I'm still here...

Urgh.

So, it's over a month since I've been and updated you guys. Apologies for my tardiness.

Anyhow, the reasons for said lateness in updating are:

• Grandad developed some sort of life threatening infection and ended up on a ventilator in Intensive Care for nearly a fortnight.
• I developed some sort of malaise and was off work sick for a few days, so no Facebook, no blog.
• HRH has decided bedtime is for wimps, and is not going to sleep until 9 at the earliest.

In other news, HRH has also decided that she can do a wee-wee on the toilet, like a big girl! Yay! I was so happy about this; she's done the odd one on the toilet with her baby toilet seat over the last few weeks, so with the weather being so lovely over the weekend, I though we'd try a couple of no-nappy days as she was going to be in tle paddling pool anyway.

It started well, with one wee wee on the toilet in the morning, but as she got absorbed in the fun she was having, running in and out (we have french doors on the back) the following happened-

• She said she needed a poo. Ten minutes on the potty. Nothing.
• Mummy Noodles came round for a chat, and HRH decided that this was a good time for a poo. On the living room carpet.
• I asked her if she wanted a wee-wee on the potty and she said no. Literally 10 seconds later, she wee'd. On the carpet.
• Back in the paddling pool, I asked if she needed a wee-wee on the toilet. She said no. Ten seconds later, she stood up and wee'd. In the paddling pool!

But, later on, she managed another wee-wee in the toilet, like a big girl (with the aid of a special sticker, but nonetheless) and I was so proud.

We are also going on holiday (but I'm not telling you when in case someone tries to rifle through my knicker drawer) in the LOVE BUS to Dorset, with BF's mum and sister, and their two dogs. Needless to say we have a roof box, and I am currently working on BF to let me have some sticky flowers to go on the back of the car. That, however, is not going well...

Ignorance at the bus stop.

On Wednesday, I decided to chuck a couple of hours owing to me at work in, and go home a little early to try and get the house a little tidier and put some washing in. Score. BF was doing his bike test (again) so I had to get the bus. I trundled my bad self across the road, and just stood at the bus stop like normal people do, next to the young lady who was there before me. As it turns out, it was a mistake.

After being party to one side of a mobile phone conversation (at a volume so high it pretty much negated the use of any communication device) which I found slightly annoying, said person- lets call her Jane, eventually shut up. For about 3 seconds.

The silence was golden until a pair of young ladies walked past, both dressed in quite a masculine way, one of whom had her trousers (literally) underneath her bum cheeks. I was silently envying her pigs-in-a-blanket bum when Jane decides to speak. To me.

Jane: "Oh my god, didja  see 'er pants? Like, pull yer trarsers up!"

Me: Non-commital nod and small stranger smile.

Jane: "I just don't get, it, like, lesbians, they're so weird."

Me: Mentally calculating that it took approximately 3 seconds for her to decide that because the girls looked a little boyish, they were gay.

Jane: "Like, you wanna go aht wiv a girl, cos they're girly, then when they get wiv a girl, they start dressin' all butch an' that.

Me: Wondering if the herculean effort of psychically summoning the bus to arrive was going to make my nose bleed.

Jane: "Don' get me wrong, like, cos I got nuffing against gays, we've all kissed another girl for drinks an' that."

Me thinking:  That's not gay, that's socially acceptable prostitution, honey.

Jane: "But it's just weird, like, why go aht wiv a girl, but then dress like a bloke? Like, men like girls girly, dressed nice an' that, so yer'd fink lesbians would an' all."

Me thinking: Oh. My. God. That sentence shows soooooo much ignorance.

Jane: "But then they're all like, 'airy legs and that. I don' gerrit."

Me thinking: You certainly don't.

Jane: "Blah blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah blah blah...."

At this point, the bus arrived, floating over the hill like a giant puce angel of salvation, the bringer of freedom, the chariot that would speed me away from the ..... Needless to say, I was pretty pleased to see it.

Secrets and Lies...

We all have our little secrets, and we all tell lies. I was thinking about this the other day and my train of thought led to how my rather shady past has shaped the way I behave with other people.

One result of said shadiness is that I am an extremely good liar. Scarily good. I can manufacture something plausible within nano seconds; and I have no problem with that. Should it worry me? Don't get me wrong, I'm not chucking lies out left, right and centre- I'm not a compulsive liar or a sociopath. I only lie when it's absolutely necessary. If you ask me if your bum looks big in those trousers, and they do, I'll tell you; don't worry about that, it's just that sometimes you need something a bit more... substantial to back yourself up.

I think it's absolutely natural to lie. It's an effective form of self preservation, and we've all told the odd porkie pie now and then (haven't we?). I think the problem is when it moves from something along the lines of "These? I have these shoes for ages sweetie," to "I don't know why we're £1500 overdrawn.... Maybe the bank made a mistake."

Guidelines for effective porkie pie detection.

1. Body language- people think it's easy with the face touching and all that jazz, but watch for the shoulder shrug. Both shoulders indicate a genuine lack of knowledge. One shoulder shrugging might be a clue to a concealement or a lie.
2. Feet- they generally point in the direction they want to go. Towards the door indicates the person is uncomfortable and wants to leave asap, but in meeting/general interactions if they're faced towards you, it's because you're interesting and worth paying attention to.
3. Eyes- People believe that looking away from someone indicates they are lying. Not necessarily. People tend to look away when they are trying to remember something, but only for a second. The real alarm bell is if they are staring at you intently (trying not to look away therefore believing they are appearing as if they are telling the truth) or constantly looking away from you (shame...)
4. Accuracy- If someone can tell a story without making even one mistake; that smacks of rehearsal. A genuine story/statement over about 2 minutes long would usually have 1/2 slip-ups in it, ie: times, dates etc.

However, people are all different and some indicators don't always stick out. The better you know the person, the more likely it is you'll spot their porkie pies... If you really want to, that is.

I am Scummy Mummy, and I am a Coke Addict.

This kind, I'm too boring for the white stuff!

Ahhhh, the brown gold that is Diet Coke. I love love love it. There's nothing like cracking a cold can open on a hot day, the silver beads of condensation glistening on the wave device (it's a trademark, you know) like oil dripping from the biceps of a finely honed Andalucian horse trainer.....

Anyway, it's not good for you (in large amounts, and I drink large amounts), I know, but my addiction stems from meeting BF, who, being diabetic, only really drinks this and not much else. Not tea, coffee or lemonade, and the last still drink I saw him was in desperation at the lack of Diet Coke in the house. I must drink at least 1 litre of it a day at a conservative estimate, and I dread to think of how much we spend on it each month and the damage the acid is doing to our teeth.

I don't think I can give it up. But I have to try.

Boys and their toys.

As I type this, I am blissfully alone. It's wonderful. No baby, no BF, and Jeremy's popping round with his rather colourful friends at 9.25 (don't be all posh, you know who I'm talking about!)

Like any other mummy, I am enjoying a bit of "me" time, but I am enjoying it even more since I have been going solo with HRH for the last 2 days. When you're used to it, it's fine. I used to work part time (happy days) and Thursdays and Fridays were reserved for HRH and Scummy Mummy to do lovely wonderful things like playgroup and painting and I loved it. However, since I started back full time (fool) the residual tiredness from the working week meant that I felt like I really struggled. It doesn't help that she threw 3 massive screaming fits for various reasons; a sign of the well documented terrible twos methinks.

Anyway- the title. The reason I am flying solo is because a certain person decided to book their Module one bike training (2 1/2 days) for Sunday, Monday and most of today. He didn't even tell me before he booked it, and as usual all childcare arrangements were left up to me. I had to get a taxi to Nursery with HRH this morning! What?

Sometimes I am just so bloody frustrated with that man's lack of communication, it's unreal. He doesn't need my permission, just knowing what's meant to be going on so I (yes, me again) could get organised. We'd booked the week off for God's sake to spend some time together. We've been nowhere as a family over the weekend, and this week is just going to disappear in a haze of taking the Love Bus to the garage (the rear shocker's gone) and various other rubbish jobs. I am not a happy chappy, and meanwhile BF is flying around on a bike having a gay old time.

Well, I'm sorry, but the Glee soundtracks on CD aren't going to buy you out if this one, baby.

Dirty, pretty things.

Oh. My. God. As you can only read this, be assured that I am saying this in the mummy tone that means there's something amiss, rather than the hysterically comical squawk of a tweenager realising that they left their copy of Twilight in the public toilets whilst they're halfway home on the bus.

My house is a mess. A real mess. It is in fact so bad, that I am making BF take HRH to his mums' for tea so that I can get it cleaned up, as Mrs. Noodles and Mrs. Noodles' Mummy are coming round for tea tomorrow. The thing is, we just spend so much time playing that there's never enought ime to get any cleaning done. However, if you look at it, the list of jobs is rather long, and although BF pegs the washing out and does a little ironing every now and then, I am sadly lacking in the assistance department.

The truth of it is that maybe I feel guilty because I don't care enough about it. Don't get me wrong, it's not so bad that the Council are coming round in Hazmat suits with a skip, but it's definitely....... lived in. As far as I am concerned, perhaps I am rebelling against the societal expectation that my house should be clinically clean and pin perfect by spending my cleaning time playing with HRH or making mess (paints, glitter etc) instead of cleaning it up. And why is it ME that feels guilty about the mess? BF knows where the hoover is.

Perhaps I should take this first step into the uncharted waters of slatternliness (and yes, I did look it up) and enjoy life a bit more and worry less about the cleaning and going on a diet, more about sex (really, really good sex) and spending quality time with HRH.

Thanks Tracey x

Hello, I'm still here....

It has been a long time since I managed to grab ten minutes to update this, but it would appear that the time is indeed now!

HRH has been poorly with a urinary tract infection but has now perked up considerably. It was a rather frightening evening as we had to take her to the emergency doctor. The poor child was beetroot red, shaking, complaining of being cold when her temperature was 40.5c and not interested in anything to eat or drink. You know that horrible feeling that you get when your mind starts working overtime and all the scary scenarios start playing themselves out through your head, like, "what if she has a fit?" or "what if she gets admitted?" and my personal favourite "should I really call an Ambulance?" (my finger is never far from the 9 button at times like that!).

Anyhow, we saw a lovely doctor who prescribed some antibiotics. We rushed to the midnight pharmacy, and can you believe it, they had no Amoxycillin 125mg susp! What is that all about? It's like a pub running out of beer! And, yes, I am going to name and shame you BOOTS THE CHEMIST, you LET ME DOWN.  I had to kick BF out of bed and set him up on the sofa so I could co-sleep a fractious boiling hot 22 month old baby, losing 6 precious hours of time when those antibiotics could be working their way through her system.

BOOTS. RUBBISH.

In other news today, BF is swapping the BMW 1series for a VW Touran (aka the Love Bus). It's coming tonight and I can't wait!

Here's the love bus...... (ours is black)

Yay!!!!!