be no match for my stuff. Everything turfed out and I have to sit through 5 relentless hours of:

'Will you take a £1' (Yet again, symbol problem on keyboard so no question marks today)

'But it is a vintage Cartier Watch'

'Right, how about 50p then'

Okay, so I exaggerate but you get the drift. Why do people feel that anything you sell in a car boot sale should be £1, no matter what it is. I was selling an almost unused Rotastak cage, original cost £49.99 and bedded in by the first inhabitant for a mere 24hours before escape and presumed death. I figured £15.00 seemed a fair and reasonable sum to ensure any hamster felt this wondrous space command centre a suitable abode.

'I don;t really want to spend more than £2.00' say's the first have a go robber.

'Sod off then' said I (Literary license - I only thought it)

People want something for nothing at car boots. There is nothing wrong with asking a fair price. You buy something, you use it a little and you charge a fair sum. They get something that they wouldn't want to buy new for a fraction of the cost and everyone should be happy, but they still moan. Perhaps the car boot is simply a reflection of the British attitude to life.

The man that eventually got the cage was delighted. Unsurprisingly so because in a moment with my back turned, middle child decided that since this man had said he only had £5.00 this was what he must have it for. I was not as delighted and even less so that a grown man would feel chuffed that he had clearly fleeced a 12 year old.

Still, life is all about balance and it was seemingly restored when the two little ones approached the stall holder opposite to enquire as to the cost of the battery operated and very annoying guitar and key board. Apparently one was £6 and the other £5 and feeling very chuffed, they counted out 8 very small brown coins. He didn't have the heart to refuse. On discovering their ruse - I dashed over in apology and offered the correct account but apparently being small and fluttering your eyelashes gets you far in life. I shall bear this in mind .

The strange thing is that I sold quite a lot. What makes it strange is that despite selling lots of things I only made £40.00. There could be a vague connection in the fact that I kept throwing the money in the car and the children kept insisting on going through the other side. This combined with a rather large collection of remote control cars and loud instruments might hold the key, but given that I didn't have the money in the first place, they have no idea where it is then I guess that really, I am no worse off and in fact have £40 in the holiday fund than I did before. The only thing I really lost was sleep and patience.

So the day ends with me feeling overwhelmed. The car is full of stuff, the house is a tip, the uniforms are in the dirty washing, the boys are dirty and tired and the Bitch was so bored she ate quite a large proportion of the house. In yet another moment of valiant rescue, fellow booter and Clarins supplier turns up at 8pm to tell me that she knew I would be overwhelmed, With that she unloaded my car, walked the Bitch with me and told me when she was a single mother of one child she frequently felt overwhelmed and that I was doing a sterling job. Granted she told me this in the garden as the words would not have rung true in the chaos that was indoors, but for a moment - I wanted to marry her.

This is the definition of a good friend. One where you make her get out of bed at some ungodly hour, you laugh hysterically at her clothes collection, you make her transport one of your children because the clutter in your car leaves you without space and then she turns up at your door to sort your mess out.

Today was of course Fathers Day. Calvin Coolidge, the US President from 1923 to 1929 recommended the day to the all male congress as a national holiday in 1924. He declared the purpose of Fathers Day was to :;impress upon fathers the full measure of their obligations;

Yet the origins of the day go back to Washington in 1910 by a Mrs Sonora Smart Dodd in recognition of a father that had made sacrifices for his 6 children after the untimely death of his wife. This is perhaps more relevant now when more husbands find themselves fully involved in the upbringing of their children.

It is also interesting that in Divorce, it is the children's right to see the estranged partner and not the other way around that is the key. Children may well have the 'right' to see the father but there is nothing in law to make a father see the child and hence we have children in every corner of the country that would not have seen theirs today.

My children were amongst this band because their Daddy decided that going on holiday with the polyester clad shag was a far more appealing option than seeing them on either Fathers Day or his birthday.

Yet the essence of the courts is correct in its thinking and you can see how this can filter through to Fathers day. A parent should not have to demand to see his children on this day but the child should rightfully expect to be able to see their father if they so wish. The reality is that life is not as you expect and sometimes not as it should be. It is what it is. On the plus side I can add Fathers day, to Mothers Day (when he didn't suggest they call when he had them) and Christmas as events he is not bothered about.

Of course 'It' has told neither me or his children that he is on holiday with the PCS but has not allowed for the fact that I have always been extremely good at putting 2+2 together and coming up with 4.

"Where are you going" I asked

"What the f**** has it got to do with you." he replies.

Now I am no rocket scientist but a reaction like that will not arise from a boring old business trip and as the old adage decrees, defense is the best form of attack. It also proves the theory that many men foolishly assume women are stupid.

On Monday night there was a conversation with the little ones;

"I won;t see you for a few days" he say's

"I know Daddy, you are going on holiday" says small boy

"errrrr, well, I am going away"

"Where are you going" asks small boy

"errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr, I don't know." say IT

So clearly no business trip and no business trip, aggressive response and lies to small people guarantees a holiday with the Cul-De-Sac Barclays advisor. I feel almost sorry for him - he really did corner himself. He cannot possibly admit an illicit holiday since he already declared that he cannot afford to give the children money for a holiday and nor can he see them more often, as he is too busy working. On their half term - he simply was run too ragged. This must be a very demanding holiday since he has failed to phone them at all, which would have been fine had he told them that he would not be. He didn't

So you are back to expectation and slowly after time, your children stop expecting anything from you. They should have their rights but if those are not offered, then ultimately they will chose not exercise them.

It seems Nicholas Coleridges original intention has failed in a modern day society when life is about pursuit of self happiness and not obligation. An obligation as father is not all about money it is about fathering. The title is given, the respect is earned.

Mrs Dodd may have been right after all - Fathers day is indeed a day for fathers that make self sacrifices for the sake of their children.

Ironic that it was a woman that worked this out.

I had to phone a helpline today, one of those really annoying automated ones that makes you go through 8 options to get to another 7, to get to another 8, to get you to key in various numbers t get cut off.

So this happens twice, then I get instruction to key in the relevant numbers one digit at a time. How stupid do they think I am?Why would I press more than one button at the same time. I can only assume there is an inflated call rate that they try and fill in with as many useless instructions they can think of. I was going to pose the question to Cheryl, my call handler but she made it obvious fairly early on that she was devoid of humour. They got their moneys worth.

Still, at least now I have been told - I have stopped trying to dial two numbers at the same time. The whole process took twice as long as necessary because every time it got to the bit when they ask you to say yes or no, the Bitch would bark and the automated voice would tell me that he had failed to recognise my instruction.

By this time, I felt like I was dealing with insanity. Then the lovely old lady that rents us her garage knocked at my door. She is appalled at the state of the garage and demanding it is cleared. She has apparently written to 'It' demanding that he clear it. I then have to explain that in the many years that he rented it, I never got to see in it. This is just one of the many things that were very strange. Despite many, many requests, he resolutely refused to let me have a key to gain entry. He had the same philosophy with his office keys, anyone else could use them but me - no chance.

So I get to see inside the garage for the firs time. It is a bit messy. 'It' has used the cover for my vintage swinging seat as floor matting, my crockery is broken, my wardrobe is broken and my lampshade is unsurprisingly broken. None of this is particularly surprising when three exhaust pipes and a host of bikes have been slung on top. The other side, rented by a neighbour, looks like a news24 bulletin for an earthquake appeal.

I then get a stern telling off by the old lady, who informs me I need to hire a skip and get rid of everything in the garage. I compromise and tidy it but as I do, I ponder why, if I actually emptied the garage, what the point would be in paying rent.

Sometimes it seems like everyone around me is ever so slightly insane.

There is a certain monotony to my life. Having only prepared half of the stuff needed to get out of the house - I have given up and retired to bed with my feet throbbing. It pains me greatly to have to set the alarm clock for 6.30am knowing that despite the fact that this is an ungodly hour, it still will not be enought to get to school on time.

Last night when I went to bed, I covered myself in Clarins body products (thankyou to the chum that gets the invitation to the charity sale) and realised that actually, I quite like being on my own. I think this is good. I have stopped looking at every man that walks within a five mile radius and decided that slavvering CLarins all over and going to bed with the Sunday Times magazine (albeit 2 weeks old) is quite heartening. I forsee a future of stubbly legs and many cats.

On the subject of heartening - When I was about 8, someone asked me what my favourite item of food was; I had no hesitation in naming the humble potato. With young logic I knew that I could saute, mash, roast, boil, fry or turn it into salad and for that reason - I would have enough options to avoid the tedium of the same food each day. So it was ironic that today the humble potato was dedicated to me.

I have a friend, well known in Bradford for her culinary skills and catering. This diva of the kitchen has a blog of hearty family based recipes and is written in a 'Come sit around the hearth whilst I pound Cardoman' kind of way. So I am perusing her offerings when I come across instruction for sublime baked potatoes. A script to me at the start and ending with:

Don't you feel better? Eat all alone. You were too good for him, anyway

I was very moved. I shed a tear at the start and laughed very loudly at the end. No matter what happens in life, you always have the potato. Life is sustained with the spud. You have a potato and friends that think of you when you are not standing in front of them - then life has to be good.

There are those that always thinks of you and others that always talk of you. I discovered this today courtesy of Freecycle. Last week I put an advert on the site for a book on seperation and divorce. Clearly I now need to know the stages you have to skip through in this process and it seemed appropriate to read about it. I did add in the body copy 'This should be enough to get tongues wagging' and indeed it has. Apparently I am now filing for divorce. I know this because a friend told me and someone told her. By the time it had got to her, there was no mention of wagging tongues but more of 'grateful for support'.

Now I do live in a small area, tongues wag and that is part of the charm of living where I do. Yet there was a little annoyance. I for one am very good at adding 2+2 and gainingg 4. Most people I know come up with 7.

I decided that there was only one way of dealing with the chinese whispers and so I did what any responsible person would. I posted a wanted ad for an Ovulation Predictor Kit.

Now that should get the tongues wagging

I never called myself Mrs, which in the circumstances - is pretty convenient. I never changed my surname which is even better. I have never really thought too much about it but having pondered the relevance of it today - I realised that titles own you and I hate being owned.

The thought process started at work when the shift supervisor referred to me as 'her' staff. It grated, I am not 'her staff' I go to work, I do a job. She in turn goes to work and does a job and yet this does not make her 'my' boss, just a manager for the period she is in the building.

So take the marriage thing. I am not (clearly) someone's wife. I chose to get married and whilst I accept that the female name for a married person is in  fact 'wife' - I would never refer to myself as someone's wife. Likewise, I hate it when people say 'housewife'. I once went to a party and met the then Managing Director of Emap

"So what do you do" he asked.

I was momentarily flummoxed.

"I sleep with your Art Director" I replied.

 I was pleased quite pleased with my reply, particularly when he swiftly moved on to the next, more normal wife who thought in terms of title rather than what she did.

Yet we live by titles and some of those are just fine. Small child said to me this evening that I was the best Mother that he had ever had.

"I am the only Mother you have ever had"

"Yes but you are the only one that looks after us and you are the loveliest" he replied, whilst squirming in an 'I am all loved up' kind of way. Now clearly, this is a title that I am happy to live with, though I suspect that his sentiments will be less heart string tugging once he reaches an age where I can ground him and Mother is followed by a rude word.

I got another title this week, for I am apparently a MILF. The age of the one so generous was borderline - I think he may need to think in terms of Grand MILF. I am not sure about being flattered. I think there are more flattering ways of putting it but I guess it leaves options open. 

So, can I call myself this? If you meet me at a party would it be okay to say I am a MILF in progress?

I have been reading a self help book about my erroneous zones. I thought I would deal with this before I moved on to my erogenous zones. Interesting reading and I am now starting to annoy people. A friend said to me today

 "I failed my challenge this week"

I replied

"You have not failed your challenge - you have learnt the consequences of not fulfilling the task you set yourself and therefore you have learnt from it. This is a positive experience. "

I fear that if I read any more - I may get punched in the nose. However it has made me also realise that 'It' should be very grateful to me and very charming, rather that really quite aggressive in his manner. His life was F***** hell and he is now happily with someone else. I think this deserves gratitude. If I had not made his life hell then this new happiness would not have been possible.  Frankly, I think that deserves thanks. 

 Some people are simply ungrateful.

Every good child should be allowed a sickie. Life sometimes is just too monotonous and the weeks one relentless stretch of alarm clock, school, tea, bed. Little people have a TD day so middle child got a sickie and we all spent the day at Paulton Park. 

I thought Paulton Park was a not so great area towards Bristol but in fact in is a children's theme park. I am not sure what it is like on a busy day but on a very quiet, everyone else makes their children aim for the 100% attendance day, it is utterly charming.

I have had many fears in life and one has been theme park rides. I hate them. It is an accrued hate - I loved rides when younger but for some reason - I have ended up avoiding them like the plague as an adult. I am not entirely convinced if it is fear or self consciousness. I do have a bit of an issue with screaming when I am expected to scream and being on a swinging, turning thing in which 20 other people want to scream at the same time - is just a little to odd for me. I am not sure how all this happened but I think you show some hesitation, it then becomes a presumption and before you know it, it has become a habit.

There are some rides where I recognise the fear. Roller coaster are too like having a near death experience and if I only have to experience that once, I shall be happy. 

Its all about labeling, I have labeled myself as someone who doesn't go on rides. If you say it enough you believe it and so yesterday, I had to deal with a lot of demons and I did. Some of them I actually enjoyed and some things I learnt from - like I do not need to go on things that spin round very quickly whilst going up and down and if I do, I may vomit. In fact, I can only really deal with things with a goal - like going down.

I was so immensely chuffed that I breathed through vertigo palpitations to get up to a very high boat flume four times, that I was even prepared to get ripped off for the picture to prove it.

There were a group of us, no children had cross words, I had an accompanying teenage girl lest there were rides I really could not face and everyone got on, the sun shone and it was one of those rare perfect days.

Grab a seat, it may be a long one.

There is someone in my life that has been trying to teach me something for along time - I am never entirely sure why but we all take out of advice what we  choose to or feel ready to and often leave the harder bits to one side. I, for one finally get it.  Lets call this character the Life Guru.

The Life Guru has tried to get me to see that I am responsible for my own emotions, that the actions of others cannot cause them but my reactions to events do. I got the logic but given the circumstances failed to see how short of practicing free love and smoking a lot of cannabis, that I would ever reach this stage. Free love is rarely free and smoking cannabis makes me blotchy so neither were a long term fix.

Yet I finally get it. Sadly, it was not the Life Guru that made it click, I feel sure this character would not feel in the slightest miffed, but content that they had sown the seed that enabled the obvious to grow in my mind (poetic words, I feel). In fact, it was courtesy of 'It' and his family and for this I am indebted.

'It' is accruing a monumental amount of hatred towards me, almost as if leaving was the beginning of a hurricane of hatred that has slowly building momentum. I am sure that the full force is yet to hit but I now realise that it will only send me flying if I let it - which I won't.

Over the last few weeks it has been clear that one of  the many techniques  that he is keen to continue is one of control by withdrawal. He sends an email, I reply - he will not. I send an email, he does not respond. He will avoid any eye contact. It used to make me mad, which I am certain is the aim and now I am at the eye rolling stage.

So anyway, back to my debt of gratitude. A conversation took place yesterday. I did not raise my voice and since I was asking direct questions that he had failed to respond to, he did not want to answer - so he responds in a vocal manner of someone trying to clear their throat from venom. Long shot was when I pointed out that since it was not me that had had an affair, I was unsure as to why he should be the one holding on to so much animosity.

This was, I might add after he had himself questioned that he embarked on an affair. Since I have kept the Facebook page for the family album - I thought this a tad silly but sensibly didn't point it out. Yet when he spoke to me, his face contorted with utter hatred and this is the point I truly got it.

"You made my life utter hell'

Now clearly I could argue over this one. When you get to do what you want pretty much all of the time,  and the only real investment you place in your family is by way of paying bills - it would be easy to argue that this cannot be entirely true but really, what would the point be.

Hatred is very ugly and as either a personality or a physical trait, it is not an attractive one. If I had made his life such hell, he could have said so. If I made his life hell then he solved that issue by leaving and being with someone else. He has been in that bed now for some time so really, his problems should be solved.  As such, I am not responsible for the way he feels now, he is. His hatred can only be his hatred. The only person that can cause this anger and bitterness is himself and really, you would rather think that his new woman must be getting a little annoyed that he has such capacity for strength of feeling for the woman that made his life such hell.

So that short discussion solved many things. I realised the wisdom. I do not want to ever wear that ugly face of hatred and at 40 - I cannot afford to make myself unattractive, so I won't. I am learning the art of the present. The past is what it is and cannot be changed and there is no benefit to staying there. I for one, am happy to move on.

So the second accolade to my Eurika moment is to 'Its' parents. Following a flurry of emails which are now too pointless to venture into. I received one yesterday advising that I should not be speaking to anyone in the family (Typed in bold) or to any of 'It's' friends.  Apparently it is not normal. What is not normal is for your parents to be telling your wife who she can speak to and giving unrequested opinion. God forbid I ever unleashed my Mother into the ring.

There have been a couple of points in my life when I have realised that I was a grown up and this is one. You cannot be responsible for anyone else's behaviour - only your own. No-one can dictate to me who I can and cannot talk to - only the people that I speak with can decide, for themselves whether they wish to speak with me. 

There were many other lovely things contained in this email and I finally realised that I could respond, which would follow a life long pattern of who gets the last word, or I could ignore it. I have decided to ignore it. I know the truth, I know the reality and I no longer need to prove that to others and I no longer have to read words designed to hurt. Furthermore, I no longer need to stay connected to unhealthy relationships. This is my new choice and it is quite liberating

As one of the banned said "If there is one true immediate benefit to this break up, it has to be that you are well out of all of this"

So it did take seeing the pointlessness of it all in someone else face but it does not really matter how it came about. 'It' had a voice, I cannot shoulder the blame for his inability to use it. 'It' can blame others for life's unfairness, he can blame his parents, his wife, his children and his career but once you run out of boxes to tick you are just left with yourself.

And that is not my problem. 

Normal service will resume shortly

I think I may be the only person in the country not to have heard Susan Boyle sing and this is something I am very proud of. Susan Boyle has now become the flesh version of crocs and I didn't want any part in those either.

My bottom is not big enough. I know this because I agreed to go on a bike ride with middle child and now there are parts of me that normal painkillers do not reach. My knee is also quite painful and at the moment officially stuffed. With the possibility of another operation I have agreed to go to lots of Physio - I am rather hoping they will not insist on a bike or the compression may continue.

Middle child is bike refreshed after his lovely mother getting him a new one. Technically speaking it isn't new as we hauled it out of a skip but he didn't have it before, I gave it to him and so to him - it is new and I am a very nice skip tramp. Nothing but the best and all that.

Why would anyone throw a perfectly fine Raleigh bike in a skip. Middle child rather pleased and not in the slightest bothered by its pink hue. This is good because even if he had been, he would still have got the same bike.

The evenings are becoming a little taxing as everyone wants to go out on bikes. Rather lovely but I have had to come up with time saving methods. my best yet is to attach a slightly insane Weimeraner to the handlebars via a lead. It works a treat, she goes like the clappers, I don't have to peddle and when she suddenly bolts after a rabbit - it is quite an excilerating experience.

'It' has still failed to pay last months mortgage. Several emails, several texts and still a bounced payment. Expected but a little alarming as there has not been a full payment since he marched. I may start looking at tents on EBay.

Further alarming moments include children coming home very excited by the 18 rated film they got to see. The small one, apparently asleep on the sofa declared with glee that he had seen army men that were blown to bits. A conversation ensued with 'It'.

'It was fine, it was on in the day'

"Yes, but it was only on in the day because you recorded it from the night before"

"Fine, I won't let them record anything again" he says

It is becoming more clear that we are in fact, existing on different planets. I may as well give up AA Milne and read them the David Van Thal Horror stories. I would ask who on earth would want their children watching 18 rated movies but alas, I know the answer. I think my idea of an Enid Blyton childhood is now being pick axed.

So having decided that this was not an issue I could side step, I said my piece and left it. Until that is, a parent at school advised me the next morning that they had come across the little ones in the park whilst 'It' was in deep slumber. The hubby was all for marching up and saying something. How I wished he had because everything I say is taken with yet another dose of hatred. Clearly having two very young children playing with a kite, with an open gate onto the road would not make a great advert for parental health and safety and the problem with acrimonious separation is that you are unlikely to call and say

'You know you did a great job the other day, the children came back in one piece'

The teenager is surviving his GCSE's well. Very exhausted today as he had 4 exams, including an AS all in one day. I am not convinced that having 4 minutes between a 2 hour exam is guaranteed to get the best but we shall have to see. I once told him that you should find a way of relaxing, he found his by simply not revising. It seems to work well, at one point I was suffering from parental stress transference disorder but i too gave up. There was simply no point.

Yesterday the teenager, my half child (He is not but is part of the furniture and so named) and I, went for a picnic by the river in BoA following yet another GCSE. It is moments like this that I feel very lucky. For two towering teenagers to be willing to sit and picnic with Mummy is a real achievement. At this age, I would have rather chewed toe nails than go sit in a park with my parents. It was lovely and I know that the box of cakes had nothing to do with it