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!