Sweet 16 and It's My Birthday and I'll Cry If I want To

So my eldest, a few days ago, embraced his sixteenth year. Prior to the fateful day he had informed me he would now be old enough to get married (God help that girl!) with his parental consent (if anyone girl is barking enough to want him, she can have him!); he would be able to join the armed forces but not enter a war zone (oh so it is alright if his family live in one as he battles against us!); he could sell scrap metal ( no point we live in Essex that market is saturated!); drink wine or beer with a meal in a restaurant (Boy, if you're offering to take us out for a meal, your mother is not complaining!) or leave home with his parent's consent (Oh so tempting!) and so on and so on.
Well, the morning of his birthday began with a grunt from his pit of a bedroom as I scooted out to work with my youngest in tow. I had left his gifts on the kitchen table so he could open them as he arose victorious from his lair to claim his sixteenth year. I had also left a malteser cake aka Lorraine Pascale on the side ready for the midweek evening celebrations. Stupid, stupid me!
On returning home from work with youngest still in tow chatting merrily about his day at school, the house was deathly quiet. The twins were nowhere to be seen. Unusual. The lights were dim. Unusual. I marched upstairs to discover the birthday boy lying on his bed looking at the ceiling.
"Happy Birthday", I exclaimed. "How was school?"
"Ok,"he sighed.
"What's up?" I asked.
"Nothing," he replied. Well clearly "nothing" meant everything.
"Did you like the gifts?" I enquired over the dulcet flat tones of my youngest singing "Happy Birthday to You!"
"Yeah, they were ok," he managed to sigh. Still there was no sign of the twins.
"Come on what is wrong?" I coaxed. Had his sixteenth year released a deep rooted depression?
"YOU DIDN'T MAKE ME A CAKE!" there was genuine emotion in his outcry.
"I flipping well did! A malteser ca...." before I could finish my sentence I realised what had happened. My pathetic attempt to contain the rising beast in his lair gave the twins enough time to grab their tennis kit and run for the door.
"Have a good game boys," I shouted hands splayed out on the chest of their elder brother attempting to race after them.
"Thanks Mum" they chorused dripping the remnants of their breakfast, lunch and tea behind them - those wonderful spherical chocolate balls of honeycomb centres!
Even though my sweet sixteen year old could leave home, marry, trade and drink in a restaurant, he was only really happy to embrace the fact that his mother, still in her coat, started to create yet another malteser cake to make everything better. My youngest sang throughout to cheer his older brother from his sixteen year old gloom. How many tears have been spent at a birthday when you could cry if you want to?

The Defensive Lion

My youngest is a sensitive soul prone to fantasy and comedic by nature. However, life can be full of carnivores, and as parents we are well aware of this. So what do we do? Tell our kids to be honest? Tell our kids to be moral?Tell our kids to be good citizens owning up when they have over- stepped the mark? Of course. That's the only way surely that makes society work. Isn't it? Yet, some out there make excuses: they protect their own, come what may and some out there are just mad, bad or odd.
So I have introduced my youngest to rugby! Why? Team spirit, fighting for a goal, being part of a community and learning to think on your feet and make tough decisions. Just harden up and face and embrace. Yes some may think that is harsh but the old adage is : cruel to be kind!
So we joined the club. A different one from his older brothers so he could have a voice apart from his older siblings.
He loved the kit. Twirling in front of the mirror growling into the glass, he aped alpha male. Yet, as a mother, I knew from this things were not going to plan.
His godfather, a Kiwi but resident in the UK for 12 years, took us to the club. His club.
At the ground, my youngest chatted rolling around on the tuff, happy to be out in the open air. He befriended all. Still I knew that things were not going to plan.
When asked to catch and throw, he was in his element tossing the ball gently and running away if thrown back with strength. I knew things were not going to plan. His godfather grinned.

Playing bulldog with tags showed his true colours. He ran about giving back the tags to all the poor souls who had been caught, attaching them with care and a smile. I knew things were not going to plan! His godfather sighed and rolled his eyes.
Asked to run, he swirled and skipped forwards. I knew things were not going to plan! His godfather ran his hands over his face in despair.
However, the true moment of dawning-the epiphany for me (when I realised that my boy was not built for this sport), was when the coach asked them to stand on the defensive line. My son, my gentle, fey,happy-go-lucky child decided to stand in the middle of the pitch and growl hands raised as claws - a defensive lion. Full marks for creativity but zero for the wonderful world of rugby. He had misheard or misinterrupted defensive line for defensive lion! At that moment things were not going to plan at all. At that moment his godfather walked away with a barely hidden sob and at that moment I realised, you can't toughen up a gentle soul; you can only teach teach them life skills to cope with the aggression in the big wide world. And more importantly, you have to embrace each child for their own worth. So my son may be the first English boy to rewrite the Hukka: Skip, meow, skip! But hopefully his gentle soul will not be forced into a defensive line nor a defensive lion's mouth.

Will You Walk Me Down The Aisle?

Wedding preparations are afoot in this neck of the woods. In this house to be exact. No I have not resorted to marrying off my eldest to the highest bidder although I have been tempted at times! I figured that any bride brave enough to take him on would soon send him back with her father demanding a refund and possible recompense.
 The wedding plans are for my looming big day in April. The venue is booked; the rings have been ordered and I am sure everything else will fall into place once my fiance has organised the rest of it. Yep, I am more of an ideas person and he is more of an action man! His disgruntled moan of "Woman, you need to do something!" is just a ruse on his part and he secretly cannot wait to meet with caterers; order the flowers; chose the invites; sort the music; design a cake etc. All men love to take control don't they? So this bride- to- be is showing her man that he has all the power and he is a true alpha male, a hunter. A hunter of all things wedding. This bride-to-be is sitting back, having a cuppa, watching and letting the hunting begin.
To ensure he fully understood that I will support all his decisions I took the trouble to buy him a file so he could sort everything. That is why I cannot understand his feigned reluctance and  raised eyebrows.  I fail to understand why he seems a little stressed and even a little irritated. I have told him that I know he will arrange a wonderful day and I will concentrate on finding the most perfect dress. Seriously, I think I heard the term: "Screw the dress" However, like my eldest I think he finds annunciation difficult and I am convinced he really said: " I'll do the rest".
Not wishing to seem lazy, I offered to get involved. He looked at me from under his brows: "How exactly are you going to get involved? Plan your hair? Organise a girl's night? Or just plan to turn up?" I actually believe I saw sarcasm dripping from his lips.
"No. I will arrange something!" I replied.
"Now don't go to too much effort, darling, I want you alive for the "big day". I think." was his retort. Well that did it. With a peevish sigh I marched to my eldest son's room and knocked.
"What?" barked said boy.
Still from the other side of the door I said:"Can I come in?"
"Why?" he barked again.
"I need to ask you something."
"What?" he growled.
"For the love of God, can you walk me down the aisle?" I snarled.
"Walk you down the aisle? Walk you down!" he roared through the closed door. "I'll  drag you down it if it stops you from constantly knocking on my door! I'll push you down if it means you will stop gazing at grim dresses on the internet. I'll fire you in a rocket down it if it means you will go and organise something in the house!" I remained motionless outside his door, arms crossed, affronted  As I turned to thump downstairs I slapped into the hulk of my fiance who stood there laughing. " I'll launch her straight back to you boy if she doesn't start trying to help organise something!"

MIDuffers5 - Mummy Intelligence

Recently I have just caught the "Spooks" bug.  Ok, I know that the BBC programme started way back when  but I was clearly very busy between 2002 and 2011! However, 2012 is the year for my initiation and I am hooked! Seriously, every loiterer on the streets of Leigh on Sea  is now a potential spy; people talking into headsets are clearly on a mission and any bulge in clothing is a potential weapon - no pun intended but hey I am from Essex!
It gets worse. I now believe I have missed my vocation. I have delusions of spy grandeur! I have thought long and hard about why and how our Intelligence Agencies could have possibly missed me in their graduate recruitment programme. I believe it due to a number of issues.
 Firstly, I am very forgetful so this would have hindered the mission as I would not  have been able to  recall where I was supposed to be or who I was supposed to be meeting, but I have reasoned this could have been an asset, as I generally cannot remember what I am doing from day to day so under torture I would not have released any details of worth or sense. However, torture was a tricky issue. My pain threshold is zero. Sleep deprivation would have been a breeze - I have had years of that as a mother-  but any other pain and I am generally balling. Running and climbing also proved a problem for me. In "Spooks" the females seem to run, jump, climb and fight in short skirts and stilettos  Again, I rationalised, that being an Essex girl and having been attired just so in my youth  and attended many a club where verbal and physical fights had broken out, that perhaps this would not be such a huge problem after all. Sleeping with the enemy also became a concern. My face is generally an open book and I have never been one for numerous liaisons so that was definitely off the menu.- lie back and think of England - no thank you, unless they looked like Johnny Depp when I could just manage it, other than that I may have had to gag a little before copulation. Weaponry could have also been a sticking point. Generally, I am DIY useless and an attempt with a drill has resulted in carnage. Yet again, I turned this into a positive. During a shoot out I could, unwittingly, have annihilated any opposition as I struggled to control my gun; thus saving the team. However, risk to civilians was high on this front so I decided that I needed a desk job.
Out of curiosity and knowing they had watched the series, I chose to ask my elder sons which "Spook" they most thought I was like. Clearly Roz and Jo were high on my wishlist. My eldest announced Ruth with conviction.  The twins remained silent.
"Why? Is it because you think, like her, I am so intelligent and can see through to a problem double quick?" I admit I sounded rather desperate and excitable.
"No,"he replied.
"Is it because she is likeable, vulnerable yet tough and loyal?" I asked.
"No," he replied.
"Why then?" I enquired.
"Do you really want me to answer? Do you really?" he was playing with me now.
"Yes," I sounded pathetic.
"Ok - but if you sulk, it's your fault," he said with authority. I was nervous now. "It is because she has the same stupid lip quiver that you have when you are upset. It is because she cries so readily and has no ability to protect herself in a tough situation. It is because she has a sad taste in clothes.It is because she loves everyone and needs to harden up. But more importantly, like you, if she had had a son who had left his Facebook on, she would have scanned through like you do to mine. If she had had a son, she would have read his texts like you do! If she had had a son, she would have read his history on the computer like you do! "
I grinned, "That's Mummy Intelligence for you!"
"No that's damn right snooping," he growled.
So I am  a spy and I didn't even realise it. I am a Mummy Spook! The fact that the enemy have realised, is besides the point, I will just have to try new tactics! Claerly I am not a MILF but I am proud to say I am a MUMOOK - a mum spook! I wonder how many of you out there are snooping, spying and spooking on your kids cyber land activities? Is it wrong? Well this MUMOOK says, I don't think so!

Essex v Surrey

 My man - my gentle man lives in his rural patch of bankers and corporate finance. A delightful enclave of Surrey. A stunning landscape set in the Surrey hills. However, this landscape has been infected with those that sneer at the less fortunate: us mortals who do not own a hedge fund. A garden of Eden - beautiful but deadly. Harsh.\Yet it is a true statement - four wheel drives, loafers and loud braying befit the newly arrived "second wives" of the market town that sits among the Three Counties of Surrey, Sussex and Hampshire. Here one's face does not fit unless there is a huge wage packet attached to it.  Here gossip is rife about which school is the best; whose husband has strayed and who has gained the biggest pile. If your offspring,  probably a beautiful accessory, did not gain the school that was "the IT school" then a multitude of labels are available for a price of an Ed Psych report. The born and bred have faded and barely have a voice. They can still  be heard, just, amongst the iphone and blackberry loud chitter chatter of the wealthy elite. If you take time to dig deep.there are truly wonderful folk to be found with generations in the graveyard. But they are hidden as the "succeeders""who  have taken root and grasped this beautiful market town with a corporate, monied grip.
Essex, my home county, is just as bad.  However, in Surrey, these new folk have the accents of pedigree but I am sorry to say less grounding. Not that I am saying Essex is any better - rough and ready and, where I live, plastic and orange. How do they differ? Essex is money, money, money. Surrey is money, money, money. Hedge funds will out in both counties. However, there just seems to be a more real feel to Essex.
On the Estuary run from Fenchurch Street to Shoeburyness , you can find the most successful entrepreneurs in the country of fiance, art and literature, possibly due to ill gotten gains, but those apart, success is embraced not criticized nor bitched about. I can still walk into any of my locals and mix with all different walks of life and noone cares. In Essex, stereotypically we have bought into that image of the blonde and  plastic doll adorned with bling.  That living, breathing, walking, talking doll can be from any walk of life in Essex - we still love her or him./And yet, we don't care if you are orange, punk, emo, plastic, wealthy etc, if you can sit, chat and argue, in my home town of Leigh, we will listen. That is the truth. We are so happy if any one will debate or listen - we are the end of the line- the arsehole of England!
Yet in Surrey, there is a complete divide of those that have and those that do not. If you ooze wealth then you attract wealth. Then is no room for the extraordinary  There is a dress code.  Woe betide those who do not follow it! Success is only praised if that person can open doors or is so very wealthy that their door may only be opened if chosen.  One can only befriend them if they are climbing that corporate ladder. The real Surrey folk have retreated and are hard to find, like pearls you have to dive deep. Strangely in my TOWIE land of Essex - the flatland of gain and Sylvia Young, I still witness that slap on the back to sa:y: "well done my son" . Is that because non of us have strayed from our roots? Well I did. Or is it because in Essex we welcome success. I think that I am probably  prejudiced being an Essex girl who can trace her roots back for at least 5 generations.But, I admit, we do love bling and celebrity; we do celebrate wealth and gain but since we live at the end of the mouth of the Thames, we realise that  home is where the heart is and we need to stick together as noone else cares. We have been persecuted  (Matthew Hopkins), ridiculed (white handbags and stilettos  and left to flounder (Thames Barrier). Yes, we have a tier system. Yes it is wrong. Yet, anyone can join it through hard work or marrying well - like Surrey  What is the difference? We don't ditch our friends because they do not fit, we take them along for the ride - be it the end of the line,Shoebury or the end of the line,The City of London. We don't care if their face fits or not; we care about them.

Medals, Mess and Mayhem

The break from school has happened and non too soon.  My testosterone driven household is lethargic and grumpy. Exams are looming which means work - a bitter pill to swallow for the older three.

The twins have refrained from their loud outbursts of tourettes and have resorted to low mumbled mutterings of obscenities due to exhaustion. Why? 

Well, one has discovered the Duke of Edinburgh Awards so now has to converse with the elderly and the youth so swearing is off the menu, although, according to him, one of the elderly, he has recently met, has a better knowledge of profanities than he- should I be worried? Can you gain a medal in cursing? If so he would have hit gold already without effort!

 The other has joined the cadets and has learnt to march, build camps and polish boots! I offered him all the shoes in the house to clean; suggested he marched the washing upstairs and enquired whether he would like to make the beds. Strangely, he declined as apparently this was against "orders". Not against my orders I insisted and drilled him in the "mummy mafia" way! My "drill" has enabled him to understand  how I wish our mess house to look.  He is an unwilling student surprisingly. However, Phillip and army may be a distraction but as I pointed out exams are a reality. Gurning is alive and well in my house tonight! 

The eldest has surprised me. Always one to follow his own trail, this morning, without complaint nor want, he called from his teenage pit: "Bye Mum have a great day at work!" Initially I was charmed and warmed by a glow of maternal love. However, two blocks down on the Leigh Road, once the wind had lashed me into sense, I thought what has he done or what is he planning to do? Ok, cynical I agree but actually, I think bloody realistic. I almost turned round and pelted back to find out what the blighter was doing. I soldiered (ha) on and this evening was greeted with a list of complaints from said teenager to why exams are unfair, revision sucks and why can't he just "chill". I think not my friend. Clearly whatever he had planned had failed and I was the enemy once more. A position I felt far more comfortable in.

As for the youngest, my sweet, gentle boy, well, he was in a cross country race today - chosen by default- as one of the fastest runners was off sick. He was so proud to have been chosen and I made sure I was there to witness his moment of glory. All began well. The relay began. He was second. He was tagged and he shot off with the wind beneath his feet. I lost track of him as he entered the wood. The hare, a Year 10, appeared first swiftly followed by a young competitor. My son followed soon afterwards and we cheered him on. He was running for dear life and the crowd lifted him. Quick on his tail came another competitor running for victory trying to overtake. My gentle son, lifted by the cheers from his school, decided, in a moment of madness, to offer a sharp backhanded swipe to take out the opposition. Terrible and misguided, I agree. However, my gentle giant clearly thought he was a competitor in 'The Hungergames' as once the runner had regained equilibrium and tried to overtake once more, my boy continued to swerve  shift and swipe to ensure a win. I am not convinced the PE department, headmaster and governors were part of "The Capitol". And as a parent I watched in horror.

Blingage!

If friends could be classed as jewels, then diamonds were certainly the friends who I attempted to collect at school aged fourteen. The "friends"with whom I adorned myself were those cool, distant and dazzling ice-cold blondes with beauty and brains, so sharp they could cut like a knife. However, they may have been all things bright and beautiful but I had, unfortunately, not left the carbon state and in that state of development I was to remain - smudgy, stubby and crude. I was a diamond in the rough. Well, to be frank, I wasn't even diamonte - just sort of coal with out the potential to light. I soon learnt that carats are not the sustenance that feeds the soul and good old bling - or carrots - slightly orange (if from Essex), bit knobbly, sometimes pretty but always individual are earthy and keep you safe,especially at night when ones eyes are fading through lack of sleep or too much of the amber nectar! So now, my friends are more costume jewellery - artistic, funny, outrageous and tacky but long-lasting and affordable.
Try explaining that to one of your sons whose heart has just been severed by a diamond!  Apparently, she was stunning and classy. Apparently, she was intelligent and pedigree. This jewel did not come under my "loupe". I was not afforded the pleasure of weighing her suitability and worth. Still this diamond has cut. A hard lesson to learn for a mere male  mortal. So, "bling" may have become a dirty word; may have been sent to the realms of "tacky" but if it shines, makes you smile and is long-lasting, embrace and face my son - that "blingage" will always be the jewel you can rely on to suit every occasion, if well chosen!

Girls Girls Girls

So last weekend our annual local regatta took place and, as usual, I chose to host the Saturday night after blast party at mine. Mad? Yes. I have embraced that madness for a few years now. So the good, the bad and the ugly wend their bones up to mine for chilli and jacket potatoes for an after shin-dig party.  Sometimes it's fun; sometimes it's fraught but this year for some strange reason- it was full of a gaggle of pre-pubescent girls (offspring of friends and relatives), as my boys were off out into the wilderness and away from home.
So amongst us adults, screamed these banshees and I have to say for once I felt so very lucky to have boys. Every track on the music dock was changed with a: " OMG that is so rubbish!" Olly Murs, One Direction and Bruno Mars found themselves alive and kicking.
Thirty adults were at a loss in dealing with this feisty, feral near grown up female on-slaught until one brave soul (who may now be resting in Valhalla as I type) boomed:*ENOUGH!" and the flock fled upstairs.  Peace descended.  Us old and weary began to socialise once more and drink, drink and be merry. But all was deadly quiet from the harpies of doom. I felt within my very bones that this was not a good thing.  And indeed it was not.
I ventured upstairs- deathly silence . I had a feeling this was not so good. Where were these minxes? Where were these mixers of emotions?  I soon discovered. My wardrobe was  ransacked, adorned by some of these small pixies but for the most part generously littered around the first floor of my house.  Next I discovered the only small boy in the house that night quavering smeared with their warpaint - lipstick and nail varnish.  He was still breathing but in shock.
 Finally these small "Amazons" were spied in one of my boys' rooms adorned with my jewellery leaving their mark on one of my twin boy's blackboard (was their scribbling: a curse, a love note or a spell? Who knows?) and  attempting to hack into the said twin's facebook account.  When challenged, the eyes welled up and the amateur dramatics ensued - worthy of a true Oscar.  I have to be honest I laughed.  Three hours later at one in the morning, my laugh was more of a sob.

Back on the Chain Gang

Summer hazy days are over and reality has come to bite us full force on the arse - school's head has awoken spitting like a cobra poisoning those lie-ins and hours of fun. Noone in my house is happy.  Noone in my house does anything but glare.  Nothing is right and everything is - OMG sooooo not fair!
Seven o'clock knock on the door is greeted by new realms of obscenities from the twins; the eldest usually answers with a shout : "I know already!" muffled from under the duvet and the youngest bursts into tears.  It's a happy home!
 Breakfast is a silent affair unless uniform has been misplaced and then pandemonium breaks out.  I sit watching them race helter skelter trying to find clean shirts, trousers and pants, a wry smile on my face awaiting the insults to ensue: "Where is my.......? Why can't you sort it? I wish you could buy a mum1" I have bred misogynists but I remain sitting, reading the newspaper and pointing in various directions as the clock ticks. Eyes are clearly just decorations on my sons' faces and the laundry pile is a mysterious place to which  they dare not venture.  If, however, clothes are not the issue of the morning then the quiet is only broken by the loud chomping of jaws as pounds of cereal are consumed.  A quick tussle of testosterone as they barge their way out of the door and I am left to clear away the remnants of oats and barley and crockery before I head for work.
Evening is equally as pleasant.  I become cook, counselor and referee.  The eldest locks himself in his room and rarely ventures out unless to play rugby or depart for the gym which gives me the perfect opportunity to change his bed sheets which seem to have usually become crusted to the mattress! The twins enact a scene from "Bugslife" as they roll around incomprehensible on the floor in a punch-up, generally over a pen!  The youngest is still crying due to homework. So I race around loaded with offensive smelling sheets, opening the oven door with my foot to ensure the food is edible and with one hand grab a ladle with which to separate "double trouble" and in between all this talk the youngest through his latest schoolwork induced panic attack.  It's a happy home.
Bedtime is a trauma.  The youngest has developed a fear of the dark, ghosts and sleep.  The twins still grunt profanities to each other from their bedrooms and the eldest scolds me for daring to enter his domain to change his sheets. "Well, darling, I came, I saw but I was conquered by the pile of damp tissues amassing on the floor so I left that for you to pick up in case IT were important!" I sweetly retort.

Pour Some Sugar on Me

Waking up at six in the morning every morning is my routine and I have come to love that quiet space slopping off downstairs to have an early caffeine injection in the garden without one of my boys yelling out my name.  When I say name, I mean the affectionate term by which offspring and partner refer to me: " Big Bird".  Now, I'm sure that is because I am fluffy, slightly jaundiced ( Irish alcohol riddled blood will out) and long- legged and has absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with me being a generously cuddly female as that would surely make them misogynistic!
By seven o'clock I'm discovered and ordered questions are barked out- not by me - by the bleeding blighters. "What's for breakfast?" " Where's my shirt?" " Have you got any cash?"  I spin around from question to question scowling, not in a Kylie "spinning around" way more of an Exorcist head spinning way.
So the week came when it was just me and Mr Biggus Dic... Or my partner .  Five o'clock arrived and I found myself clinging to the edge of the bed.  Not from lust! No! He had taken up three quarters of our sleeping space and was lying prostrate on top of the duvet and had imprisoned me immobile in the covers so much so that I had awoken believing my legs had been severed from my body as I could no longer feel them.  In a non too pleasant mood I disentangled myself from the bed sheets and my elbow may have lightly grazed his chest!!! Six o'clock would have usually awoken me but not this morning! NO!  In his deep slumber his arm flung out and stuck me on the forehead.
Well my words to greet the dawn chorus cannot be repeated here but his groggy, sleep he muttered:" Coffee, No milk just sugar. Big Bird"
And I wondered at that moment what  the boiling point of sugar was?

Womanly Wiles

As a mother of boys, generally, I'm ignored or patronised.  I learnt the art of being able to project my voice from the garden to their bedrooms. " Phone's ringing! The PHONE'S ringing! For the love of God: PHONE!" or " Tea's ready! TEA! TEEAAA!" The latter I found produced results. So now, regardless of my need for their presence, I opt for: "Tea's ready!" as it's the one phrase that will round them up and ensure they come to heel.
 Devious?  Of course.  I am woman and I embrace my ability to manipulate! It achieves the desired results: four boys standing eagerly in front of me.  The look of outrage, as they arrive on mass skidding into the kitchen, to discover that in fact there isn't any food but in fact they have been hoodwinked into chores, never fails to amuse me. " Oh, did I say tea? Silly me! I meant unload the dishwasher, finish your homework and take the washing upstairs!" The curses and glares are enough to warm the cockles of my heart. They fall for it everytime and, when they protest about the injustice of it, I turn on them and say: " Look my boys, you are going to be manipulated by women as you grow up so I am allowing you to understand the trickery of the female mind right here, right now! "  Usually this statement produces eye rolling, but my list of chores are at least half-heartily completed as I stand hands on hips, squinting and breathing in slow, low deep breaths of air psyching myself up for my first verbal punch. I have a myriad of choice phrases but my number one favourite of all time is:" Not one of you care about me and it hurts.  I cook, clean, work and I'm nothing but a chauffeur and house-maid" I  end this with a quiet sob. Initially, my eldest would curl his lip and state:" Save the melodramatics. You're not on the stage now, Mum!" However, the aftermath of that retort was enough to even bring him to my way of thinking. So, I give them their due - they have learnt quickly to just do rather than argue and I feel their future wives will thank me for it.  It's been a slow learning curve but two vital lessons have been learnt: one - a man's weakness is his stomach and, two - never underestimate a woman's power to emotionally blackmail!
 My grass needs cutting, so next weekend my poor fiance is going to be hearing;" Tea's ready!"

That's Why Twins Go to Iceland!

All the brood were back from sleepovers, work experience and leaving home in a fit of pique ( due to five minutes of " noone understands me" rage- and that was me!) - so we were all at home together.  I had decided that the best thing to cure all woes was a roast dinner.  Well, that's what us English/Irish/Jewish/Scottish/French/Russian/Romany people do (sorry if I have missed out any of you but that's as far as my family bloodline stretches)! So I began to create a gastronomic dinner that would make any male Celt, Hebrew,Slavic or Traveler proud.  Basically lots of food!
Things were going so well.
Things were going to change.
"Mum, is it ready yet?"
I was living the dream. "Yes, soon, twenty minutes,". And for once in along time, it was just going to be me and my boys, alone. A time, that I thought, I could discuss their fears about school and life without interruption.  Everything was just peachy.  Vegetables were "al dente", two "chooks" were glazing gently and potatoes and parsnips were crisping.  Could life get any better?  All boys were slouched in front of the television without argument.
I laid the table (yes, I should have asked them to help but I was basking in the peace) ).  I announced that it was ready and began to serve.
They took their seats in anticipation.  Hot steam billowed from the freshly cooked food as I piled the vegetables onto their plates.  From under the mist of vapour, their faces were lit by smiles of:: " She's managed it- by Jove she's done  it!"
  Everything was an apparent gargantuan feast and they leaned forward over their platters, salivating. That was until I carved.
The first slice, well chunk, went to the eldest as he apparently was "starving". I did think at that time "starving" you really don't appreciate the concept, but had put in place where he was going after his final exams to live the real meaning of the word.  However, I continued to slice.  That was when the problem arose.  The aroma on the right breast was rancid and I threw down my carving tools and leapt towards my elder son's cutlery as he elevated them towards his mouth.
 "No!", I screamed. " Drop it now!" .
He hesitated as the fork of meat hovered near his mouth.  " I haven't taken that much, Mum! Why do you always think I have more than the others?" At this point I was wrestling the fork from his hand in a to and fro motion but out of the corner of my eye my seven year old was poised to pick out the onion from the diseased carcass's arse.  Now I had a dilemma!  I grabbed my eldest's  fork, sending cooked flesh over the table and dived to prevent my youngest from feasting on potential salmonella delight!
 The twins remained motionless.
But I had a battle on my hands.  Unable to articulate the potential threat,I was scooting around the table with a  tray of roast bird and potatoes to keep
them out of reach of my eldest and youngest who were chasing after me.
Meanwhile, the twins had left the melee and had entered the kitchen, quietly and unassumingly, and found, in the freezer, a frozen food delight.  They had turned on the oven, sat back to watch the sports highlights on the laptop, leaving the rest of their family to chase around the dining room in a frenzy, whilst they waited for their meal to be defrosted and cooked.
And that is why...Twins go to Iceland!

I hope this was published in August but I have a sneaky suspicion in my race around the table it was not! Apologies!

Desire, Hunt and Kill

Sitting bathing in stormy heat this afternoon with good friends the subject turned to the difference between men and women.  A minefield.
"Why is it that women are chased and wooed and told they are a goddess at the beginning?" I asked. " We have copious texts, flowers, phone calls and then once we agree to take one of you on, everything changes".
"Well, it doesn't have to be be like that," replied one of the "boys". "I believe the older we become the more we understand women."  Clearly single! But a worthy try Mr C!  We all sighed and he excused himself to relieve his bladder, extremely quickly - in fact I have never seen him move that fast - ever!
"You lot are so emotional! Up and down and nothing is ever right!" braved one soul.  The heads of the  women at the table spun in unison to face him, Medusa snakes spat. Strangely, his pint became very interesting as eyes downcast he stared into his glass.
"See,"exclaimed another fearless "boy","that's what you lot do to us!" Now the females at the table were interested and indignant.  Heckles were raised.
"Explain!" one of us demanded.
"Well, now I don't know who I am and why I'm here. Please, don't look me in the eyes. I'm sorry, " he muttered.  We glared. "Matthew Hopkins help me!" I believe I heard him utter.
"No seriously, why can't the honeymoon period last?" I inquired.
"Coz it's expensive and time-consuming and not real," retorted another brave lad. "Once we have had our wicked way, it's as basic as friend, lover or mother. And if we are lucky, it will be lover and mother!"
"So, so, so, "explained a worthy female, "why window shop?"
"Oh because we can!" explained the said "Boy". We snarled.
From the depths of his pint came a voice of a "man" who had listened, smiled and until now not entered into the debate. "My beauties, it's as simple as this: we desire you; we hunt you and, if we could we would kill you afterwards! Unfortunately, that is not legal and so some us us have to live with you after the event and some of us, who are completely terrified, marry you!".

Good Bless America!

I am very excited because my partner/fiance's oldest, most wonderful friend from America is coming to stay! And he's going to be here for my 40 something birthday! Now, they met at our University but I bypassed the yank by a year. He had the sense to get out before I arrived! We chat on the phone and occasionally on Skype but this man has put the "W" in Washington and  I can't wait to hug that man!  And without a doubt I love the USA, cousins live in California and close friends are scattered throughout the Land of Stars and Stripes, but having lived in Connecticut in my early thirties, all I can say is God Bless Blighty!
 I have never felt so English until I hit the Eastern Board: the Pilgrim Shores.  Waves of endless water separated me from my "Motherland" and definite language nuances prevented me from entering the local country club ( sorry but thank the Lord) : I had arrived in Darien, Connecticut and they didn't speak my lingo.
"Do you ride?"  Well, I was sure that that was a personal question but after a slight delay of panic, I answered: "Not since 15".  I began to hyperventilate slightly, as it was my first invitation into Darien society and  I did not want to make a huge blunder.  Did "ride" mean the same to the Americans as English English or Irish English ? Now I was worried that I had ONE: admitted to being under-age when I had taken my first "ride",  TWO:  had now acknowledged, since 15, I had been a sexual recluse  or THREE, please let it be three I thought , had developed an allergy to horses so I couldn't have ridden since 15!  It was number three and I had passed the first test albeit with "Oh, she doesn't".  Lots of sad shakes of the head, as if I was some moron.
Next was the question of tennis.  A small amount of bile rose into my mouth. I didn't recognise one end of a bat - was it a bat? - from the other, beads of sweat broke out upon my forehead.  "Wimbledon, Agassi, Prince!" From whence those words had come I did not know but they saved me from complete humiliation and another test had been passed.
I felt I was home and dry,  That was until  I was asked if I did "sitting".  What the flipping heck was "sitting"?  Dressed in my torn jeans, biker boots and leather jacket, I wondered if this was some new exercise craze or maybe some new sub-culture.  Nope apparently, I had been mistaken for a "nanny" and I was so pleased.
"Oh no, I'm a mum or mom but I'm really  pleased you think I look so young," I said absolutely delighted that these people thought I looked so youthful.
"Oh My God!  No, it's the clothes you wear and your nails and your hair and your....."
I listened deflated.  I had not assimilated into Stepford Wives.  "What the hell," I thought, !" West Coast here I come!"

Speechless with a Voice

Last Sunday friends and family descended on my shabby chic world and whilst I worked hard to make the perfect "cupcake" and "candyfloss" day slaving in the kitchen to create a sumptuous Sunday meal (cursing Nigella and her ability to not only look drop-dead gorgeous but also to cook like a goddess), my guests sat chilling out in the garden blissfully unaware that I had now entered a campaign of hatred against the sex-god cook.  As I was told by Mrs Saatchi to beat and separate, I envisioned a beating of another sort where I was the victor and she bowed down to acknowledge my dominance as I separated her beautiful head from her shoulders and placed it on a platter.  Yes, she was trying to baptize me into the art of culinary skills but I was dancing to Salome's tune!
Anyway, the noise from the  motley crew in the garden hushed for five minutes and then there was a roar of "Oh my God!"; "You have soooo got to!" and "I can print the team tee-shirts!"  Not to miss out and being completely nosy by nature, I stuck my head out of the door to investigate.  My brother was the focus of attention and he looked ill at ease.  As I came out to further investigate, I could smell the burning of salad from the kitchen. Yes, salad.  Ok.
"Wasssuppp?!" I rapped (even typing that makes me cringe - why do I just come out with these idiocies?)
"Clearly, your brother has all the talent!" said one friend - I use the term "friend" sparingly now!
"Your brother has been selected for the pre-lim auditions of the "Voice"!" squealed another.
Well, I was in overdrive.  I had his hair, outfit and dance routine sorted out within five minutes.  I had picked the judge and had also chosen my outfit for the final.
"We need a good sob-story", announced my closest friend ( even though she's a Kiwi I don't hold that against her!). "Maybe you could balloon to a gazillion kilos and then struggle with the pain of nil by mouth whilst singing?"
"OOOOOh, once you had lost shed loads, you could then sing for your supper at the final," I chipped in.
He puffed silently on his cigarette; eyes raised to the heavens.  The smoke from the salad was now billlowing from the kitchen.
"Or, no offence, " I said turning to my sister-in-law who I adore, "you could have a marriage breakdown because he had fallen in love with Tom or Jesse and then he would realise at the final that he may have won but he had lost his one true love!"  At this point, my brother shut his eyes and crossed his arms.
"You need a famous friend," declared my partner. "Maybe you could have stroked the dog that once sniffed  the third cousin of Elton?"  The salad smoke was now stinging our eyes.  My brother yawned.
"We will support you all the way, mate! We need a slogan! " agreed another. "What about this?   'Eeeees Sex!"
My brother shifted on his chair and raised his eyebrows.  The salad smoke clung around him as if he was stepping out onto the stage for his first number.
"He won't go", said my sister-in-law, "he's refusing to go."  Uproar.
"Nooooo!"
"Come on man, you gotta!"
"Think of Ollie Murs!"
As the last tendrils of fog from the dying salad evaporated, my brother could be seen sitting god-like, a sardonic expression on his face, still speechless.

I Feel Your Pain!

Scales.  Why were scales ever invented?  They are the work of Satan himself. Just when I think that life couldn't get any harder, I make the mistake of placing one tiny step on the balance - a contraption which is a bit like a patronizing bank manager who smirks at you, quietly tutting, did you really need to invest that money in a double chocolate cream lard filled cake? Yes I did at the time.  But just like reading that bank statement and gasping, I stand in horror as the scale reading hits the red zone.  Holy crapola - nooooooo! Readjusting my position makes no difference, sorry to be base, but even a motion makes little difference.  Let's face it I'm a fatty and "you know you are!" screams the weighing machine.  I fight the total. Clothes are thrown off in abandon and I step again - zilch, nada no flipping change!  Diet stations and I need help.  This is the moment of a knee-jerk reaction - I stupidly invest the aid of number one son, fitness freak merchant. Big mistake!
Now I am in diet boot camp, fat club with a teenage militant running the show.  I am watched constantly; every morsel, that enters my mouth, is scrutinized and is assessed for nutritious content and I feel like I am living under the youth  police - well at least the teenage diet police.  He's enthusiastic, unrelenting in his new role as" save mum from obesity".  He is a damn-right diet tyrant!  I have an exercise regime and am lectured on the need for less "carbs" and more protein.  Alcohol is off my menu.  I am slowly loosing the will to live. I pretend to acquiesce but slope off at any given opportunity to lick the wall.  Pilates, running and carrot sticks are the food of my day.  When will this nightmare end?
I begin to crack by Day Two - tears bring nothing but contempt; shouting just a silent arrogant, slow shaking of the head; banging my head on the floor receives a comment of : "I did have my doubts whether this was going to work, Mum"; scowling is rewarded by: "I feel your pain!" Yes my son, you will feel my pain!
  Day three and I'm liberated.  Sod diets - they suck!  I like being comfortably round.  As he arrives for his morning of exercise torture, I am waiting to greet him with peanut butter toast smeared around my face.  He is stunned into body beautiful shock, I, however, reach for my sixth slice.  Silence is golden but just audible, through my munching, crunching and slurping of my buttery nut feast, is: "Boy, I feel your pain!"

Wax Lyrical

Living apart from my fiance is generally quite frustrating - times you want to share something are usually by text or phone and generally the moment of hysteria has passed. so it becomes more of a "Are you ok?" than  "I feel your pain or bloody hell that is hysterical!"  However, I would be a big, fat liar to say that sometimes the distance works. I can become the hairy yeti for at least four days and eat everything for at least three.  A well planned out operation in which no one loses- neither my stomach nor the extra warmth generated by my body hair and he is under the illusion that I am semi-desirable! That is until he drops a bombshell such as "I'll be there at eight!"
"Eight? Eight as in tomorrow?" I mumble.
 No eight becomes this very night!  As parents of many children spontaneity is not our norm and I have been lulled into a false sense of security!
"EIGHT TONIGHT?!!!" barely disguised horror is apparent in my tone.
"Yep, eight tonight, I've missed you and everything is sorted my end."
Action stations! How am I going to defluff and look vaguely sexy in two hours with a house full?  Would my guests happily ensconced in the garden ignore the hum of a epilator without thinking I had rushed upstairs to relieve myself ? Would my screams from the wax strips be misconstrued as self-flagellation? I am a rabbit in headlights and it's not rampant! Worse still is the thought that I thought I had at least one day of starvation before I saw my man but not now! Now, a fixed smile has descended to show I am the perfect host but in between serving drinks, I am running up and down the stairs to lose at least six pound whilst a voice is screaming in my head ! "Why did you eat that pizza last night?  You  knew it was the devil's carbohydrate semen but at least you had a day to spend purifying! You are a slave to gluten1"  Not now! No day's relief for me! Now I am a crazed woman.  I have hair to remove! My foof or noonie as it's affectionately known  in these parts needs serious waxing and the time is ticking.....

My Kinda town

Where I live is a strange kinda town full of wannabes, has-beens and real success.  Not bad if you look at England as a pig: Wales the head, the West Country as the leg , the Weald as the arse and well, my manor would be clearly labeled as  the A-hole of Great Britain- warm, wet and smelly. But things grow with fertilizer! So out of this little shabby-chic  town comes the good, the bad and the ugly. Here, Helen Mirren first tread the boards of the stage; Phil Jupitus still sulks around the main drag; Lee Evans was born and bred; Doctor FeelGood felt his way down yonder in the local bars.;  Busted burst onto the scene; Trevor Bailey hit a six and Mark Foster learnt to swim but clearly not to dance!  And so on.
There are too many to feature and here, in this thread-worn town, we have become blaise to celebrity. When you bump into a member of the The Damned in the local or when your brother is best mates with the guitarist from Faithless or when you fight in the local supermarket queue with a member of The Rolling Stones, celebrity seems just ordinary.  But it isn't. In my little town, to become a true celebrity has taken hard work, Essex tenacity and talent.  Sarah Hardcastle swam hard in this town (hopefully not in the Estuary as it would  have been more dodge the "turd" than beat the clock!) to achieve her fame. Yet, the famous and infamous have reached heights of acclaim in this enclave- The Essex Boys are still alive and kicking- God Love 'Em and their crew! Alan Sugar believed in this place enough to launch his empire here and I am proud to say I was probably one of the first to be told: "You're fired!" Clearly, placing a squelch of glue on a TV/combi video set was beyond me as student aged twenty-one or maybe he didn't appreciate me questioning whether he was running a sweat shop. So it is with a little rise of bile to the throat that I have to listen to my boys rave about TOWIE.
I applaud the fact that anyone wants to better themselves but why better yourself in the name of STOOOPID?  Seriously, do we want to give a standing ovation to creatures that buy into KEN and BARBIE as a living? I once had a doll that could write and tumble and now I'm watching its offspring on TV.  I've spent a week experimenting with a match and not one of my town have ignited near a living flame. So how have these strange Midwich Cuckoos descended on my manor and claimed the name of ESSEX? Answers on a postcard if you are not a living, talking, walking doll or otherwise ping!

I'm Washing the Car!

Women, according to the statistic geeks (why would anyone study life as a spreadsheet? Beats me!), have apparently decided that the girls hit their sexual peak in their forties.  Well, duh!  Most of a woman's thirties is spent running around wiping arses; giving birth (again more arse-wiping); feeding family, friends and in my case anyone who drops by; working; pulling hair out; trying to regain a figure; shouting, crying and laughing  (hysterically) and then thumping into bed exhausted groaning: "No, I have a headache!".  So forties are a bit of a revelation actually, sort of twenties with more girth and attitude!
Well, in my very early forties I embarked on a relationship with a boy from my university days.  We met after years apart pulled together by circumstance and times of random chit-chat on "that" social networking site. The thought of actually meeting him after twenty odd years was initially scary and I'm sorry to say that I bought into the "magic" knicker syndrome - those babies are not pleasant and take no prisoners!  Still after spending days of nil by mouth and countless pep talks from my friends, I arranged to meet him in mid autumn a few years back. "I've changed you know, " I informed him on the phone.
"Really? he quipped, "I thought you had remained in a physical time-warp!"
Even so, the last time I had seen him was in a pub when I was twenty-five.  At that meeting, he had careered towards me arms outstretched, yelling out my name and  bumping into people and posts.  At the moment when I was supposed to be enveloped in his arms, he leapt over a sofa, misjudged the drop and landed in a sort of six foot heap at my feet, drunk, disorderly but still grinning.
Well, we met and needless to say we have never looked back.  However, once he was that twenty something student who suggested giving me a massage when I had my first year exams looming and then tried to grope me, now I have a mid-forties Lothario who lives 85 miles away.  So after extended  time spent apart, due to work and family commitments, I'm still full of  "Yeeha"( being "fortiesque and all") but after a week or two spent with me, he is wane, pale and sheepish, barely managing to  mutter: "Again? Really? Not now Darling, I'm washing the car!"

Monsteration

Once a month I become a despot.  Real thuggery oozes out of every pore.  One glance and the foundations of my home shake; one snarl and small rodents flee back to their holes in the wall.  My body changes shape and swells; my head can turn 360 degrees and my tongue can lash out and strangulate at will.  Monsteration has occured.  And  it feels good!
Why is it then that during this Hyde phase none of the men in my life understand that it is best to obey or avoid? Why is it that none of them understand they cannot win and whatever they do will not be right?  I am very content to wallow alone  in my woe of water-retention and pain watching "Beaches" and eating chocolate.  I am more than happy to read Jilly Cooper - alone in misery.  Why then does it seem that during my "Monster Inc" week I am subjected to: "Why is there nothing in the fridge?" or "God you look a bit of a minger, Mum!" or even worse "Have you got time to sit around and do nothing?"  Then they seem surprised and hurt that I rise up like the Kraken  to offer them helpful hints such as "I would start running now if I were you!" or "Live my life for once! I cook, clean, iron and sew with no thanks" generally accompanied by loud, rasping sobs  and some wild arm gesticulations.  My eldest has yet to realise at this point you do not interject with:: "Iron? Sew? When? We don't even have an ironing board and when you last stitched a badge on for me it fell off!" It takes narrowing of  my eyes and hissing for him to walk off hands raised in surrender saying: "You are so weird! So touchy! Get a life!"
Well yesterday, I felt that perhaps I could manage the desire to bite small objects and redirect my energy and take my boys to Chav City our nearest town. At least there, in that hellhole, I would fit in as I had begun to develop a crazed look of violence; had donned a" hoodie" and was walking with a strange rolling gait trousers halfway down my backside - "bowling" I believe the term is affectionately known as.
All begun well.  "Nandos" calmed the bubbling unreasonable rage as I devoured carbohydrates to prevent the Robert  Louis Stevenson morph from man to beast. Shoe shopping quenched the acidic sarcasm and a large glass of wine soothed my aches.  However, W H Smiths was where the "change" started.  After rounding up my posse, pulling my eldest twin away from Ms E L James' stand by his ear, discovering the youngest trying to convince an eldery lady to buy him a magazine and eventually tracking down the eldest propped up by his shoulder against a stand, running his fingers through his mop and chatting to a blonde, I announced that we were going to the classic section.  I marched with authority up the stairs and turned. Not one of the blighters had obeyed!
On arriving home, I handed them all a small suitcase and a book. They looked down at the suitcase and looked back to me.  I pointed to the outhouse (small converted garage/playroom) in the garden. "Enjoy reading your classic!" I grinned. They obeyed this time.  Each had received a copy of "A Brave New World", I do dearly hope the irony was not lost on them.

All by Myself - Don't Wanna be - All by Myself!

Well I could hardly call myself alone but Sweet Mother Above is there anyone out there?!  Being the only girl in the house of boys is a lonely place. My life revolves around: "Move I can't see the TV!" and "What's for lunch/dinner?" I am so thankful for these utterances that I find myself bowing low in front of the television offering the remote or humbly delivering them a menu for the night's gourmet gallop. A true submissive - Ana Grey has nothing on me!  Seriously I am grateful for any utterance from their masculine mouths. That is until the red rage of womanhood descends upon me- then woe betide the men in my house as my refrain becomes: "All by myself, don't wanna be all by myself!"in a sort of banshee squeak with spit (you get the picture).
 Boys or men is there any difference?  How is it so difficult to communicate?  " I love you" becomes a minefield of either: "Whatever?!" or in the case of my partner a patronizing pat on the head and a comment of: "Feeling emotional? Near your period?!"
"No not really Darling!" But if he wants me to tie him down and beat him, holy Moses, it's coming his way!  Rest assured it won't be pleasant and he won't be groaning with pleasure and I won't be buying him a sports car; executive apartment and silver balls! He will be at the mercy of a good old fashioned Essex whine (after wine) of " No one listens to me in this house and no one loves me and I'm gonna eat worms!" Well I'm not going to eat worms because they repulse me but you get the picture.
Then when everything seems such a battle of estrogen and testosterone torment, in walks my seven year old saying:" I love you Mummy" and the rage debates and everything is just dandy, just cool and fine.

Snakes

It's quite pathetic I know but I have an absolute loathing and fear of snakes.  When I was eleven years old running around barefoot on my grandfather's farm in the depths of Billericay, Essex, England (aka Gavin and Stacey) I was bitten by an adder and since then I have absolutely, never, ever wanted to see a snake again...EVER!  Not that the pain was that bad at the time, just more the adults' reactions: "She's going to die!" followed with: " Should we suck the poison out?"  It would be a bit flipping late to suck the poison out if I was dead I reasoned as a child.
Well, since the mushroom issues, I decided we should take a leisurely walk into the country to allow "hedgehog boy" to reclaim his natural environment.  When I say country I use it in the broadest terms possible.  Any green would be counted as country in South East Essex sunshine state as what has been left of Henry VIII's forest can be walked around in about twenty minutes.  So arriving at the woods ( small concrete area with semi-living trees), we strolled around as a family.  Well, I strolled and the boys dragged themselves.
"Why are you making us do this?" eldest son groaned.
"Breathe deeply and fill your lungs," I answered.
"Why, to breath in more pollution and then die quickly of carbon-monoxide poisoning?" he retorted.
"To understand and become one with nature," said I semi-snarling.
"Nature?  You haven't been out much have you, Mum. Look around your nature is grey and breeze-block! Let's go home and watch the bloody Olympics!"
I scowled  and growled :"Nature is all around us! We should embrace all natural things as we are part of the natural world.  We should love nature!"
"Yeah right where is nature exactly in this concrete jungle?" the sarcasm dripped from his lips.
And then it happened.  A flipping snake appeared.  I dissolved into a quivering wreck, screaming: "Oh my god, oh my god! Kick it!!"  The snake was paralyzed with fear and didn't move.  I'm sorry to say I began to scream more loudly and with extreme panic: "Get rid of it, please for the love of god!"
"Good one Mum," laughed my eldest, "it's a slow worm!  Embrace all living things? Clearly you are really attuned to nature!"
 Well, ok, attuned to most living things just not long, thin ones even if they are in a pair of trousers!

Fungi the Bogey Boy

Since birth my younger twin has been a strange creature of habit rarely feeling the need to enter into the world of social engagement, preferring to shun daylight, and live a nocturnal existence devoid of chatter.  As a babe his waking hours were generally between one and five in the morning - the "deathwatch" - when he would awake to feed relentlessly and then remain staring at me unblinking before the sun rose and he took to his sleep for the rest of the day. Such was my worry that I had given birth to a real vampire that once he cut his first tooth, I was astonished that it appeared normal in both size and shape.  However, school reared its head so even "Buffy Von Silence" had to readjust his waking hours for the term time at least.
Still, old habits die hard and our nightwatchman can still be found at three some mornings alone in the dark in the lounge drinking milk. At least it's not blood!  Why is he discovered in the dead of night? Well, he has a strange loud hedgehog snuffle and although, as a family, we had begun to think this was his modus operandi: sort of one snuffle for food, two for a drink, snort for happy and sniff for'leave me alone', it is quite loud at times and disturbing - particularly at night!
After constant visits to the doctor, it has been at last confirmed that he is not in fact half boy half hedgehog but suffering from an allergy. His unwillingness to talk is in part due to a huge snot problem and the snuffling an attempt to prevent candles constantly dripping from his nose. D-Day. The men in white coats are going to take him away for testing. Would they discover the nature of this allergy that prevents my child from talking? Would they diagnose this strange hypersensitivity with which my child has been born? Would they cure his aversion to human speak and prevent further snorts and wheezes?
After a series of drops and pinpricks, an epiphany occurs.  "Mushrooms!" announces the medic "Mushrooms? MUSHROOMS?" I repeat.
"Well fungus really of any type" she informs me.
So our bogey boy is now confined to a hermetically sealed bubble of a bedroom. He may not venture out in fear of coming in contact with the other moldy lot in my house until home and occupants have been thoroughly cleansed from all things fungi. My joy at discovering his mushroom problem and my eagerness to encourage him to communicate, now we are on mushroom invasion alert, has been greeted today with:"Shut the door firmly behind you mum that would be just magic!"

I'm a Secret Olympiad Watcher

For the past many months I have had to endure my partner's rants regarding the London Olympics.  His "observations" (Darling, they are rants!!!) have bemoaned security, finance, travel disruption, elitism and on and on and on, a sharp elbow nudge to awake me from a self-induced coma, has allowed him to further explore the problems of litter, national debt and stress upon the emergencies services etcetera etcetera etcetera.  Are you still awake?  Well, I haven't been. The Twenty-Twelve build-up has been one long snore!  I developed the ability to sleep with my eyes wide open  as his six month monologue lulled me into a lengthy slumber.
So as the holidays were upon us and the athletes were limbering up, I was under the impression that Mr Rantathon would have had a force-field of angry rings around his house to prevent the invasion of any of the Games.  Oh no! No, no, no!
Children all asleep, I walk into the lounge to wish him goodnight.  He raises his eyes from his book and informs me that  he will not be long.  Television is off; doors bolted and windows locked in case of a Team GB invasion.  Unbeknownst to him I walk to the kitchen to grab a glass of water.  Before retiring I think I'll just go and hug that bear of a man who hasn't mentioned the Olympics once today - a mean feat for him. Well let's just say that in our house someone has just won gold for hypocrisy!  I stand in the doorway watching my secret Olympic lover, biting his knuckles and punching the air with delight as he drinks in the men's synchronised swimming highlights!

Guess Who Just Got Back Today? Those Wild-Eyed Boys who'd been Away!

Yep my crazy catz are back! They still have not much to say but boy I missed them!  The twins are back in town! The twins are back; the twins are back. They have returned looking like cowboys, sandy hair bleached from our mini heatwave and enough dirt covering their scrawny bodies to almost create a camouflage for strange markings now adorning their arms....mmmmm.
"What are those?" I inquire eyebrows raised.  They look around behind them searching for the mysterious "those". "Those red love hearts?" I repeat.  "Those pen tattoos on your arms?"
"Oh those," says one.
"Not much," says the other.
Now I'm curious and they know it.  "Look it's nothing," winces one.
 "Yeah," reinforces the other, "nothing,ok."
"Mobile numbers in red pen scrawled on your arms surrounded by love hearts. Of course, it's nothing," I grin and start to tentatively zip open their camp bags allowing space between myself and the bags in case of cockroaches and slugs.  Retching almost from the earthy putrid smell, I ask again: "Girls joined you this year did they?" I begin to load their items into the washing machine, tipping them all in as there was clearly no point in picking out anything clean.  Silence descends.  I turn to continue teasing. An empty room.
"Don't suppose you'll be needing these then?" I shout into the silence.
"What?" squeaks one from upstairs.
"Your're mobile phones.. if it's nothing!"
It's unbelievable the noise two pairs of feet make descending down the stairs in anxious haste. It's also amazing how fast I can still run carrying a phone in each hand!

Hobbit to Elf

"Middle Earth"has no place in my world.  The transformation from hobbit to elf is almost complete!  Yesterday, I joined the Fellowship of TOWIE as a  most fabulous squirrel from the Wirral scraped the Black Wraiths which were attempting to suck the very life force from my feet.  My tootsies had become "precious" and I had only one fear ....would my"Primarni"  heels  prevent me from slipping into the fire of  the hard skin of Mordor or would dwarves armed with "pedieggs" and scapels be able to ward off the evil of Sauron and allow me to skip unscathed  into "Rivendell "or in my case Loikeside, Furruck.
Oh yes. I had bought into the "Only Way...." Suddenly the mountain of moldy festering cheese, sliced by the knife of the friendly scouser chiropodist had become my salvation.  I had pretty feet!  I had girly feet! I had TOWIE feet. My plates could serve the good, the bad and the wealthy of Essex .  I was dizzy with the thought.  I was also dizzy with the flipping pain!  I had lost at least two shoe sizes from the scraping and could barely stand!  Hobbling down the main drag would be attractive if I was a  Geisha: beautiful but sto,c but I'm an Essex girl and we do tantrums, screaming and howling!  Wraiths and Harry Potter dementors bring it on- you ain't seen nuffick yet till you see a precious Essex girl in pain!  Believe me your ring is safe!

Double Tourette Trouble

The house is noticeably quiet today, disturbingly actually.  The twins have gone off to "Camp".  I assume it's scouts’ camp but after their school report about the infamous "man-hunting", I am now quite concerned that perhaps they have joined some insurgency vigilante group to hone their skills in bloodshed.  Still, they disappeared down the hill and as I watched their identical frames recede into the distance, I heard the affectionate name they call one another echo in the wind -"Cock!" and then I knew they would be just fine.

Yep.  My adorable ‘identikits’like to  swear like sailors much to my dismay.  First thing in the morning to last thing at night.  Their chosen profanities seem to revolve around their genitalia.  Banging on their door in the morning to get them up for school provokes a response of, "Knob!” Sometimes with an added dairy product of “-cheese!"; handing them tea in the evening gains me a: "What's this bollocks?" and their favourite curse to any suggestion of school work or household chore is: "Balls!"

The need to constantly refer to their privates confuses me. Are they just mentally checking that their penis and testicles are still attached or believe constant reference to them constantly will prevent them dropping off?  Anyway, for a week I will be two "members" of the family down.

Caught Short

No stranger to chaos and dirt, indeed the initial moment spent with my firstborn, hugging him tightly to me with tender care was rewarded with being drowned with meconium squelching from his backside in a never-ending gloop.  Holding him above my head and away from me, only seemed to encourage gravity to squeeze out yet more of the offensive excretion, and child, mother and sheets became one with this thick, black slime.  At that moment, it seemed inappropriate to offer him the breast and to be quite honest, my bosom had been lost in the sludge.  Mother and son had gone through a type of initiation ceremony rather than a bonding.  After said gift, he then departed, torn from my muddy chest and whisked to Special Care in shock.  Shock?  What, shock at having spectacularly soiled his mother?  Shock at having met his mother?  Or shock at having had the largest first "crap" ever?  Only he can answer that.  That will probably remain a mystery since these days I'm lucky to receive a cursory nod in passing and any attempt to engage conversation results in a growl of: "You are just SO wrong in SO many ways!"

Well, last week another noxious smell came upon us, and, lo, the smell rested over us.  From first sniff I presumed that the kit bags needed fumigating or perhaps the kit needed washing such was the musty, pungent odour.  On inspection, the kit bags were empty.  No surprises there.  Clearly, it would appear that my boys have adopted the view that after a while, like hair, kit self-cleans.  So I couldn't blame the clothing.  Mice? Small rodents and toads love this house.  Nope.  So when my man could eventually drag his sorry arse away from watching sport and come over, he was greeted with:    “What do you think that smell is? Can you go and sniff around upstairs please?"  Strangel,y he was reluctant.

"Hormones!" he announced with authority. "Boy hormones!"

"Hormones? Do boy hormones smell like hamsters?" I queried curling my lip in disgust.  This was a new development.  Another stage in raising boys that hadn't been written in any book that I had heard about (I hadn't read any as they all seemed just so well-intentioned and boring). "For how long do boy hormones smell like hamsters?" I asked.  The thought of living in a vermin smelling hormone induced fog for years was quite depressing me.

"Oh, for the love of God woman, do I have to spell it out? Masturbation!" he declared.  No thanks darling, not before at least a glass of wine I thought.

"Masturbation? Ewwwwww. Nooooo."

"Yep, 24/7 I'd say by the stench," he grinned.  I paled at the thought that I had produced sons who were playing with themselves so much that the house was now rancid with the smell.  "Oh, please go and sniff in their rooms and tell me that the twins have adopted a mouse and it's not just the reek from sticky sheets after nights lusting about Cheryl Cole."  He refused.

The following day the source of the odour was identified.  My cooking.  My youngest son had thrown his lasagna, aka ‘Jamie's School Dinners’, into his bedroom bin and it was now a festering goo.  For good measure, he had needed to pee in the night and so, rather than be bothered to walk fifty paces to the loo, he had released a stream of golden liquid all over Jamie's quick cook lasagna recipe.  Yet another son who has no qualms relieving himself

The Day of Reckoning is Nigh!

Joy of joys!  End of term is upon me!  Horror of horrors my sons' reports!  Reports!  Why  do they still fill me with that deep-rooted sense of dread? They are not even my flipping reports!  Yet,  I sit on the bottom step of the stairs chipping at my nail varnish and praying to any god to make it all just peachy.  The last day of term has loomed and I huddle hands clasped around my knees rocking whilst waiting for my brood to come home with their ....reports!

 In my youth, (god, why is that so long ago? Why? Why? Why?),  I remember desperately wanting to be "too cool for school" and dreamt of being brave enough to open mine in front of my friends.  With  a curl of the lip and a roll of the shoulders head thrust forward and back in contempt, in my fantasy, I would sneer: "teachers and parents bring it on.  Like I care what you think!"  However, reality was the ice cold envelope that sat on my desk mocking me: "Go on then if you think you're hard enough!".  I wasn't.

Ok.  Here goes.  Yep as expected. 15 year old has romped in with an academic feast - phew- boys apparently inherit their mother's intelligence.  Well I read that once so I'm a believer!  Yet, no surprises about the general comments of "arrogance" and "lack of respect".  Come and live with me for a week!  Hello, why can't they just write: he's bloody bright but thinks he is absolutely never ever wrong and is a complete menace who likes to patronise adults and eat little children!  That would be honest.  Why am I subjected to: "could develop more empathy"?

 Right twins next.  Gulp.  Ok.  Yep.  Not so good.  Why did one of them think it was appropriate to start talking like Daffy Duck in religious studies?  Maybe I could argue that he was speaking in tongues?  The other has, apparently, developed a habit of playing manhunt in the corridors at lunchtime according to his form tutor.  Should I be concerned?  Has he just discovered his sexual leaning or is he indeed a psychopath?

Excuse me is my bedroom Piccadilly Circus?

What is it about a boy's inability to take a hint?   Bedroom door closed.  So big clue sunshine - go away!  Oh no, this non verbal communication aid is far too complex for my sons' brains so the constant stream of visits becomes more than just an irritant but a damn right nuisance.  Now of course, if they were coming to sit and discuss: their day, their hopes or fears, their undying love for their mother, then clearly my rant would be unjust and my restriction to my inner sanctum unfair.  But no, not for my brood the outpouring of  feelings or godforbid slight emotional engagement.  Nope, my boys are either running for their life from an older sibling so the small space under my bed provides a good hiding place and excellent safe zone from where to kick offending attacker, or they are just plain fed-up that I have had the audacity to unchain myself from the kitchen and escape to sleep.  So, as they barge in to find me, their mother, in her OWN bedroom, I am non too pleased to see them.  However, instead of humbly exiting in Uriah Heap style, they stand and usually greeted me with: "Oh my god, you're naked mum. So gross!" (Thank you son, I'm glad I live up to your expectation of my hideousness).  My much loved choice reply is "Is this Piccadilly Circus? I don't think so numpty. Now, sod off if you value your life and my sanity!"
And so it began today. Six this morning to be precise.  Yes, six when most normal human beings are snoring, making love or slubbering peacefully. Not I.  No, I am brutally torn from my slumber with my door bounding off my bedside table, immediately evaporating my dream of ponies (horse issue needs to be analysed at later date), as my youngest demands to know if I have his "Mooshi Monster" sticker book and to inform me he has done such a big "poo" that the loo was leaking water.  Great.  Just great.  Plunger in hand, I purge the said "turd beast" from lavoratory and retire back to my room - MY ROOM.  Now seven and being awake, I decide to text my partner - lucky him, he lives 85 miles away.  Since he is still working and to cheer him up, I begin to take a semi-risque photo of myself partially clad.
"What are you doing, mum? That is so wrong!"exclaims one twin who is now standing in my room, eyebrows raised and eyes wide. 
Looming behind him is the 15 year old: "Seriously disgusting!  Mum have you been reading 50 Shades?" .

Shout Out at the O.K Corral

Just sometimes, once in a blue moon, when they notice my eager face imploring them to communicate, we sit together and talk at the kitchen table.  Well, I talk and the three eldest boys, whilst shovelling food relentlessly into their mouths in a raw bid to escape, "ping" (complete anomaly to me).  Apparently the London riots were a national "ping" according to my eldest.

 Anyway, tonight "pinging" was banned.  So, as an "in the moment" and "up with the yoof " kinda mum, I announce that we should discuss social networking.  I was egging to have my lecture on the dangers of cyber-bullying, stalking and trolling.  Silence was broken by my youngest saying: "Is that the troll from under the bridge with the goats?"

This question was swiftly followed by one of my twins grunting: "Oh… My… God… see, why do you have to be so odd?"  Whether that was directed at his younger sibling or me, I'm still non the wiser but I decided a different approach was needed.

 "Right, Caitlin Moran. She is one of my all-time favourites on Twitter - hysterically funny and sharp. Would you like to know about her?"

Silence. "No", says the eldest.  At 15 he is unimpressionable and righteous.

 "Oh, come on, humour me, " I plead.

 "Why?" says the other twin. Now this utterance is a mountain as for at least two years he has been under an oath of silence.  So, eager to engage him, I pull my heroine up on google.

 "See, working mum who is published and hysterically funny.  I was thinking of growing out my hair dye as I'm sure I could become a Caitlin lookie-likey if all else fails."

 " Holy crap, no!  Why would you do that?" not a question but a statement fired from my 15 year old's lips as he peered at Caitlin's website.

The next ten minutes became a torrent of sanctimonious outbursts from said "I am fifteen going on sixty" son.  Now, not to offend Ms Moran too much, apparently we are twins - which again according to him, is not a good thing!  Needless to say, he believes that journalism has hit an all-time low if a cross between a character from a Tim Burton film and his mother cannot even pronounce her name correctly; believes women find Aslan sexy (he's a friggin lion!) and talks about being a marijuana addict. "How does she come close to being funny?"

With a sneer and a shrug, he heaved his 6ft rugby bulk from the table and shook his head "Nice one, Mum.  Another woman just like you who wants to be a freak on purpose!".

 Well, you try to talk and educate your children and it comes right back to bite you.  I give up!  Some shoot-outs you just can't win

Schools Out For Summer - tomorrow!

Friday morning could not come sooner as my boys would no longer be dragging their reluctant carcasses out of their musty pits towards school.  Even my cheery greetings of: "Onward boys to your future; education frees the soul and Carpe Diem" have not seemed to have helped?!  In fact, my proclamations have only actually achieved rolling of the eyes, snarls and muffled grunts of barely disguised obscenities.  How ungrateful!  The last slam of the door, clearly only firmly closed to ensure his dear mother's safety, has generally been from my eldest.  Although I finished work for the summer last Friday, I still make time to call, from under the comfort of my duvet, "Bye Darling, have a wonderful day of learning".  My thoughtful concern for my son's happiness and welfare has received a daily retort of: "Dosser!"  At least, I think it's dosser.  Unfortunately, he has always had trouble enunciating the difference between a "d" and a "t".